Full summary:
At the end of Inheritance, Murtagh and Thorn leave Urû'baen, needing time alone, time to heal. They don't know where they will go. North, maybe. Somewhere away from other people. Murtagh tells Eragon that they intend to return when 'the world no longer seems quite so hateful and we no longer feel like tearing down mountains and filling the sea with blood'.
This is the story of how dragon and Rider reached this point. Fleeing the hatred of others, needing time to stop hating themselves, they hid. They waited to heal.
*I've changed one thing from Inheritance to suit my story better, which is this: Eragon did not give Arya two eggs before he left; he gave two each to Nasuada, Arya, Orik and the Herndall, the leaders of the four races. Other than that, I've tried my hardest to keep faithfully to the work of my role model, Christopher Paolini. If I've failed in even the tiniest of ways, please let me know. Enjoy the story, Fricaya un Shur'tugalya*
Chapter1
The wind was cold, and breathing was hard, but Murtagh and Thorn chose not to be seen as they flew. Murtagh knew the sight would only frighten those below, and he would prefer neither Eragon nor Nasuada nor anyone else to hear tales of a red dragon flying north. Though it had been a long time since they had seen any sign of habitation, he would rather no one had any hint as to where he and Thorn were going.
Nasuada had already tracked him down once, in a crowded market place in Narda, and insisted on speaking to him in private. She seemed to find the encounter as uncomfortable and painful as he did, but she had said what she came to say, and forced him to take one of the bonded dragon eggs that Eragon had left her. Murtagh wasn't sure why, but all Nasuada had said when he asked was, 'just in case'.
Thorn was choosing their course, and Murtagh left him to it, instead contemplating, for the thousandth time, the hard lump in one of the saddlebags. He had turned the egg over in his hands a hundred times, and was as familiar with its appearance as he was with Thorn's.
The egg was a strange colour, one he had never seen the like of before in all the paintings Galbatorix had shown him. It was a pale, blue-tinged white, and its surface shimmered all the colours of the rainbow when it caught the light, like one of the dwarves' opals. The light shining off the egg had reflected in Nasuada's eyes as she had handed it to him, and he remembered thinking how lovely they were.
Murtagh shoved both the egg and Nasuada out of his mind, and thought instead of where he and Thorn could go. They had spent the winter in a cave in the Spine, further north than even the ruins of Carvahall, hunting what few deer there were and stealing nuts and berries from squirrels and sleeping bears. When spring came, they had again taken to the sky, flying north all the while, sleeping and eating only when they had to.
They had stopped for several weeks in the forest of Du Weldenvarden, far away from any elvish constructions or any indication of other sentient beings at all. But still it did not feel like a place they could stay. So six days ago, he and Thorn had resumed their flight. They had scarcely rested since.
Murtagh was jolted from his reverie by Thorn beginning his descent, spiralling down to the base of a lone mountain. Thorn showed Murtagh an image of a cave he'd spotted, and a wordless question asking if they should sleep there. Murtagh nodded, and again felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude that, despite the many awful things both he and his father had done, fate had seen fit to give him Thorn.
As he built a fire and found his blanket in the saddlebags, Murtagh felt how sore Thorn's wings were, and noticed how they were shaking from exhaustion. Thorn hadn't wanted to complain, but he had been flying too much, with not enough rest, and would need some time on the ground before he could fly again, as neither he nor Murtagh knew the right spell to heal them. They could have guessed, of course, but it was safer not to risk it.
Murtagh settled down to sleep beside Thorn, and Thorn placed his wing over Murtagh. Sharing thoughts and feelings and ideas, they drifted off, and shared their dreams.
Murtagh's dreams began, like always, with the battle of Dras Leona, the terrified faces of the Varden soldiers as they realised they were about to die, dragging a screaming Nasuada from her tent. This dissolved into an image of that bolt of energy flying at Hrothgar, sounds of the dwarves cries as their king was killed. Then came Gil'ead, a bedlam of butchery and blood, Galbatorix's mesmerising voice rushing through him and clouding his vision with a wash as red as the blood he'd spilled. Murtagh felt his arm rise without his control, delivering the final death stroke, slashing Oromis from neck to hip. His mind shifted to the scene he feared the most- burning Nasuada, the sound of her pain ringing in his ears, the look on her face as she recognised him. And all through the dreams echoed Galbatorix's laughter, mixed with the screams of the dying and living, rising and falling and all swirling into one torturous, evil noise.
He awoke suddenly, sitting bolt upright, barely holding back a yell. Murtagh's skin was damp with a cold sweat, and his heart was racing as though he'd just run a mile.
Almost every night since Urû'baen he had been plagued with such nightmares. In them would feature all the memories he hated and feared, all the things he was afraid would happen, all the mistakes he'd made.
They made Murtagh fear sleep, fear the dark, fear his own mind. He had deep purple bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep, and his arms were covered in deep cuts where he had dug in his nails in an effort to keep himself awake. Murtagh was slowly going mad and he knew it. The only reason he hadn't yet was the comfort Thorn provided.
Thorn was still sleeping, and the sound of his deep breathing was calming, but Murtagh felt as though he would explode if he just sat there, so he got up and went outside.
The pine forest around the cave mouth was dark and cold, but Murtagh liked the sleepy silence of the woods. It was so different from the sounds in his nightmares that Murtagh found it hard to believe he could still be in the same world as the world where Nasuada had screamed in agony, where he had made her scream.
A noise caught his attention, a soft, wet, sliding crunch. Murtagh turned towards the noise, reaching for his hip, but Zar'roc was still in the cave. A moment later Murtagh almost laughed at himself as a rabbit-like creature hopped out from behind the tree.
Shaking his head at his foolishness, Murtagh kept walking.