I. Oh you tell me to hold on, you tell me to hold on/but innocence is gone, and what was right is wrong
There is only one question that follows the stories told in the aftermath of Galbatorix's defeat.
What became of the red dragon and his Rider?
The Blue one, the female, the first in a hundred years, had left Alagaesia for good.
The Green one resides peacefully in the kingdom of the elves. Look up to the skies above Ilirea sometimes and perhaps you will catch a glimpse of him.
The Gold one was long dead, and the Black one had become even less than ash in the explosion that rocked the capital.
But the Red one?
He disappeared, they say, into the North after the king's death. He and his Rider have not been seen since then.
With a loose end such as this, people don't know what to think. Good riddance, some say. Others are a little more curious. Most are still afraid.
Five years pass, and eventually, dragons begin to come back to Alagaesia. They arrive on boats from the East, bringing a new generation of Riders with them. But they are not the only ones to return.
There have been sightings. Whispers. Rumors.
The red Rider, they say, the red Rider is back.
These are not the only whispers flying about the land. Alagaesia has a Queen now, and the possibilities for her future are cause for much intrigue.
Men of noble birth come far and wide to try their hand at winning Nasuada's, but through it all she remains steadfast, unbowing to their advances and affections.
"What are you dallying about for?" King Orrin says to her, at a ball held by the Varden's council in the hopes that she would meet someone. "Go pick one already! You already know most of their names and stories by heart."
Nasuada only smiles.
Deep inside she's breaking.
It is hard. Unfair, even. A part of her knows Murtagh is staying away so that she might find happiness in her own time. Yet another part of her feels always drawn to him, wherever he is.
Orrin studies her thoughtfully. "There's someone."
"Yes."
"Someone you can't have."
"Unfortunately, not."
"Anyone I know?"
Nasuada lifts her head. "I assume so, but I doubt that you would approve."
In her solar that night she contemplates her reason for holding out and concludes that she is being silly. There had been no way of knowing that whatever it was between her and Murtagh was really love.
Of course, that's what makes it sad, isn't it? The fact that they never got to find out.
More than a hundred years ago a boy too powerful for his own good lost a part of him that no one should ever lose, and it drove him mad.
Mad enough to destroy those he felt responsible.
The first man to join his bloody cause went down in history as a traitor, a murderer, a monster, and he left behind a legacy of pain and misery.
Oh, and a son. Let's not forget that, that's very important.
That son now flies several hundred feet above cloud cover on a dragon the color of a burning sunset.
We are no longer alone, Thorn, says Murtagh.
We will always be alone.
That's true. But Alagaesia's got dragons again, after a hundred years. What my father unmade has been made new again.
And what does that mean for us?
Murtagh goes quiet. What does it mean? What can it mean?
You know we cannot be part of them. There is longing in the dragon's thoughts. Murtagh can sense it, yearning and apprehension in Thorn's heart of hearts.
- No, says Murtagh. We cannot.
II. I'm a ghost, haunting these halls/and I'm lost, I'm broken down the middle of my heart
On their triumphant return to Alagaesia as fully-fledged Riders, the new order gets settled into their new, old home under the guidance of Queen Arya and her dragon, Firnen. To welcome them a celebration occurs in Ilirea, with every Royal and noble in the land attending.
Queen Nasuada is standing at the edge of the festivities, close to a line of trees and far enough away from the crowd in the courtyard, when a purple flower floats out the shadows in lazy cartwheels toward her. It tucks itself into her ear, and in the corner of her eye she catches a flicker of movement.
She sees him then, faintly. He is hooded and cloaked, but just enough moonlight is cast on him to light up his eyes.
"Murtagh?" The name tumbles from her lips suddenly.
The answer comes low and soft. "It's me."
"You're here," she breathes. "After five years, you-" She dares to take a step toward him, but Murtagh recoils. He feels like curling away, like a fern leaf in the rain, retreating deeper into the shadows where she cannot reach him.
"Murtagh," she implores, but he cuts her off before she can begin to draw him out.
"I only wanted to say," he says softly, "that you are still as beautiful as when I last saw you. And I should have said goodbye, but I could not. I was a coward."
She shakes her head, "You disappeared and I worried for you."
"You no longer have to. Me and Thorn, we're both all right. Well, we will be."
She nods, understanding. It's enough for him.
A cheer goes up amongst the throng of partygoers. "A toast! To the new order of Shur'tugal!"
"You should join them," whispers Murtagh.
"You are a dragon Rider too. Come with me."
He shakes his head. "No. Not yet."
When she looks up, he has vanished.
Of course he has.
Arya notices the purple flower tucked in Nasuada's hair.
She also looks like she's seen a ghost.
The Riders establish a base in Du Weldenvarden, and from there they take off, exploring the mighty forest from end to end. But they don't go unsupervised.
Sofia Merasdaughter, blonde-haired, human, twenty years of age and Rider to a supple green male dragon, feels eyes on her squadron as they explore the crags of Tel'naeir. She cannot place the feeling at first, but it's there, hovering; someone is watching them.
The shadows yield no answers, and when she reaches out with her thoughts there is nothing.
Well, almost nothing.
A stranger's consciousness only barely slips out of reach of hers.
She's not the only one. Others feel it too. They sense presences in the places where most Elvesdo not go, wild parts of the forest unsafe but to dragon Riders.
"They're not hostile, I know for sure," Edvard Noahsson (black-haired, human, seventeen years of age and Rider to a black female dragon) insists. "They're just...watching."
"They might even be only watching out for us," reasons another. She is Koura, an Urgal, seventeen like Edvard and Rider to a yellow male dragon.
"It's definitely a Rider and his dragon, for sure." Dalan, silver-haired, Elf, fifty years of age (very young for his race) and Rider to a white male dragon.
"Then who else can it be?" It is Sofia who speaks. She recalls the stories she was told as a girl, the war that raged on when she was but a child. "It's obviously him. Murtagh Morzansson."
"Murtagh Kingkiller," hisses Bronür Varikson, brown-haired, Dwarf, nineteen years of age and Rider to a diminutive blue female dragon. "Never forget that."
"Murtagh, Eragon's half brother," Sofia responds. "Don't forget that, either. And do not forget what he said: if we were to find him-"
"- then he may be able to help us," finishes Edvard. "Well, can he? Will he?"
"And can we trust him?" demands Koura.
Word of it, of being watched and followed by the enigmatic duo, reaches Arya.
She draws her lips together tight. Of course this would happen.
III. What do I stand for?/ Most nights I don't know anymore
It would be the mark of a poor Queen if she did not detect uninvited visitors to her realm, so when Arya Dröttning gets a lock two presences close to the edge of Du Weldenvarden she cancels the day's duties and goes hunting instead.
She and Firnen fly along the outskirts of the great forest, following the faint trace of a familiar consciousness until at last, they catch up with them.
Thorn stirs, wary. - We have company.
When Arya makes it clear they mean them no harm, only then do Murtagh and Thorn lower their guard. Well, slightly.
"Murtagh," is the first thing she says.
Green dragon and red dragon eye each other with apprehension.
"What do you want?" he replies, voice hard.
Arya's chin remains lifted and proud, clearly the dominant in the conversation, "I want nothing. Only to see you, and for us to talk. Did you think you could remain unnoticed for long?"
"So somebody did see us."
"There has been talk of two mysterious watchers following the Riders' movements. They can feel you, but you remain an enigma."
"Good," Murtagh huffs, "We're going to stay that way."
Arya's slanted brows furrow. "It has been five years. Why are you still here, Murtagh? Why do you linger on the fringes of the world?"
"We don't belong anywhere else."
"But you have found peace in those years, I hope."
Murtagh frowns and softens a little. "Thorn and I are...we no longer bear hatred toward those who have wronged us. They're dead and gone and we have grown and changed." He glances at his dragon. "But being among the living is what's hard, especially when they don't trust us. We've nothing to offer this world anymore."
Arya tilts her head. "Five years ago the first of these young Riders left Alagaesia. Now they have returned, training nearly complete save for their assimilation back into this realm. But I have realized that I cannot do this alone. I must not do this alone, not when there's another Rider in Alagaesia." She meets his gaze. "I want your help, Murtagh. Help me guide these young ones as they start fresh here."
Her words hang in the air like a sunspot, a fragile thing too hard to look at. Murtagh and Thorn exchange glances.
It is Thorn who speaks up. - Trust me, Arya Dröttning, this will not go over well. Some of those young ones lived through the times of the Empire; they remember. They will not trust us.
"No?"
- No. We bring too much of the pain of the past with us.
"You have trouble with the past?" Arya says flatly. "Then come help build the future. You cannot undo what you've done, but perhaps you can begin to atone for it by doing this, by nurturing what your father destroyed."
Arya's assured air bothers Murtagh. He hates that she seems so sure.
"Did Eragon put you up to this?"
"He has told the young Riders that should they need help, they might ask you."
"Shit," mutters Murtagh. Brother, what are you thinking?
"But I heard you hovering about and sought you out. The world order has begun anew, and Firnen and I feel that the remaining Riders must stick together."
Murtagh regards her wryly. "You need a hand with the new Riders."
"They," Arya says deliberately, "need more than one teacher. More than one approach to what it means to take up this legacy. If you travel Alagaesia without a purpose, then you will find it here, with redemption as well."
"And what wisdom can I impart them? How to hurt, how to ruin, how to break others? I'm not good for anything except that."
"They will learn from you that one's choices, not their past, will always define who they are," Arya states. "In time you will forge a new name for yourself, of that I am certain, and it will be this name that the world shall remember you by."
Again Murtagh and Thorn exchange glances.
"We will think about it," Murtagh says.
Arya nods. "You know where to find me."
She jumps onto Firnen's back and soon, they are gone.
Thorn growls again, sliding his head under his Rider's arm.
I don't like him.
Who, Firnen?
Aye. He pauses. He's too happy.
So what do you think?
You know what I think; you're in my head all the time.
Murtagh puts a hand on Thorn's shoulder. - That I do. I know what you feel as well. You crave the company of your own kind.
Yes. But I'm wary, too. Like you told Arya, nobody will trust us.
She does.
Silence.
Then Murtagh says, - I think it's time, Thorn. Don't you?
His dragon rumbles. - Despite the aloofness you showed Arya, you're ready to get back out there, Murtagh, and so am I. The question is, is the rest of the world ready for us, after what we've done?
We'll do it. No matter the cost.
Do you think we can?
We have failed doing worse things, shrugs Murtagh. Perhaps we will succeed in doing the right thing for once.
They meet Arya and Firnen at the edge of the forest on a full-moon night. This time it is Murtagh who speaks first.
"Arya. We're in."
She merely nods once. "I appreciate that you made the decision."
"I did it for Thorn," Murtagh plows on. "He's got to be with other dragons. He wanted to be. We're both willing to work out what it means to be amongst our kind again."
"That's a start, Argetlam," murmurs Arya, and Firnen hums in affirmation.
Murtagh isn't done. "But the moment I screw up- and I'm certain I will-"
"Why must you men be so dramatic?" Arya sighs.
"- the minute you see even the slightest hint of my father in me, I want you to kill me. Kill both of us."
"Nobody is killing anybody in my kingdom. Have a little faith in yourself," Arya says, somewhat sharply. "Now, we have tarried long enough. Let us go. It would be best for you not to overtake us so as not to arouse panic as we approach."
They mount their dragons side by side.
Fate, it seems, has some sense of irony, because when he first meets the entire number of dragon Riders they assemble in the forest in a perfect ring of thirteen. Thirteen, like the Forsworn.
The parallel makes Murtagh's head almost hurt.
He expects to be met with distrust, apprehension, even outright hostility. In fact, he's anticipating it. But one thing he forgets is that they were once Eragon's students, and if anyone besides Arya believes that there is hope for him yet, it's Eragon.
There is wariness in their eyes, to be sure, but they greet him in the Ancient Language and regard him with a mixture of respect and reservation.
"Your suspicions were true, young Riders. The watchers looking after you are indeed Murtagh Morzansson and his dragon, Thorn. I have asked them to join our ranks they have agreed to help you finish your training," says Arya. She has them listening to her rapt and devoted, clearly the figure in charge. "From today onward you will respect them as you do myself and Firnen and you will refer to them as Master. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Ebrithil," comes the chorus of voices.
It sends a chill up Murtagh's spine. They call him Master.
That doesn't sound right at all.