Say hello, to one of my obsessive song fics! Murgela is my FAVORITE odd ship, and when I found nothing on here for them, I felt sad I love my MurtaghxAngela! And So, I shall present you with (Dun Dun Dun) my newest Murgela fic! (Don't ask about the first one. It was a parody/fail from hell. How it ever got featured on Shurtugal Fan fiction is BEYOND ME. Really. Truly. BEYOND.) Anyway, I'm putting Owl City quotes at the top of each chapter, and then, 'modifying' the quote at the bottom. This chapter's quote is from 'Super Honeymoon'

I was the youngest son of a congressman
And everything was my fault...
She was a gymnast, happily swinging
On the uneven bars, tucked in a somersault

In the courtyard, alone and stretched out in the sun, he looked so peculiar. Well, I like peculiar, I suppose, but this was a saddening peculiar, one which struck me as a true testament to his life; lonely and isolated. Unlike the other days, the Courtyard was not filled with humming, cheery maids, and tittering nurses whispering about the rumors of the Battle.

His trial was not yet scheduled, and I, for all my infinite 'wisdom' did not understand why he was to be tried. Did he not turn at the last moment, sticking the cursed blade through the traitor's heart before Galabortorix lopped off Eragon the Dolt's head? Was that not proof enough of his innocence? What was Roran babbling on about, 'His crimes against humanity'?

I grabbed a few pots of mine, and some herbs, and headed out to the courtyard to banish his dismal attitude. "Hello, Murtagh." I smiled cheerily at him and Thorn as I went to work trying to light the wood- but to no avail. "Toadstools." I muttered. The wood was slightly damp, not much, but enough that I could not start a fire efficiently without a blazing inferno.

Murtagh had yet to answer me, which both annoyed and intrigued me. Bouncing over to him, I ignored my pots and herbs and fairly sat on him while trying to get up on that darned rock. "Whatever are you so grim about?" I pestered. It is in my experience, when one does not talk to you, it is best to pester them with nonsense until they understand you will not leave without an answer. Most of the times they assume you are crazy, but I prefer the term, 'quirkily shrewd'. It sounds ever so much more pleasant, no?

He apparently was lacking intelligence at the moment, for he simply cast me a wary glance and scoffed. I furrowed my eyebrows. Most peculiar, indeed. After a few moments of silence, I went to open my mouth and expound on why toads are frogs and therefore do no evil in witchcraft, but he cut me off, sitting up and contemplating the stone wall around the courtyard (which I, for one, did not understand. What was so interesting about monotone grey walls?).

"Grim? Perhaps it is because I have no doubt that my death rapidly approaches."

I shut my mouth, cocking my head at him and giving him a curious once-over. "Angela, I really believe you should stop spending so much time around Solembum. You're beginning to act like a feline." I grinned to myself. If only he knew.

"How can you be so pessimistic about your own race?" I could think of no other response that seemed suitable.

He shook his head, "I choose not to live a naïve existence, is all. And have you been around Eragon too long, or are the rumors of your wit greatly exaggerated?"

"You, sir, are very rude."

He actually grinned at me.

"But no, I can assure you they are not, for I just received what I came here for." Now it was his turn to look at me curiously.

"And what was that, Witch?"

I grinned triumphantly, "To prove your muscles have not forgotten how to smile." I poked his cheek, and the other one, drawing the corners of his mouth up into a rather comical grin as his eyes said clearly, 'Angela, what herbal steam have you been inhaling?'

"Ah, that's it." I did it several more times. "As an herbalist I prescribe this exercise to be done twice a day and after every meal. Drink chamomile tea before you do this though, to relax your muscles. You don't want to sprain your smiling muscles, do you?"

He shook his head at me, "You crafty, kooky witch."

I grinned and bounced off the rock, bounding over to my pot and crouching down to attempt to light it again. I looked up to see Murtagh nod sagely to Thorn, who then hesitantly said to me Angela, please move so I don't hurt you.

I gave him a startled look, and then said stoutly, "I'm sorry, but I don't understand."

Murtagh waved his hand and muttered something and Thorn blew a stream of fire at the pot, setting the wood on fire. I went to jump back, but found somehow, the fire moved around me, and when it disappeared, I gave Murtagh a sly grin. I don't know if he thought he was being sly, or if he knew he was being goofy, but he shook his head at me, and performed his 'exercise' of a wide smile.

He seemed rather teachable. I suppose that general stubbornness did not come from Selena, but Brom. Seems fitting to me, that old dolt. Maybe I should visit his grave at some point, if only to thank him for his dragon's knucklebones. Oh the hissy fit Eragon would throw if he knew.

Perhaps I should tell him sometime.

I think Murtagh would enjoy it.

I was the youngest son of a Forsworn,

And everything was my fault.

She was a Witch, happily stirring,

All her burbling pots.