Of Mind and Of Will

by Firestar'sniece

He was told his name wasn't Murtagh; it's Joshua. He was told Alagaesia wasn't real; it was an imaginary land. He was told that Thorn wasn't real; dragons don't exist. And he was told that his entire lifetime was a figment of his imagination; he has psychosis. But now Murtagh isn't so sure anymore. Who is he really?

1. Chapter 1: Psychosis

I don't own the Inheritance Cycle.

Okay, so here we go!

And don't forget to check out my other stories, Brotherhood Never Fades and The Tsunami Shall Crash!

---

He was told his name wasn't Murtagh; it's Joshua. He was told Alagaesia wasn't real; it was an imaginary land. He was told that Thorn wasn't real; dragons don't exist. He was told that his entire life was a figment of his imagination; he has psychosis. But now Murtagh isn't so sure anymore. Who is he really?- Summary

---

Chapter One: Psychosis

Boston, Massachusetts. It was December, the winter cold air was settling down on the city, a pale sky filled with gray clouds above the inhabitants. But in one hospital, it was warm inside. Hot chocolate was being served by the staff to the nurses and the patients in the hospital. That is except for one patient in one room.

He was no remarkable man by any means, but he had arrived the other day, apparently in crisis. His ribs were broken, his arms were broken, and he appeared to have suffered a concussion. His clothes were so mangled with blood and unrecognizable that they had thrown it away and he was now wearing donated clothes, ones that were warmer and more suited to the weather. And he was so mangled that people couldn't help but pity him.

"Suicide attempt," was the explanation of the people who had brought him there, that had "rescued" him.

It was hard to tell now with all the medical equipment hooked up to him, but he may have been beautiful at one point. And after his scars and injuries healed, for they were in no way permanent, thank goodness, he would be back to his former beauty and glory.

He was a young man, no older than twenty, but he seemed more around nineteen. "He's too young to die," one nurse had mourned. And for many, they couldn't understand how someone as gorgeous as him would want to give up on life. His athletic build and dark brown hair would make many young men his age envy him for he could win any girl's heart with his looks alone it seemed.

So what had happened to him?

According to the people who brought him in, young Joshua Arnold Vandervoot had been suffering severe psychotic breakdowns and hallucinations. During one of these hallucinations he had decided to take his motorcycle and attempt to commit suicide by running off a high bridge with it, thus his injuries.

His psychological medical staff who had been tending to him and treating him for over a year were aware that he had been suffering these hallucinations and suicidal thoughts. And a neighbor, who was also aware of it, had decided to call 911 when he had not returned home for that evening.

Enter the police. They'd been investigating a different case, the case of someone running their motorcycle off the freeway, seemingly on purpose, when they'd received a report of a missing person. They put two and two together. And after seeing the ID it was confirmed. This was Joshua, the one who was reported missing.

He was rushed to the hospital and people were in a hurry to save his life. He was fortunate that he arrived at the hospital when he did, for if hadn't he would be dead.

And so that is where he lay right now, in a coma. A sad story, according to the staff.

As a nurse came in to give young Joshua more sedative to help ease any pain he may be experiencing, she noticed that he began stirring and waking up a bit. He groaned some, and his eyes fluttered open before shutting again. "Joshua?" she called again, but pretty soon he was out once more. She administered the sedative, wishing with all her heart that he would get better soon.

(Over the course of a few days)

Joshua remained in and out of consciousness for the next few days. According to the doctor, while he was in a coma, he was in the stages of waking up, and he should be out of the coma soon.

The hospital community silently prayed that he would get better. And so it continued off and on. Sometimes he would groan, and sometimes he would be close to consciousness. But he still remained under, as if something was holding him back.

The hospital staff remained patient.

(Two weeks later)

He finally did wake up, to the joy of the staff. Two weeks later he opened his eyes and for the first time stayed awake, muttering softly in words they couldn't understand. His eyes gazed around the room in confusion, to the hospital clothes he was wearing, to the beeping monitors, to the electric lights. He gazed at the shades which were shut, and heard the siren of emergency vehicles, and as he tried to sit up, he groaned in pain, reaching down and feeling his broken ribs.

A bright eyed nurse with blonde hair and blue eyes happily walked in and smiled when she saw him. "Ah, Joshua, you're awake!" she greeted.

The young man stared at her in confusion, unexpectedly. "Who?" he finally murmured out loud and the woman frowned, obviously confused.

"Joshua?" she asked again, and the young man shook his head.

"Who's that?" he asked, and she gazed at him in pity.

"It's your name," she explained and the man's eyes widened. He shook his head, bringing his hand to his forehead as if expecting that he had a temperature only to find it was fine.

"My name's not Joshua," he murmured softly, and groaned at the pain he was in. "It's Murtagh."

And the woman frowned, considering him carefully. "No, I'm pretty sure it's Joshua. It says here on your medical records. Joshua Arnold Vandervoot."

The man's eyes then snapped to her. "Since when do I have more than one name?" he asked incredulously, like it was something unheard of, and the woman walked over, setting the medical tab in her hands on a metal table beside him. When she reached out for his wrist to take his pulse he flinched away, and she sighed, reaching again. This time he didn't resist.

"Well," she began conversationally, as if on an off note. "What did you think your name was?"

"Murtagh Morzansson," was the reply, and she frowned once more, her lips counting softly.

Finally she was done counting. "I've never heard that last name before," and she was writing down the results on the tab.

And Murtagh was confused. "Last name?" he echoed, and the woman rolled her eyes.

"You must have amnesia," she sighed gently. "You're confused. It's to be expected with the accident and all. Only time and work will give you your memory back."

"Accident?" Murtagh's eyes widened. "There was no accident! Where's Thorn?"

And it was the woman's turn to be confused. "Thorn?" she inquired, her hair in the high pony tail swinging as she turned to face her patient once more.

"My dragon," Murtagh explained with a frown, and he seemed to be on edge now.

At this, the woman laughed lightly, like she wasn't taking him seriously. "My, you do have an imagination!" she commented and frustration seared through the boy at this.

"I never imagined him!" Murtagh snapped, loosing his cool. And he was so confused. What was this place? Where was he? "My bond with Thorn is real! And this mark on my left hand, the gedwey ignasia, is proof that I'm bonded to Thorn for life!"

He reached out his left hand to show her as proof and then gasped at what he saw. Horror filled him. His gedwey ignasia wasn't there. It was gone, completely gone! His left hand was smooth, obviously the tone of his skin, and it was as if the gedwey ignasia had never been given, as if it had never existed on him to begin with.

Emotions began brewing through him, one being confusion, and the other being shock. What could have happened to his gedwey ignasia? And now that it was gone, what did that mean? Did that mean that his bond with his dragon was severed, even if Thorn was still alive?

And he was afraid. The woman though, when she saw this, did her best to console him. "Look," she murmured softly. "We know you're going through a rough time, what with the accident and all. So just take it easy, okay?" And she got up and headed to the door, ready to leave.

Murtagh brought his horror filled eyes to the door. "Wait!" he called out to the woman and she stopped, waiting to see what he had to say. "Where am I?" he asked. "What is this place?"

"Why it's a hospital!" the woman replied as if he should have known. "You're in Maine's street hospital, in Boston, Massachusetts!" And with that she left, Murtagh staring after her in confusion and fear, feeling completely out of place and alone. He was absolutely sure that he'd never heard of any of those things before. And why were they acting like dragons weren't real?

"Boston, Massachusetts?" Murtagh echoed when he'd recovered.

(Time Jump)

Life in the hospital had been a living nightmare for Murtagh. For one, he couldn't leave until he was "discharged", something the doctors weren't willing to do yet. For another, he kept getting confused glances whenever he would ask about Alagaesia or Eragon.

Another problem Murtagh seemed to be encountering was that no one seemed to believe him when he said that his name was Murtagh. They'd insist that his records said otherwise, and when he'd challenged that maybe they had mistaken him for someone else they would just laugh like he'd said the cutest thing. Then they'd reassure him that they had the right records.

"I just want to get back home!" he explained. "I want to go back to Alagaesia, to my people, where I belong!" And they would always laugh and say that he had a wonderful imagination.

"You should write a children's novel someday," one of the staff, a man, had told him. "If you published it, I'd read about it!" And Murtagh couldn't help but grind his teeth at that. No one ever seemed to take him seriously or anything he said seriously.

Murtagh sincerely hoped that Eragon would get him out of this mess soon. The boy owed him. After all, if Eragon had come for him the first time, then he wouldn't have suffered at the hands of Galbatorix. And they could have recovered the dragon eggs, then Thorn wouldn't have grown up in misery when he'd hatched for Murtagh.

But that only led him to his next question: did Eragon even know where he was, let alone how to get here? And what happened if he didn't? Was he trapped here forever? He shuddered to think.

That led to another problem Murtagh was having: some of his memory was missing. For one, he couldn't remember how he'd gotten here. Number two was the last thing he remembered was flying with Thorn. Then his memory skipped to being in and out of consciousness in this "hospital" (more like torture chamber he thought). Then his next memory was waking up here.

It was a giant nightmare to him, a nightmare that was never ending. It reminded him of the nightmare he had lived when he was a slave to Galbatorix, and he shuddered to think about that. He still hadn't recovered completely from that, and emotional scars from that encounter were left on him permanently. And much of his memory from that time had been missing for a while as well, long before he had landed here in "Boston, Massachusetts".

However his nightmare only continued to get worse. On the day of being discharged several men wearing black business slacks and black overcoats with white undercoats turned up. How they were practically dressed the same, he didn't know, but now that he thought about it, it seemed to be the same for the nurses and doctors; they wore similar things.

There was something about these people, these men that he didn't quite trust. And they seemed familiar, though he couldn't quite remember why.

One man was bald with light brown eyebrows, of average height, his green eyes staring expectantly at Murtagh as if he were an old time friend. Murtagh shivered slightly at the sight of him, unsure why he was wary and frightened of him. He was currently seated in his hospital bed and he'd just signed the release papers. How he wrote the words, he didn't know. It was familiar but it seemed as if it shouldn't have been, as if it were foreign.

"Ah, Joshua!" the bald man greeted, and Murtagh narrowed his eyes. "I'm so glad to see that you've recovered, well physically, at least!" And the scars on him were barely visible anymore.

The nurse, the same one that had greeted him the first time, smiled softly to him. "I'll leave you be with them," she murmured softly, and Murtagh felt his gut clench. He didn't want her to go. He felt safer with her there, much as he didn't like her because of her attitude towards him.

But she left him anyways after smiling reassuringly, and Murtagh watched the men carefully as they approached him. In a minute the woman was out the door.

The bald man took a seat beside him, staring at him in a caring manner. "So are you recovering?" he asked and Murtagh wasn't sure whether to answer or not.

He decided to anyways, if anything to test this man and see what he was really here for. "Yes," was his reply, and the man looked satisfied, as if it were good news.

"I'm glad to hear," he concluded as if he were genuinely concerned, and though the average wouldn't see it, Murtagh thought that those words had a slightly different meaning than might usually be implied. And it was then he was sure; this man wanted him for something.

"And that leads us to our next discussion," the man then brought up, and Murtagh glanced at the others. Some of them walked to the medical tablet that the woman had purposefully left behind and were staring at it. And when Murtagh turned his confused glare back to the bald man, he shrugged. "You're suicide attempt," he explained, as if it should have been obvious.

Clenching his fists, Murtagh grit his teeth. "I didn't try to commit suicide!" he said for the umpteenth time. The hospital staff had brought this up before, and as much as he tried to explain that, they would never believe him. Why would he want to die?

The man didn't seem to believe him though. "Oh?" he challenged. "Then do you care to explain why you ran your motorcycle off the bridge on the highway?"

Confusion flooded him once more. He wasn't familiar with that term. "Motorcycle?" he asked, and the man leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, as if Murtagh were a problem child and was causing trouble yet denying it.

The man stared at him for a little while longer after that. "We ran drug tests. You were not on any drugs, illegal or otherwise. You weren't drinking alcohol, therefore you couldn't have been drunk. But we are aware that you've been having...mental problems as of late. You were going through a rough emotional time. And you're saying that you didn't try to commit suicide?"

Murtagh honestly didn't know how to answer that. Most of the terminology, he didn't understand. And yes, he hated alcohol because of what Morzan did to him as a kid. But mental problems? What was that?

He didn't understand, so he tried a different avenue. "Where's Thorn?" he demanded, and all the men stared at him, the one reading through his files putting the medical tab down.

Baldy stared seriously at him for a minute. Then he sighed. "We've been aware of your hallucinations, Joshua."

And sudden anger gripped him. "My name isn't Joshua! It's Murtagh!" he demanded, but they merely raised their eyebrows, unbelieving.

"Oh?" baldy asked and reached for the medical tab. Another man with dark skin and brown hair handed it to him. "Then why does your medical file say otherwise?"

"They have it wrong!" Murtagh fought back. And he was getting tired of this game. "Now where's Thorn? I swear, if you've hurt him in any manner-" he began only to be cut off.

"There is no Thorn, Joshua." The bald man's voice was firm, convincing, but Murtagh shook his head disbelievingly even as baldy continued. "Dragons don't exist. It's a figment of your imagination that you've thought up in your psychotic state..."

"No!" Murtagh shook his head. It wasn't true. He wasn't going to believe it, even as the man continued on with his rambling.

"...You have a mental illness. In the emotional pain you've been experiencing you've thought up this land of "Alagaesia" as a way to escape from reality..."

"You lie!" the young man whispered in denial, and he was angry that this man was doing this to him. Another Galbatorix. Another corrupt individual to fight who wanted him to believe the propaganda that was given to him.

"...And you imagined the villain Galbatorix as a way to deal with the grief you faced from all the set backs you've had in life, from the abuse and kidnapping you endured at the radical group Commemorate. He's probably symbolic of your experience at their hands, how they tortured you and hurt you, and so you imagined up an individual that was all of those things combined..."

"He was real!" Murtagh shouted, gritting his teeth, closing his eyes as they said these things. "I fought him! Eragon fought him!"

"...And this Eragon who is supposedly alive and real is probably a way for you to cope with the death of your little brother when you were a young boy. It's probably a way for you to cope with the abuse you endured as a kid. This Morzan is probably a representative of the fact that your mother and father would beat you as a kid..."

"Selena never beat me!" Murtagh hissed. "She tried to save me from that monster Morzan!"

"...And this dragon Thorn was probably made up as a way for you to escape your loneliness in life and your need for a friend. So instead of making friends in real life, you made one up..."

"THORN IS REAL!" Murtagh screeched and the doctor shut his mouth abruptly. Screaming, Murtagh took the unusual writing tool that he'd retained after signing the papers and threw it at the doctor. But baldy caught it graciously. "DON'T EVER SAY MY DRAGON WASN'T REAL!"

Baldy looked at him piteously. "But he isn't," he replied gently and Murtagh screamed grabbing his hair. It was a nightmare. It was Galbatorix and his soft words after a torture session all over again.

Baldy continued, "You changed your name to Murtagh as a way to deal with the pain, and you entered this fictional, imaginary place in your mind where you could play out your delusions so you wouldn't have to face real life. And you've become aggressive and suicidal from everything you've gone through."

"No!" Murtagh whispered hugging himself. He had been through something like this before at Galbatorix's hand, and he was determined not to fall again. Never again would he be brainwashed into believing things by men like him. He would resist.

"You're suffering a mental illness, Joshua," the bald man replied softly, even as tears streamed down Murtagh's eyes. He was in a panic for his worst nightmare was coming true again. "You have a mental illness, and we're here to help you. That's why we're taking you away to a special place to help people like you. You will stay there until you get better, and you will be comfortable while we treat you. You have nothing to worry about. Everything will be all right."

However, Murtagh wasn't so sure about that. But one thing was for sure. There was no way he was going. "You can't take me!" he hissed through clenched teeth and a shiver ran down his spine as he heard the next words, making his fear increase tenfold.

"Oh, but we can," baldy replied calmly, authoritatively. "In fact your transport is already here. You see, you've been placed under the care of other people due to the fact that you can't take care of yourself..." And at this Murtagh made to hit the bald man but was held back.

"I CAN TAKE CARE OF MYSELF!" Murtagh yelled, and struggled against the men trying to restrain him, thinking of Galbatorix and what the evil king had done to him. Never again would he go through that. "YOU'RE LYING TO ME! I'VE SEEN THOSE LIKE YOU BEFORE! YOU HARM OTHERS UNTIL THEY BELIEVE WHAT YOU SAY! I'M NOT GOING WITH YOU!"

"You have no choice," Baldy whispered. "It's for your own good. Believe me, Joshua. We're here to help you. Just let us do our job. Everything will be all right."

He spoke in such a calm, soothing manner that it made Murtagh panic. He made to hit the men around him but they held him back, and all of a sudden the door opened and the blonde nurse walked in, a long, thin syringe in her right hand. A pitiful expression was on her face as she stared at him.

Tears were pouring down his face as Murtagh stared at the woman. "Help!" he begged her as he resisted the restraining men, and baldy stared at him impassively, observing him. She never moved to help him, instead she watched him sadly.

"You have a choice, Joshua," the bald man finally continued and Murtagh struggled even harder and the men had a hard time containing him. "You can either cooperate and come quietly, or I can have Ms. Jones sedate you. But you will come, either way. What's it going to be?"

Panic ensued in Murtagh and he gave the most pleading expression he could to the nurse, but she wouldn't relent. "Help me!" he begged her. "This man is lying! He's not here to help me! He'll hurt me!" But to his frustration the woman didn't seem to believe him, but the lying man instead.

"Joshua..." baldy warned and Murtagh kicked one of the men in between the legs. He yelled out, but the other men managed to hold him back and Murtagh struggled as baldy came over. Then baldy, and the man who Murtagh had kicked, restrained him further.

"It seems we have no choice," baldy murmured softly, as if he were disappointed. "Ms. Jones, if you will?" And she nodded and then approached him.

"NO!" Murtagh screamed in desperation and tried his hardest to get away from the woman.

The long, thin syringe suddenly seemed threatening more than ever to Murtagh, and he screeched as she came over. But struggling was pointless. Making no comments, she slipped the thin, long needle into his arm. No pain came from it, but to Murtagh it was like a nightmare that he knew had happened, but he could no longer remember. He screamed and continued to scream as the syringe was pushed down and the needle was taken out.

Darkness swam before his eyes. Tears flowed down his cheeks. "No!" he whispered once more as he felt his consciousness slipping and his body relaxing.

He was vaguely aware of being picked up and put on a stretcher with wheels. He vaguely remembered lights as he was wheeled down the hallway. He vaguely remembered soft voices getting further and further away. And he vaguely remembered being put in the back of a van.

Then all was black.

(Murtagh Point of View)

Waking up to this nightmare was painful. He gasped as he awoke, the whiteness all around him, blinding him. As he looked around he saw that he was in a white windowless room and had been placed on a bed. The bed was simple with plain white sheets.

He was dressed in white, his attire similar to the nurses uniforms, and as he looked down he saw that he was wearing socks but no shoes. Huh. They must not trust him enough to tie his own shoelaces.

A quick glance at the room as he sat up told him that it was simple. The furniture was simple, a desk in one corner with a single chair, and a shallow closet to put his belongings and clothes in. He had a simple bathroom, which when he checked out later consisted of a toilet (a most curious thing), a wash basin they called a sink that filled with water from the nozzle above it, and a shower that ran hot and cold water when turning the "knobs".

Though Murtagh was familiar with these things, he also felt that it was foreign. They had nothing like this in Alagaesia. So how did he know how to use things, like it was instinct almost?

And though he was sad, he began his usual morning routine as he washed his face, using a towel that was hanging beside him on the metal ring to dry his face. He gasped at the coolness of the water, and as he looked into the rectangular large mirror in front of him, the mirror that was so smooth and couldn't have been formed with a hammer, he saw his sunken and almost defeated gaze.

But his sad expression did nothing to defeat his determination to find out what was going on. Turning his back on the mirror so he wouldn't have to see himself, he leaned against the sink. He thought about all the strange things he has experienced the past couple of weeks. The "technology", the weird gadgets that everyone took for granted, and the availability of clean, odd tasting, running water was most unusual about this culture.

"So familiar," he murmured to himself as he was deep in thought. "And yet, so foreign to me." And another question on his mind, "How did I get here?"

He didn't have a chance to think on that though, for he heard the door to his room open. Then there was a soft knock on the bathroom door as it was closed.

"Joshua?" a female voice called out, and Murtagh tightened his hands in a death grip angrily. He hated it when people called him that name. "Are you all right?" the soft voice wafted through the door and Murtagh knew that he would have no choice but to come out soon.

"Yes!" he answered, keeping the attitude in his voice, and then he twisted the doorknob, coming out. A middle aged woman greeted him, with brown, curly hair and blue eyes. Her beautiful dark tone made it seem as if she would have been pretty when she had been in her prime age. But she was slightly big around the waist.

She reached out for his hand and Murtagh flinched away. Then she sighed. "I need to take your pulse," she demanded, staring intensely at him. "It's mandatory for all the patients."

Grudgingly, Murtagh gave in. When she was finished she put a probe cover on a thermometer, and she took his temperature. It was another one of those weird gadgets that seemed familiar to Murtagh, and yet so foreign. And it was common place in the hospital he had stayed at previously.

So far, Murtagh did his best to stay calm despite his anger at the situation. If he was sure of anything, it was that things were going to get worse, and he needed to be prepared for it.

When the woman was done taking his "vitals" as she had called it, she wrote everything down on the medical tab she was carrying. Then she opened the door that had been originally locked when Murtagh had first tried it after waking up.

"Okay, I'm here to take you to your first appointment with the doctor," she announced without further adieu and led the way out. And though he was hesitant to follow her, he realized that if he didn't he'd more than likely be stuck in that room the remainder of the day. So, sighing, he followed her out the door and to what he thought was his first major challenge.

A hallway with many doors for the patients greeted him, and as he walked down he saw a common room where patients dressed like him were staying. Some were at desks that were scattered around, writing letters to friends and family it seemed. But on a second glance he saw that they weren't letters, but rather worksheets. Many of them read, "What have I learned from therapy today?"

Again, it confused Murtagh how he knew the language. He could read it. It was familiar to him, and yet it seemed foreign, and this frustrated him.

The nurse led him out the double doors that only opened when she put her card in front of a little white box, and then they were out, in another corridor.

Murtagh lost track of the way as they went down elevators, corridors, more sealed doors, and past many rooms. But suffice it to say, they finally arrived at their destination, a plain, wood door. After knocking on the door, Murtagh's gut clenched as he heard a familiar voice. "Come in!" it greeted.

The woman opened the door for him and smiled gently, gesturing for him to go "to his doom" as Murtagh called it. Murtagh clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and then opened them. Taking a deep breath because he knew this meeting would more than likely end in an argument of how things really were, and possibly being restrained again if the incident in the Main hospital was anything to go by, he walked in.

And the door shut behind him softly, yet it seemed loud to him.

The room had a desk with a comfortable rotating chair behind it in which baldy sat. At the front of the desk was a plaque that read: Dr. Stephen W. Windstead.

Oh. So that was baldy's name. But Murtagh still preferred to think of him as baldy, if anything because it was a mental rebellion of sorts against the man that was currently ruining his life. He may even decide to call the doc "baldy" on occasions, if anything just to get a rise out of him and see what he would do.

The doc gestured to a brown, leather couch behind him, the only other furniture in the otherwise bare room, and Murtagh, somehow understanding it as an invitation for him to sit down, decided to accept the invitation. As baldy stared at him, scrutinizing him, Murtagh took the time to read the other plaques displayed on the walls, graduation and p.h.d certificates and what not.

Tension filled the room, but the doc spoke with a calm voice as he addressed him. "Do you know why you're here, Joshua?" he asked and watched Murtagh closely. And Murtagh couldn't help but clench his fists as the name Joshua was said. He hated it when people called him that name.

He decided to give some attitude. "Do you want the reason you made up why I'm here? Yeah, I can give that to you. But in return I want to know why I'm really here."

Baldy sighed, and Murtagh couldn't help but fold his arms, lean back, and glare, purposefully mimicking the doctor. "This would be so much easier if you would just cooperate," Dr. Windstead calmly replied, and Murtagh glared at him. "You know why you're here. If you would just cooperate and let us treat you, then you would be out of here so much sooner."

"Then why am I here?" Murtagh challenged, and the doc stared calmly back. "The real reason?"

"You're here because of your suicide attempt," Dr. Windstead calmly replied, and Murtagh clenched his fists, angry at this game.

"No," he demanded. "I mean the real reason. I mean the reason I'm here and not in Alagaesia. I mean the reason my gedwey ignasia is missing. AND I MEAN THE REASON I'M BEING HELD CAPTIVE BY A MAN TRYING TO BRAINWASH ME!"

As Murtagh ended up yelling, he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. And then his tone was pleading. "Please, sir, I just want answers! I don't understand why! What do you want from me?"

Holding his tears back, he waited, and the doc watched him calmly. "You've been having a rough time. It's understandable that you're confused because of your hallucinations, but we're going to help you with that." It was spoken in a reassuring manner, and Murtagh shook his head angrily.

"No amount of soft words will help me," Murtagh whispered, and looked away so that he wouldn't end up blowing up in front of the doc again. "I just want the truth."

"And the truth is that you're suffering severe psychosis," the doctor firmly replied and Murtagh gripped the couch in emotional pain and anger.

"No," Murtagh denied. "I am not mentally ill! I did not try to commit suicide! I have a lot left to live for! And the last thing I remember before waking up in that hospital was flying with Thorn."

"One of your illusions," it was explained away, and Murtagh shook his head.

He shook one accusing finger at the doctor, as if he'd caught him in the lie. "See!" he demanded. "This is all a trick! All of this! See? You can can tell me I'm psychotic, you can tell me that I'm hallucinating; you can even tell me that I tried to commit suicide, but that doesn't change the fact that I remember living in Alagaesia ever since I was a young child!"

"And you started these hallucinations at a young age from everything you went through," was the response, and Murtagh banged his fists against the chair in anger. "These hallucinations have been happening off and on."

"No!" Murtagh hit the couch again. "I remember Alagaesia even as a baby! Babies don't hallucinate! I remember all of that, but I don't remember ever living in this world!"

The doc sighed at this. "You've suffered amnesia due to the amount of stress you'd been under," he explained. "We've been trying to help you with this as well. And these hallucinations only got worse and took the place of your real memories. Your mind made up living there because it couldn't cope with the reality of your real life."

"NO!" Murtagh shouted, leaning forward. It was going just as he predicted, a fighting match. "I won't believe you!" he ground out. "You're just trying to use me, all of you!"

And at that, baldy gazed at him curiously. "You don't believe we're trying to help you, Joshua?" And Murtagh shook his head firmly. Not a chance. Baldy spread his arms wide in a prove me wrong gesture. "Then explain this," he demanded. "You can feel the couch with your bare hands. Yes?"

Murtagh nodded his head. "Well of course!" he snapped back. Did the doc think him an idiot?

"And you can feel the air around you. You know this room is real."

Once more, Murtagh nodded. "Of course! But how does that prove that you're right?"

The doc gestured once more. "How can Alagaesia be real? Can you feel it right now?"

The room dropped temperature, becoming frigid. And Murtagh honestly didn't know how to answer that. "I felt it when I was there," he frowned as he replied, not sure why the doc meant that as a sign that his beloved homeland had all been in his head. "Just because I can't feel it right now doesn't mean it's not real. I felt it back then."

"In a hallucination," Dr. Windstead emphasized. "Of course it felt real! But are you hallucinating right now?"

Murtagh frowned further, leaning back, glaring. "No," he finally admitted, and the doc nodded.

"So you trust that what you're experiencing right now is real?" he demanded, and Murtagh nodded. It was real, but frightening, not something he'd admit in front of the doc though.

"Then trust this," Dr. Windstead continued. "Trust in the here and now. We both agree that this isn't a hallucination, therefore it's safe to say that this is real. What we cannot agree on is this Alagaesia. Trust logic, boy. This is real. Alagaesia is not."

Murtagh laughed a little without humor, rolling his eyes. "Just because you claim it isn't real, doesn't mean that it's not real."

And Dr. Windstead shrugged. "The whole world says it's not real. Do you trust the world?"

"Not a chance!" snapped Murtagh. "The world's done a lot of crazy things, back where I'm from and I'm pretty sure it's the same thing here."

"Well," Dr. Windstead continued with a sigh. "I will agree with you on the fact that the world has done a lot of crazy things. But does not change the fact that Alagaesia was a figment of your imagination. Everything you think you've done there, that was all fake. You're amnesic and have forgotten your real life, and instead these hallucinations have replaced your memories."

Murtagh sneered and scoffed. "I don't believe you!" he emphasized. "I've seen this game before with Galbatorix! I know what you're trying to do to me!"

As Dr. Windstead softly shook his head, he sighed. "Galbatorix isn't a real man," he told him. "And what kind of name is Galbatorix?" He too leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms.

"It's the name of a mad king now dead," Murtagh snapped. He had no wish to relieve those memories involving that man.

"And what do you think this madman represents in real life?" was the next question, and Murtagh felt insulted at what he was insinuating.

"He was real and deadly," growled Murtagh and the doctor shook his head once more, almost sadly. "I never hallucinated any of it!" proclaimed the red rider even though he knew that the doctor wouldn't agree with it. But he was not giving in. Not yet. Not ever.

"You did," the doctor encouraged, and Murtagh looked away angrily. "Listen to me, Joshua," baldy then used a pleading tone. "You've been having trouble differentiating reality from the hallucinations for a while now. I've been working with you a long time. You remember me, don't you?"

And Murtagh froze at this. While it seemed harmless, Murtagh was sure that there was an underlying meaning behind this. And he was afraid. How much time had passed since he had last been in Alagaesia? How long had he been stuck in this world for? And what was the doc saying about his missing memories? Had they done something to him before? And when had he met baldy before?

The doc had seemed familiar from the get go, and he'd never understood why. But, upon seeing his confused expression, the doctor then explained, "I've been your psychiatric care provider for a long time, Joshua. I've been treating you since you were a kid. I was there when your younger brother was drowned by your father and mother.

"I helped you through that, and I've been helping you with outpatient care and therapy. I was also there treating you when you were in the mental hospital the first time. I know you," he emphasized.

Tremors went through Murtagh's body at this. He got the message. He had been a prisoner for a very long time, and he didn't even remember it. Apparently a lot of time had passed. And this man had been watching him for a very long time.

"No!" Murtagh whispered, confused at the whole situation, thinking about his little brother Eragon. When would the blue rider get him out of here? And what had happened during his missing memories? Why couldn't he remember? What had been done to him? He put his head in his hands and he remained in that position thinking things through.

A soft rustling was heard and the next thing he knew the doctor was sitting by him on the couch. Carefully, looking up at the doctor, he gazed warily into the man's eyes. "Who are you?" he demanded, and the doctor placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, which Murtagh didn't like.

"A friend," was the simple statement, and though Murtagh tensed and didn't believe it, he didn't say anything of it. He had gone through too much and was overwhelmed at the idea that he had been a prisoner for a long time. He had a lot to think over and plan.

The man kept his hand on Murtagh's shoulder. "Will you let an old friend help you out?" he asked, and it seemed perfectly genuine, but Murtagh knew better.

He laughed bitterly. "I think we both have two very different definitions of help," he sarcastically responded, and the man shrugged some.

"I'm not so sure about that," the doctor replied and got up, walking back over to his desk. "After all, you want answers and I can give those answers."

"But not the truth," Murtagh demanded, watching the man carefully as he opened the drawers and rummaged through it. Finally, he pulled something out and walked back over.

"I can give you reality," the man responded firmly and held out what he had taken out of the desk, a newspaper. Murtagh rolled his eyes and leaned back, crossing his arms in defiance. But when the doc reached out more and was persistent, Murtagh rudely snatched it from his hand.

He nearly dropped the newspaper in shock and horror. His face was frozen and petrified. As he was staring at the article, he heard the doctor rummage through his desk more.

On the front page was a picture of Murtagh, but he was surrounded by individuals who were beating him up. It was easy to see that they were protesters, for they were holding protesting signs. And on them was the name, Commemorate. The Murtagh in the picture was curled in fetal position, trying to shield himself as the people pummeled him, and he was bloody all over.

Murtagh stared at the captions. It read: Commemorate Beats Speak Up Activist to Near Death. And the name Speak Up confused him until he skimmed the article. Apparently it was group about speaking up against child and spouse abuse.

Dr. Windstead came over once more, and Murtagh silently dropped the newspaper to the ground as he reached out for a few more that the doc had. Tears were in his eyes at this. This was a cruel joke to play on someone. And he didn't want to believe it was real.

The next two articles read: Commemorate Kidnaps Speak Up Activist and Holds Him Hostage, and Police Negotiating with Commemorate For the Release of Hostage. The first one had a picture of Murtagh in jeans and a Speak Up t-shirt. He was giving a thumbs up to whoever had taken the picture.

The next image was more gruesome, however. It showed a picture of Murtagh, bloody and beaten, kneeling with his hands tied behind his back, a gun pointed to his head as several masked people held him back and pointed their weapons at him in a threatening manner.

"No!" whispered Murtagh, and he looked at the last newspaper. This one was several years older. It depicted a picture of a young boy smiling. He looked nothing like Eragon, with blonde hair and blue eyes. But the next picture beside it on the front page was of a slightly older boy, but this boy looked like Murtagh aged backwards. In fact, Murtagh knew he was staring at an image of himself.

The caption on this article read: Boy Drowned by Parents, Remaining Child in Custody. He skimmed the article some, reading the first part. It read: Mr. and Mrs. Gerald are currently in custody facing murder charges on account of the drowning of their youngest child Alexander David Gerald. Their eldest son, Joshua Arnold Gerald, is in the care of local neighbors, a Mr. and Mrs. Vandervoot. They have expressed interest in adopting him.

Alexander David Gerald was only five years old when drowned by his parents, and according to neighbors, they had given reports of abuse on him and his elder sibling, Joshua, before. While reported to the police, they were not apprehended, and it is expected that a criminal investigation is to be held on whether or not the local police administration were failing in their duties to apprehend such criminal behaviors.

The surviving brother, Joshua, is currently in the hospital being treated for multiple injuries...

Murtagh slammed the newspapers down. "No!" he demanded, folding his arms. "I refuse to believe it!" And yet the newspapers were so real, so convincing...

The truth was, he didn't know what to believe anymore. He still believed that Alagaesia was real, and he still believed that Eragon was real. But there also seemed to be more going on.

Dr. Windstead stared at him sadly. "You've had a rough life," he sighed. "I can only hope that you can find peace in reality. However, you always had a kind heart. You were always willing to stick up for what you believed in, no matter what people thought about you or said about you."

And with that, baldy got up and opened the door to his office. The nurse who had taken Murtagh to his appointment was standing there. And Murtagh understood. His appointment was over.

Tears flowed down Murtagh's eyes, and he glanced at the door, thankful he was getting a reprieve. Picking up the newspapers, he looked to the doctor who nodded. Why he wanted them, he didn't know, but he hoped that there were clues in them to this whole predicament. And so he trudged out the door like a zombie, devoid of emotions.

As he was led back to his room the nurse walked beside him and put a soft hand on his shoulder. "You alright?" she asked him, but he didn't answer.

He headed straight to his room and shut the door behind him, slamming the newspapers on the desk. Then, sitting down, he put his head in his hands and wept, the stress of his situation getting to him. He was confused. Alagaesia was real, he knew, but why were these people so eager to persuade him that it wasn't? What did they want from him?

And there were even more questions running through his head. How long had he been here in this world for? How had he come here? Why was a huge chunk of his memory missing? And how had he ended up in the local hospital in Boston, Massachusetts to begin with?

And there was one question that was the biggest for him and made him very afraid. How was he going to get home? Was there anyone even looking for him? Was there anyone that could help him get home? And what would he do if he was stranded here and had no way back?

The whole event was stressful for him, and he'd had enough for the day. So, curling up on the bed, he decided to go to sleep. And as he dozed off, he dreamed of Alagaesia.

(Murtagh Point of View)

It was afternoon by the time he woke up, and it was currently "quiet time". All the patients in the hospital were in their rooms, engaging in silent activities, and Murtagh was one of them, but with an ulterior motive. For one, he was going to use the time to try to solve this puzzle.

He had the newspapers in front of him, and he was currently examining them, trying to pick them apart for any information that could shed light on his current predicament. In his right hand he was tapping his pen to the desk, an odd writing utensil in his opinion.

He was so used to using a quill and having to rewet the tip every so often that it felt weird writing with something that automatically flowed with ink inside of it, only running out after a few months. And yet something like this seemed familiar, even in the hospital, like he'd used these weird pens before. It was like the pens were magic.

Magic! His eyes widened as he thought about this, and then fear struck him. Magic. It seemed so familiar and something from Alagaesia, so why hadn't he remembered it in all the two weeks that he'd been awake for?

And then he realized that magic and the knowledge of them was hazy in his mind at the best. It was then that he realized that he had a hard time recalling anything about it and how to use it. This only caused him to frown with worry.

It was from this that Murtagh realized that there was a lot more missing from his memory than he realized. And the worst part was he couldn't remember what he wasn't remembering. It simply wasn't there. It was as if it never existed.

With a sigh, Murtagh tried to remember the rules of magic and how it worked. 'After all,' he thought hopefully. 'If I can figure out how to use magic once more, then I can escape here. And maybe I can transport myself home. At the very least I can escape and convince some people that I'm telling the truth, that these people are holding me captive here.'

Magic. It was worth a try. But that word also brought a hazy, long forgotten image of a dark skinned woman with a beautiful smile and a wonderful gold crown on her head. Nasuada. That was the name, he was sure, but he couldn't quite remember more about her, and he wasn't quite sure what he felt about her. Was she a friend? An enemy? Was she Galbatorix's wife perhaps?

After all, why would she be wearing a queen's crown then? Or perhaps she was his daughter and had succeeded him to the throne? After all, she had to be from Alagaesia with the clothing she was wearing in his brief, hazy vision of her. And Murtagh sighed in confusion. It worried him that he was struggling to remember the details.

It also brought a frightening thought to mind. Maybe his memories of his time in Alagaesia were slowly slipping away. Dropping the pen in sudden fear, he began trembling a bit and grasped the edge of the table for support.

It took a minute for him to quiet his breaths down, and then he shook his head. 'I'm not even going to think that,' he convinced himself. 'I'm not losing any more of my memories. I can't be.'

But it was still a frightening prospect. After all, it meant that resisting the doctors would be harder as his memory of his time in Alagaesia slipped further and further away. And if it disappeared completely to where he didn't have anything to grasp for, he didn't know what he'd do then.

Desperate to think of something else, he brought his focus back to the newspapers, staring silently at them. And, closing his eyes, he did his best to remember his magic lessons, as if it were the only lifeline he might have that led away from here, an escape plan.

'Okay,' he told himself. 'Think. What are the rules? Ah, yes, I remember some now.' And he winced slightly as images of Galbatorix teaching him magic came to mind. But as much as he tried to repress them, they continued to come.

The images danced off off of his eyelids. There was Galbatorix demanding that he perform a magical endeavor, and when he performed it less than expected or less than to Galbatorix's satisfaction, Galbatorix would slap him and torture him. "Lazy!" he would hiss before he barked, "Do it again!"

He hadn't realized he was painfully gripping the edge of the table until the memories stopped, and as he massaged the sore muscles in his hands he tried to get his breathing under control once more.

Then he was ready to try again. 'Think,' he whispered in his mind. 'The rules of magic. What are they? Ah.'

And some long forgotten lessons flashed before his mind, even more hazy this time. Why was it that every memory that strongly spoke of learning magic was so hazy? That was, all except for the king's torture of him, and he winced at that. But those memories didn't as easily come to mind because he would purposefully lock them away and try to forget them, painful as they were.

'The rules of magic,' he finally thought and began reciting them as he remembered them. 'Distance affects magic. You can't use more energy than you have, or you die. The amount of energy needed to perform a feat is relative to how much energy it takes to do it manually. You are limited by your knowledge of the ancient language, your creativity, and something else I can't remember.'

An image of a red dragon flashed in his mind, as well as an image of his gedwey ignasia, and with a smile he remembered one other fundamental detail. 'A dragon rider's magic comes from his dragon. And a dragon and rider are always stronger together.'

But an instant later he frowned. That meant because he was separated from Thorn that he would be weaker because he couldn't call upon his dragon's strength.

However he would have to find a way. Besides, this was only a test run, to see if he could remember how to use magic. 'Use it sparingly,' he thought to himself, after all, it was his secret weapon.

As he opened his eyes, he took a deep breath, trying to feel the magic in him, which he was having a hard time doing. He stared at the dreaded newspapers. Much as he needed to figure out the secrets behind them, he hated them, so he didn't regret it when he whispered, "Brisingr!"

Nothing happened. Murtagh frowned. "Brisingr!" he whispered with more force, and once more, nothing happened. Angry and growling he took his pen and tossed it at the wall with such force that it broke and scattered ink all over the wall.

He groaned. "Why can't I use magic?" he whispered to himself as he leaned back and closed his eyes. And the image of a young elf came to mind. Arya. His mind told him the name. And an image of her beaten to near death came to mind.

Then came the memory of him asking Eragon after the rider war why Arya hadn't tried to escape from Gil'ead with magic. "Because," Eragon explained. "She was drugged. She couldn't use magic, the drugs prevented it."

Murtagh groaned in realization. "I'm drugged," he whispered, staring up at the ceiling, and as he thought on it, he realized they must have put it in his food. That and the hospital staff in Maine, at least some of them, must have been in on this whole ruse. That was the only explanation he could give.

And he growled in frustration some. They had done their homework well. And now that meant he was without a vital weapon that he could use to escape.

Doing his best to calm down, he opened the drawer to his study desk and pulled out another ink pen, tapping it impatiently against the desk. And he was mad. He was now back to square one where the only thing he could do was try to piece together the clues and hope that they gave him some much needed answers as to what was going on and why he was here.

He read down the newspaper quietly. The one in front of him was dealing with the supposed death of his five year old brother when he was only seven years old. He read the title once more: Boy Drowned By Parents, Remaining Child In Custody. And he pursed his lips at that.

Morzan may have done such a thing, but Selena never would. She valued him to much, after all she was abused by him to. And she had risked everything to get Eragon, her youngest son and Murtagh's half brother, to family where she knew he would be cared for. Perhaps she had been planning to come for him to, but fate had dictated that she was to die and he was to be left to the care of a deranged king.

As he thought of his half brother, his thoughts drifted to Brom and he wondered why the man had never come to rescue him from Uru'baen when he was a kid. It would have saved Murtagh a lot of trouble. And didn't Brom say he cared about Selena? If so, why would he leave her eldest child to live in such a hostile environment where he had very few friends growing up?

Didn't he have a right to grow up with his family? Garrow may have been poor, but at least he was family and would have cared for Murtagh, even with his heritage. He would have cherished him as he had cherished Eragon. Or did Brom hate him? Or perhaps, was this a way for him to get revenge on Morzan?

'Some revenge,' Murtagh bitterly thought. 'Morzan wouldn't have cared one way or another. He hated me. He didn't care what happened to me either way. After all, he willingly threw a sword at me.'

Shaking his head to get the distracted and disturbing thoughts out of his head, he skimmed the article once more, frowning. It seemed like an ordinary article. And so he examined the pictures. While he didn't know how to tell if they were doctored or made up, he couldn't discount it as a possibility.

And his head tilted in curiosity. 'Doctored?' he thought to himself. 'Made up? Where have I heard those words before? Where have I heard those terms before?'

And he shook his head once more as looked once more at the article. He was getting more questions than answers. But perhaps questions were good. By questioning things he could resist these people and stay sane. Hopefully.

He sighed and put the newspaper down. It was time to examine the more gruesome articles. So, with a shiver, he picked up the article showing him being beaten by Commemorate supporters. His eyes wandered the picture looking for evidence that it was doctored. He needed a sign, anything, that these articles were fake and were made to brainwash him.

But he saw nothing, no matter how hard he studied it. So once more, he read the title: Commemorate Beats Speak Up Activist to Near Death. And he frowned once more as he read the article and found nothing that he could use against these people holding him here.

In all honesty, he never remembered anything about these events that they'd claimed had occurred. And yet here the article was. But surely if this had happened, he would have remembered it, right?

'And I know that I don't have amnesia,' he concluded. His memories of Alagaesia were evidence of that. 'Or, at least I don't have wide scale amnesia. I still know who I am. But there are large portions of my memory missing, and that does disturb me.'

A sigh escaped him as he put the newspaper article down, rubbing his temples. He was looking for a needle in a haystack, and he didn't even remember where he'd heard that foreign idiom from.

Opening an eye and glancing at the newspaper once again, he threw it towards the back of the desk where it crumpled beside the wall. "Perhaps I'm thinking about this the wrong way," he whispered and rubbed his forehead with a single hand in stress once more. As he leaned back in his chair, he accidentally leaned back to far, and with a brief cry he fell to the floor.

Stiffly getting up, he rubbed his arms and back where he had fallen and then wandered back to his bed. He collapsed on it, wincing as it hurt his sore back, and he glared up at the ceiling. "Think," he whispered to himself, desperate for something at this point. "What do I remember?"

And so he took the time to review the events in his mind as he remembered them. Though he couldn't quite remember why anymore, he had been eager to fly with Thorn that day. But it was as if there was an incentive and a reason behind it. And, with a grimace, he realized that that was another portion of his memory that was missing. And as he thought things through he wouldn't be surprised if he discovered more gaps in his memory and more hazy and less-than-clear memories.

But he remembered flying with his dragon. They were doing stunts that day, as it was a stress reliever for both of them. But as he remembered ten minutes of flying and his muscles finally relaxing, he couldn't remember anything else after that.

There was a large memory gap. Then he remembered being in and out of consciousness in the Main hospital, those memories blurry. And then he remembered waking up and the confusion that those incidents had caused.

He frowned. There was a large gap in his memory, that was for sure. But what puzzled him was he didn't know how large it was. It could have been two weeks or two months. It could also have been a few hundred years for all he knew.

What he did know and just barely remembered now was that as a dragon rider he was immortal and unaging. He would look the same forever, except for looking more elf like which would stop after a few decades.

As that forgotten thought occurred to him he felt his ears and with puzzlement he noticed how round they felt. When he had gone flying with Thorn for the last time his ears had been fairly pointy. And now they were round. That didn't make sense.

"How," he whispered and folded his hands across his chest as he pondered this, his eyes towards the ceiling. Why wasn't he elf like anymore? After all, when he had looked at his reflection in the morning he remembered that his eyes weren't slanted anymore and his ears weren't pointed.

He hadn't thought of it then because he hadn't remembered it then, and he'd had a lot more concerning things on his mind. But now that he did remember, it disturbed him. And it was one more evidence that he couldn't use to support his case anymore.

Even more disconcerting was that made him wonder what that meant. Did that mean that his bond with Thorn was no longer? Did that mean he was no longer immortal? And Thorn would be immortal even if he died, not that the immortal dragons lived longer than their riders due to their grief driving them to insanity and death.

But, if there was anything he didn't want, it was him growing old and dying while Thorn continued to live without him.

"I miss you," he whispered to his dragon even though he knew Thorn wasn't there. "I'll find a way back to you, I promise." How, he didn't know, but he would.

Murtagh took a deep breath in and huffed, closing his eyes, trying to relax. Perhaps more would come to him if he wasn't so stressed. Perhaps that was why he wasn't remembering so much?

"I have large amount of my memory missing," Murtagh numbered off, trying to list what he knew. "I could have been here for any amount of time. Two weeks, two months, two years, a hundred and twenty years, it doesn't matter. But I may have been here longer than I know how to calculate." That was point one, and he opened his eyes, willing himself to remain relaxed.

"Number two," he counted off, though he couldn't help but suppress a shiver at this. "Everything that shows that I'm a dragon rider is missing. There's no gedwey ignasia, and my ears are round once more. My eyes are no longer slanted, but their human looking."

He frowned slightly, continuing to talk to himself. "I know of no drug that can suppress a dragon rider's looks. But I know of magic that can alter looks."

And that led him to his next problem. "I can't use magic: number three. I'm being drugged. But surely I should know if people are using magic on me? Surely I could sense it? I remember sensing it when the twins used magic on me when they kidnapped me."

He shuddered at that thought and memory. Then he refocused once more. "But I don't sense them using magic on me right now. In fact, no one believes in magic. They believe it's something make believe. So how then do I look how I am?"

He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts. It was mind boggling.

'But,' his mind told him suddenly, and he shivered as his mind continued. 'There is another possibility which has already presented itself. Alagaesia isn't real, and dragons aren't real. Everything was made up. Everything was a result of hallucinations from mental illness.'

"No," Murtagh told the voice in his head, and he didn't believe the voice one bit. "That is not a possibility. Alagaeisa is real. My dragon is real. My friends and family are all real. I am a dragon rider." So with great effort, he shoved the thought that he wasn't even going to consider away.

But that left him with another dilemma. What was going on then?

He didn't have time to answer that thought for a voice rang out, "All right! Quiet time's up!" And in that instant he knew he would have no choice but to leave the room. If he didn't, they'd force him out anyways. And with a grimace he realized that that was partly how they kept an eye on their patients. So, reluctantly, he rolled out the bed and made for the door while he rubbed his sore back.

As he made his way into the hallway he saw that others were coming out of the hallway. There were twelve men and nine women in this "unit" as they called it. And they were all congregating towards the common area where he had noticed them before when he was leaving for his appointment.

As he nervously glanced around some of the men came up to him. Two of the closest then approached him, one a male with dark skin and brown eyes and was very tall. The other was much shorter with brown hair and green eyes, only reaching the other man's shoulders.

They were wearing hospital outfits like he was and they seemed laid back as they approached him. The two also seemed like really good friends the way they were chatting amiably back and forth.

As they caught up to him, the smaller of the two put his arms around him, much to Murtagh's discomfort. "Hey!" he greeted. "You're new here! You've gotta be! I haven't seen you here yet!"

Murtagh said nothing, doing his best to ignore the man. But the man wouldn't be ignored. "I'm Michael," the taller male said in a low, booming voice. "But everyone calls me Big Mike!" No doubt because he was so tall.

"Nice to meet you," Murtagh warily replied, and he was careful not to trust at this point. For all he knew, all these so called patients were in on this ruse. He didn't want to end up giving out anything that his enemies could use against him. So he chose to be a man of few words.

"And I'm Jordan! Jordan J, though people usually call me JJ!" And with that he shook Murtagh a little, rattling the younger rider's bones. He was surprised the small man could do that with that much strength, considering his stature. Then again Murtagh remembered that looks could be deceiving, and with a wince he remembered that Galbatorix was a perfect example of that.

"Nice to meet you to," Murtagh replied courteously as they continued walking to the commons. Others were passing them by because of how slow they were walking.

The taller guy chuckled. "Yeah, we feel like we're brothers. You know what I'm saying? JJ and I here are so close that it was as if we were born to the same mother and father even though we're not blood related. Ever had a friend that close?"

Sadness closed onto the red rider. "Can't say that I have," he murmured softly, looking down. 'Though I've had a brother who felt like that to me, then I realized that we were related. And then there was Tornac who was more like a father to me.'

But despite his down trodden expression, they didn't seem to notice it. The smaller guy was chatting again. "It's funny, really," he shook Murtagh again, and Murtagh rubbed his shoulder which was hurting from that. "They call the two of us Michael Jordan together because of how close we are. Get it? As in the individual, the basket ball player Michael Jordan?"

"That's how close we are!" Big Mike summed up cheerily, and by this point they had reached the commons. Murtagh looked around once more. There were many desks scattered abroad and the patients were playing games there, sometimes with nurses and other staff. And then there were a series of couches that lined the walls and a group of girls were sitting there, chatting up a storm.

Big Mike led them to the couch and they sat down, Murtagh staring off in the distance. "So," JJ asked, eager to get a conversation going. "What's your name?"

"Murtagh," the red rider responded immediately, and JJ smiled. That was until a nurse with red hair and gray eyes walked up, a serious and disappointed expression on her face.

"There's no need to lie," she chastised Murtagh lightly. "Now tell them your real name."

Murtagh clenched his fists in anger. Oh, how he hated this place already! "Murtagh is my real name," he ground out and glared at her and she sighed softly.

"His name is Joshua," she informed the duo known together as Michael Jordan. "And he suffers from hallucinations. He thinks his name is Murtagh but it's not."

Anger filled Murtagh at this, but he refused to comment. JJ and Big Mike looked at him sadly. "Oh," JJ sympathetically replied, giving a curious stare at Murtagh. "That's too bad."

"It is," the nurse sadly mused, as if it were a pity. "He can't even remember his own name."

And Murtagh couldn't help but stand up and walk right up to her, getting into her personal space. She didn't even flinch. "You may have everyone else fooled," he hissed at her. "But you don't have me fooled! I will never be brainwashed by the likes of you!" And with that he pushed roughly past her, ignoring the stares he was getting, both from the other patients and from the staff.

As he sat down on the floor in the far corner of the common room the nurse ignored him and announced, "All right! Everyone back to their activities!" And everyone began again as if they hadn't been interrupted, though several patients would throw him glances every once in a while.

Murtagh half expected to be left alone, and he wanted to be left alone as well. But he should have known by now that that wouldn't happen. As he was sitting there, wishing for a solitary confine in the common room, Michael Jordan walked up to him and the two of them sat beside him on either side.

At first he tried to ignore them, even as they sandwiched him in the middle, the two of them each placing one arm around his shoulders as if giving him a hug. And Murtagh didn't like that. 'Don't these two know about personal space?' he growled in his mind, but he did nothing to stop their actions.

"It's all right," JJ finally consoled him. "We know that life here can be difficult. We've been there. But that's what friends are for. They help you through things."

At the comment, Murtagh couldn't help but scoff. "Friends?" he incredulously cried out. "You know nothing about me! How could we be friends?"

"But we don't need to be friends to be friendly," Big Mike pointed out, and Murtagh couldn't help but agree with that. Eragon had been friendly to him when they first met, but he'd wondered for a while if that was because Murtagh had rescued him.

Murtagh finally sighed, relaxing some. "Okay," he grumbled out. "I guess I can give friendship with the two of you a try." And he didn't miss their elated expressions.

"All right!" Big Mike ground out, while JJ cheerily replied, "And don't worry about the nurses and other staff. We were all in the same boat when we arrived here. We too were tense and angry. But it gets better as time goes on. And you'll soon see that they're just doing their job. They can be friendly. They just want to help you."

"I highly doubt that," Murtagh scoffed, though he couldn't help but be cautious at hearing them say that. It made him wonder if they were in on this whole ruse.

Silence reigned between them, and Murtagh shifted uncomfortably, throwing their arms off him. They didn't try to put their arms around him again, for which he was grateful for. He wasn't too fond of having people in his personal space, especially after his horrid experiences with Galbatorix.

And as the silence continued, Murtagh couldn't help but start the conversation back up. "So," he began, not sure if he should really ask. After all, it wasn't really his business... "What are the two of you here for? How did you end up in this deranged place?"

A distant look entered both of their eyes, and as their eyes hazed over he couldn't help but notice the confusion in their faces.

JJ frowned. "I don't know. I don't... remember."

All right, so that's chapter one.

Please read and review! Reviewing is a courtesy!

Firestar'sniece