A/N: Just a little bittersweet something to (hopefully) get me out of my funk. Inspired by the song "Waves" by Dean Lewis. Enjoy! :)

Memories of a Stolen Place

Sunlight, hazy and warm against his skin, like his mother's caress. The scent of wildflowers and freshly laid hay, floating through the spring air and filling his lungs. Grasses so green they almost defied nature, and tall enough to tickle his chin as he swept through the field. Murtagh always liked to run here; it was freeing, like nothing and no one could catch him. A smile broke across his face, wide and carefree. He stretched out his arms to his sides, letting the blades of grass slip between his fingers. He liked to imagine it's what silk might feel like. And those daffodils, growing by the brook, they were gold coins, piled up high. The solid, looming oak trees were the marble pillars, and the wildflowers of every color were precious gemstones, tossed carelessly by one who could afford to do so.

This place was his own treasure room, filled with wonders only his eyes could see. Here, in this field not too far from his home, Murtagh imagined himself one of the knights from legend, heroic and unafraid. Hours he would pass playacting, battling monsters and saving fair maidens. And at the end of the day, he would return home to tell his mother of all his great and mighty deeds. She would smile, and listen in raptured silence, sometimes asking the occasional question. "And was this kidnapped princess very lovely?" Selena would laugh, a merry and bright sound. "Did the king give you a large estate for your good deeds?"

On this day, he had been a Dragon Rider, soaring over his field on wings of crimson. His enemies fell to claw and fang and fire, decimated under his unrivaled might. As it always was, he ended the day victorious, hurrying home in the dying light of the sun. His smile stayed plastered as he ran, fixed upon his face by the high of his childlike imaginings. The day had been so wonderful, filled with adventures of all kinds. He couldn't wait to tell his mother; she was always so happy to listen to his tales, and today would be no different.

Their modest home lay on the edge of the forest, resting under the shadow of a mountain. A shallow river gurgled happily behind, snaking through dark green grasses shorter than the ones in his field. Beyond the river, an orchard of apple and pear trees stretched half a league to cover the remainder of the valley, butting up against the furthest border of dense trees. He could see his father slipping between the trees, Eragon following closely at his heels. Murtagh didn't like working in the orchard, not the way his brother did. He much preferred wiling his days away in the field.

They were all returning home at the end of a long day, welcomed by Selena's loving smile and gentle manner. As he neared the house, Murtagh could smell supper cooking over the fire. With any luck, there'd be fresh bread to go along with it. The thought of such a prospect made his legs move faster. No one made bread quite like his mother; the crust was always the perfect shade of golden brown, and crackled deliciously as he tore into the loaf. Thinking about it now, his mouth was already watering.

When he burst through the door, Murtagh saw his mother turn and gaze at him, a wide smile upon her face and her eyes lit up in laughter.

"Welcome home, my little raven. What adventures did you have today?" Murtagh crinkled his nose at her use of the nickname, but hastened to hug her nonetheless. She always said the color of his hair reminded her of a raven's wings, and that he was just as clever as one too. But Murtagh had never liked the birds, and thus, never liked the name as well.

"I soared through the air on the wings of a dragon, Mother!" he exclaimed excitedly, looking up at her from where he clutched at her legs. "We battled horrible enemies and won great victories!"

"Mm, did ya now?" She smiled fondly at him and stroked his hair, leaning down to plant a kiss on his forehead. "I'd like to see such a sight. What color was your dragon?" As she questioned him on his childish antics, Murtagh ran around her to clamber up the bench to the table. Just where he thought it would be, a basket of freshly baked bread sat waiting.

"Blood red," he replied absently, reaching towards the basket. With a soft chuckle, Selena batted his hand away.

"What have I told you, Murtagh? You must wait. Your father and brother will be home momentarily, and then we can all eat together." The little dark-haired boy stuck out his lower lip in annoyance, but sat back as he'd been instructed all the same. His mother hastened back to the hearth and leaned over a long, flat tray covered with a few small hens and some vegetables he already knew he wouldn't like to eat. But if he didn't eat all his vegetables, he knew his father wouldn't give him any sweets afterward. Life could be so unfair sometimes.

Not too long passed before the side door opened and his father and Eragon came striding in. Though his brother was three years younger than he, Murtagh always felt that he seemed somehow older. Maybe it was because he gladly took on the responsibilities of their family orchard, or the fact that it seemed their father favored him, but envy snaked its way into Murtagh's heart all the same.

Selena turned away from the hearth, a glorious smile on her comely face. "Welcome home, Brom," she intoned happily, wiping her hands on a towel. Eragon ran to her across the hardwood floor, wrapping around her legs in a tight embrace.

"Mother!" he cried gleefully. "We picked so many apples today, you wouldn't believe it!"

"Oh, is that so?" She smiled up at her husband as he leaned in for a light kiss. "Good harvest this spring?"

"Enough to fetch a nice profit at market next week," Brom replied, setting his pack down on a stool that sat near the sink. "We might even have enough to buy that new loom you were wanting." Murtagh noticed his mother's face light up for a moment, but then she looked down at her children, and the light was replaced by a soft, loving smile.

"Actually," she said slowly, drawing out the word to draw the attention of her sons, "instead of a loom... I was thinking... Perhaps it's time that you boys went off to school?" Murtagh couldn't help the gasp that escaped him. School was the one thing he'd been dreaming of for the last year. Ever since Farren Edricsson had left for school last year, Murtagh had begged his parents to let him go as well. At nine years old, he was one of the oldest boys in the village yet to go, and he worried that he'd fall behind if he waited much longer.

"Do you mean it?" he exclaimed happily, hopping down from the bench and jumping in excitement. Eragon joined him in his excitement, repeating his question. Selena shared a knowing look with Brom-an indication of the ruse-and then nodded her assent. Murtagh felt his heart would pop out of his chest. Everything he'd ever wanted was finally coming to fruition. If he went to school, then he could learn a trade, or become a scholar, or even a merchant. How proud would his father be then? Happiness bloomed like a rose in his chest, filling his senses and bringing tears to prick at his eyes.

Had he ever been so happy?

Would he ever be again?

A shadow crossed over him, stilling all the activity around him. His mother stood frozen to the spot, the most beautiful smile etched onto her face. Brom stared over at her with a look of pure love in his eyes, and Eragon was laughing at him joyfully. It was picture perfect. Or rather... it would have been, had it not all been a farce.

Sadness, cold and achingly empty, cut through the imagined happiness in his chest. The loss of such warmth was so sudden, it was enough to leave him gasping, doubled over at the end of his simple cot. Those same tears that once held such joy, now overflowed with sorrow down his cheeks, splattering on a frigid stone floor. Murtagh clutched at his chest, willing away the knot that had formed there.

Why did he do this to himself?

A question I continue to ask myself. Thorn's voice echoed dimly at the edges of his mind. Murtagh had steeped himself so deeply in the false memory, he'd ceased to sense his own partner-of-heart-and-mind. Although...the dragon continued, his voice and presence growing stronger, I will admit... it is a nice memory.

One that isn't real, Thorn, Murtagh barked angrily, wiping away the tears from his eyes in shame. He looked around the small room and saw that the fire had gotten dangerously low. Winter raged outside; a blizzard the likes of which he'd never seen was bearing down on them. Murtagh couldn't afford to waste any energy trying to keep himself warm when the fire would do the job for him.

Are you alright up there? he asked of his dragon. But Thorn remained quiet, annoyance emanating from him. Murtagh heaved a sigh, rubbing at his temples in exasperation. Ever since Galbatorix's death and their subsequent self-imposed exile, they'd tried to work every day at the rifts which lay between them. It hadn't been an easy road, and both of them still made missteps, but they were miles ahead of where they'd been only a few short months ago. I didn't mean to snap... I'm sorry.

From his roost on the top of their small home, Murtagh could hear Thorn release a heavy groan. Warmth suddenly flowed over him, knocking him back slightly and reminding him of that feeling from his manufactured memory. All is forgiven, the dragon said quietly. May I ask? Where did this memory come from?

Murtagh stilled momentarily. He wasn't aiming to keep anything from Thorn, but it was something he himself didn't quite understand. The memory seemed to have materialized on its own, during his enslavement to Galbatorix. Every time he'd been punished or tortured, he'd needed to remove his mind from the present, if only to lessen the pain slightly. Inevitably, his thoughts would turn to his mother. His memories of her had always been happy ones. Eventually though, the memories evolved into something else. A dream, of sorts, of what might have been, had things been different. He'd never known what it was to have a family, to experience the joy of love that came from having a father and mother that loved each other. Murtagh supposed Eragon didn't really know what that was like either... but then, his father had actually cared for him.

Finally, he said, It's the life that was stolen from me... The life I should have had. It helps to ease the pain... until I remember that it's all a farce, and then the pain comes back tenfold.

There must be a better way, Thorn said sadly. It hurts me as well... Perhaps-

I know what you're going to say, Murtagh cut him off, trying to keep his tone as soft as possible, and we've spoken about this. It is too soon to return.

Perhaps you are right. The ceiling above his room creaked slightly as the dragon shifted his weight. Murtagh laid back on his cot, pulling a heavy fur overtop of him. But perhaps, Thorn continued, the boon of being around those who... care for us is worth the risk. My-sapphire-sister-Saphira and her Rider have sent word from the East. They've offered us a place at their side.

How can we teach young dragons and Riders to bond with one another fully and completely when we ourselves do not even truly know how?

Thorn huffed loudly, and Murtagh imagined that a puff of smoke accompanied it. Where Murtagh always saw the reality in any given situation, Thorn was, surprisingly, rather optimistic about any circumstance they found themselves in. There are many things we have learned about survival and defense that would be useful to young Riders, I think. And perhaps your brother could help us... repair the bond the Egg-breaker King sought to destroy.

Murtagh sighed, closing his weary eyes. Maybe you're right, he admitted sullenly. But we're not going anywhere in this damn storm.

True enough, the dragon chuckled, shaking the roof with his laughter.

Hesitantly, Murtagh prodded at his dragon's consciousness. If he wanted to be of any aid in repairing the rift between them, perhaps this would be a good step. Would you like to see another?

Memory? Thorn asked, his interest clearly piqued.

This one is not of my stolen past... but of my stolen future. Sadness crept over him once more, edged with longing and regret. Those seemed to be the only things he could feel these days. With an edge of hesitation, Thorn sent him a feeling of agreement. Slowly, Murtagh closed his eyes and submerged into the newest dream he'd conjured up. This was a different sort of happiness, one that he could almost truly recognize as having felt at one point.

A manor house and an orchard, just like the one from his false childhood. Dark hair, dark eyes, and darker skin. Children running gleefully through the garden. Sunlight... warm and hazy against his skin. It was a life he would never know, only dream of. Thorn's sadness mingled with his own, magnifying until it was unbearable and Murtagh had to push the fractured images away. Tears flowed anew, soaking into his hair and his pillow.

Is loneliness truly the answer? Thorn questioned softly.

It is the hand we have been dealt. We will carry it as long as we must. Murtagh understood Thorn's desire, more than the dragon probably realized. But it fell to him to keep them on the path they'd set out upon. It was the only way he knew how to heal, and heal, they must. Perhaps one day, they could rejoin the world. When the memory of their wicked deeds had faded into legend, and they could start over. But for now... the memories of a stolen place would have to keep them warm against the bitter cold of winter and the loneliness of their isolation. A frigid gale shook the walls of his small home, but Murtagh could still barely feel the tendrils of sunlight against his skin.

One day... perhaps...

Thank you for reading!