There aren't enough Murtagh and Thorn fics out there. Nope, not even close.
I've started this fic sometime around the beginnings of September. College is hard work, and it consumed most of my time. Especially the exams in January for the end of the first semester.
Finally, after finishing the reading of Brisingr, (which, honestly, could've been better) I could now finish this piece as well.
I needed to vent some angst.
If you like the read, please don't forget to review.
Disclaimer: If I happened to be Paolini, which I assure you I'm not, I would change a lot of things in the Inheritance Cycle. I'd have Arya killed off for being such a perfect Mary-Sue, Roran and Katrina would suddenly disappear and no one would remember them, Thorn would actually get to speak and Murtagh would so kick ass. So yeah, I'm not him, am I?
Notes:
"…" equal normal speech.
"Italics." equal telepathic speech.
Italics equalpersonal thoughts.
Lost Freedom
««Flashback»»
Murtagh had lost count on how many times he had been thrown onto this cell, this very small cell, the very one that had become his room.
And like many times before, he fell heavily on the rocky floor, hissing under his breath when his body reminded him that he had just succeeded to fall on top of his right arm, which was supporting a nasty cut. It was a shallow one, yes, but it had yet to stop bleeding.
The minutes stretched on before he finally had the strength (will?) to move again, once the world finally decided to stop spinning around and around madly and once he was fully sure that everything he now saw wasn't a product of his now frequent delusions. With effort, he made to turn his head and sadly stared at what sat peacefully in the very middle of the dark, damp cell.
Made of dark marble and glinting in the feeble light that managed to filter through the dusty air, the piece of furniture really did seem like an oversized bowl, adorned with expensive silks of several colours, equally as dark.
It looked completely and absolutely out of place there, in such a dark, filth-infested place. It was worthy to be upon a tall pedestal, overlooking a throne room for instance; it certainly looked kingly enough.
In the very middle of it, sat two colourful rocks.
Or what looked like rocks, just a bit bigger than his own fist, really. But Murtagh knew perfectly well that those were not, at all, rocks. He trusted his instincts, they always guided him through and now, they clearly stated that those round, gem-like structures were certainly dragon eggs. The sole two remaining ones. In the possession of the king.
One of them, the one closest to him, was the blood red one. Through it, darker veins of red ran along the smooth, cold surface and the parts where the candlelight brushed its delicate luminescence, it made the red turn lighter and lighter until it resembled a possible pink-like tinge just around the edges. In Morzan's son's honest opinion, pink was not a colour meant for the innards of Galbatorix's palace. Thus, confirming that these eggs should not be here at all even more.
The other one was a deep emerald colour, strong, pulsing, firm. The colour of hope, was it not? This one had lighter veins over it, in contrast with its nest companion, even a few silver and white ones. Once again, Murtagh's tired, unfocused mind said that white was too pure a colour to be locked away in these dark chambers and not out there, free, outside of the Empire's long, shredding claws and safe, with the Varden. Or in the very least, away from Urû'baen. Far, far away.
That was why Murtagh sometimes found himself wondering what other names to give those colours. Perhaps not a pink, but maybe diluted blood? In a lake? Flowing away, taking the life-giving substance away from those who needed it. Sounded better. And the white wasn't as white from certain angles. Yes, it could be considered a dirty white. A polluted white. An impure white.
When he had the time (when he was not being tortured, eating the little food they brought him, suffering from random delusions that looked, smelt, felt, tasted, sounded oh so real or didn't have someone – a wizard or another – there drilling into him something they referred to as the Ancient Language, that he remembered Eragon telling him once or twice about), the dark haired young man sometimes found himself picking up the eggs in his shaking hands.
He did not know how much time had passed since he had been dragged there. He had no idea how long the trip had taken, only that those two, the Twins, had had a lot of fun trying to poke into his mind and torturing him with a few spells ("To simply try them out! We enjoy seeing the results of our imagination,"). He knew not whether or not Eragon and Lady Nasuada were out there, searching for him. If they knew he was there. If they thought he was dead.
This constant uncertainty was slowly eating away his sanity. Murtagh had always prided himself about the organized way his mind happened to work; he woke up when he wanted to and with no problems – his biological clock perfect in every way –, he enjoyed scheduling his several tasks, liked the plans he made for himself.
Being locked away like this, despite having a small window, wracked that organization. It was a horrible feeling of helplessness. And this was only his smallest problem.
So, he took the eggs into his arms, sometimes, when these feelings soared, and for some morbid reason, the thought of "Well, these two, plus Saphira, were locked away for long years, long before I was even born. And they still have hope, they haven't given up." kept him going. It helped to keep this madness away.
Or, mayhap, it was just the tyrant king rubbing off on him during his frequent visits.
Murtagh would then pull himself up, take one of the eggs, sometimes both, and walk up to the barred thin window of his "home". If only for the little ones to feel the flimsy breeze. The thin rays of sun. A lot of dust.
In other occasions, he picked them up, one at the time, and measured their light weight, their size, their shape and watched the bright colours dance and change for him when he moved the candle.
The brother of Eragon had no idea whatsoever of what compelled him to do it. Perhaps he was losing it. Just perhaps. The silence and loneliness of a cell could subdue almost anyone, if coupled with certain factors, really.
However, there was one thing that he did every day, no exceptions, no matter how tired he was, how frustrated, how bloodied, how badly beaten.
His long legs would rest parallel to the ground, crossed, muscles developed and hardened by riding for countless hours relaxed. His arms would be allowed to dangle, elbows near his bended knees, slackened, with calloused fingertips brushing the dirty floor.
He then leaned his head forward until his forehead could rest against the edge of the black, smooth and cool marble that contained the precious unborn dragons. And he'd repeat a mantra, one single sentence with small variations, over and over again, in a very quiet timbre so as not to catch the attention of the several guards by the entrance of the cell.
"Please… please, don't hatch for me. Please don't. Only pain and suffering await you. Please, I beg you, don't hatch for me."
He couldn't know if the miniature dragons heard him, had no way of knowing, couldn't, dared not to reach out enough with his mind for fear of leaving himself far too open to attacks. Not that his mind hadn't already been violated by the king, but even so, he refused to.
This action was repeated every day, right before he decided to go to bed (just a thin mattress in the corner really) and at some points, he didn't even reach that far, falling asleep right there. Now and again, he could wake up with his face right beside the eggs.
Tonight was no exception when he started his "prayer".
"Please don't hatch for me…"
Murtagh could swear he had only closed his eyes for only brief moments when someone awoke him.
No. Something.
The movement so close to his right cheek and eye startled him and, out of reflex, his body immediately leaned back, his weight supported by both arms. Now wide awake, it took him just a few instants to realize what it was and that realization brought a new, deep raw dread to him.
No… No, it can't be.
The crimson little oval egg had a series of small cracks over its shining surface, like a steadily growing spider web, and it was ever so slightly wriggling from side to side, to and fro. The candle happened to be right behind it; its glow went through the small structure and a reptilian shape could be distinguished from the inside.
It was clearly hatching.
"No…" he could barely recognize his own voice. It sounded weak, disconnected, broken. Lost. Lost, like a young little boy's that had been hoping so hard for something to happen and then was told the exact opposite did.
He bit back an anguished moan. Not another innocent to be caught in the mad king's clawed, vice-like grip of wickedness. And a dragon, no less.
"No, no this can't- Don't hatch!" at some point, he found he was shaking his head from side to side. And something warm slipped down one cheek. Then another. In its wake, they left a wet sensation behind. "Don't you dare hatch! Stop! Stop it already!!"
He no longer cared if the guards heard or not. But the dragon had to listen to him. Had to fear him. Had to go back. They could do that, right? They were dragons, magical, ethereal beings.
But the (almost) newborn creature paid him no mind. Soon, a thin, delicate but clawed paw poked out from the depths of the egg, wine coloured scales catching what little light there was left and glinting like a ruby never could. They looked as if they were on fire. From the hole, a small tail – no bigger than a cat's, if it even was that long – could be seen and then, another hole was made. A small head finally saw the light of day, looking out from its current cage, and stretched its neck.
The newest Rider held his breath and stayed completely still during the whole thing, barely daring to blink wide, wide eyes. Only when a few tentative mental fingers start to tickle his mental walls did he wince and immediately recoiled from the touch, his normal reaction towards anyone who attempted to reach to his once only real portion of freedom, his mind.
That made the tiny blood red – Ironic choice of colour… - dragon turn and blink young, yet intelligent eyes at him. They looked too big for such a small thing, downright disproportional, two huge rubies looking up. It then seemed to purr, seemingly pleased that it had found him, its chosen one, and Murtagh could've sworn he heard, at the back of his mind, a voice whispering a timid, barely audible "Mur.".
And he couldn't help it. Murtagh laughed. He laughed even while a handful of tear made silent rivers down his features, the streaks clear as day against dirtied, bloodied skin. He cursed anything and everything that came to mind to every deity he knew or just heard about. He cursed himself in an especially vicious way.
Was this how you felt when Saphira hatched for you, Eragon? I doubt it. Am I even the same as you are? Am I also a Rider?
No. No, he was just the first of the next generation of Forsworn. If the lands of Alagäesia were lucky, he would be the first and last.
It was at that exact moment that the little cub decided to touch him by nudging his right hand; he had moved both arms forward when his laughing fit had started. And all Murtagh then saw was the brightest light he could ever imagine. And a very awkward, strange contact to his mind's consciousness, almost begging and waiting for him to accept the unwelcome, yet gentle intrusion, for it would do him no harm.
First, the newly-made official Rider focused on getting back his eye sight, which took a while after the sudden and very unexpected burst of light. Next, he turned light grey eyes to his palm, the one the little dragon had touched, which itched a little. And startled, seeing an unknown whitish silver mark upon it. One he recognized from Eragon's own hand. The "Gedwëy Ignasia", he had said it was. The only physical proof he had as a Dragon Rider.
Movement a little to the side caught his attention next. Murtagh watched as what he saw as a winged, overgrown lizard gave its first, very clumsy steps towards him, tripping over the thin wings, and using the material of his trousers to crawl into his lap, then unsteadily attempt to stand up, the hind legs the only thing resting upon his thighs. Absently, the boy reached out, caught a hold of the little one's clawed front limbs. The creature seemed to find its balance precarious (which it was), but its current curiosity was greater. Its huge red eyes peered into his companion's features, unblinking.
For some reason he did not know of, Murtagh felt the harsh, worried and pained lines that defined his face soften at witnessing such innocence. An innocence that, at best, would not last more than a few more hours.
"I hope you're happy now." Apparently, he had found his voce again. However, it was still as shaky as before. It was also accusing. Biting. Sharp. All the things the draconian little beast did not deserve. But his anger and rage thought otherwise. "You are now one more future loyal subject of the King. Not by choice, but it's not like he cares. You've just made the resistance's chances smaller, you know. And my life that much more complicated."
And it would be so easy... The hands holding the poor little thing could be brought to its delicate neck. It looked so frail… It would only take him a mere moment. A snap and his worries would stop. Or a few moments of fingers wrapping around it and it would be one less dragon in the world, but the better the chances for Nasuada.
Those big eyes merely blinked. He wasn't sure whether or not it understood him. Yet, anyway. And then, there was a new mental nudge and a hesitant whisper of "Mur-tagh," was heard.
He forced himself to smile. Even if it would probably look more like a grimace. He decided this small, but powerful being deserved at least that much. He also tried not to let his voice break. "Yes, I'm Murtagh. And I wasn't finished yet. You've also just become a huge red thorn in the Varden's side, you know. Even if there are cats bigger than you. For now that is."
"Thorn."
"Aye, little one. A really big one." One of his hands scratched the softer scales that were just two tinges lighter beneath the muzzle, filled with sharp, sharp teeth. The dragon purred again in pleasure, tilting its small head back. "But not by your own free will. Never by your own free will. No one could've joined Galbatorix by their own free will." A mirthless smirk crossed his lips. "Well, sane people, at least. Perhaps my beloved father and-"
"Thorn."
"I heard you the first time." One dark eyebrow rose. The dragon tilted its head to the side.
"Thorn. Murtagh."
"I… guess I'm a thorn to them too." Curious. The little thing was barely ten minutes old and was already amusing him. In a confusing kind of way, but still.
"Thorn… and Murtagh. And Eragon and Saphira."
That surely stunned him. He hadn't even felt it search his memories. Then again, Eragon and Saphira did share their consciousness at times-
And then it made complete sense.
He felt such a heavy amount of disgust in himself he could not even put it to words. How… how could he even imagine killing this creature? How could he even have pondered such a vile thought?!
"Oh." Murtagh felt his lips curl into the saddest smile he could ever remember giving. "I see. Yes. Thorn is a good name, my friend."
««End Flashback»»
"What are you doing, hatchling?" The Human sighed. He felt his body moving slightly when the dragon behind him snorted. After all, he was leaning against its stomach.
"Reminiscing."
A large red muzzle then entered his field of vision. A tidy row of pearl white teeth glinted with the first rays of sun. "You should be reassuring yourself of what is to come. Not remembering what has passed and will never return, young one."
"I know." A soft smile escaped him when the big head nudged his side, pulling him closer to the straps of the saddle and the large talons of a left front leg. "I'm sorry. I'll stay focused, Thorn."
"I'll make sure you will."
The sight of a Dragon running and ruining several yards of ground while opening large, leathery wings to take flight, its Rider upon its back, should've be the very designation of freedom.
It should.
But it isn't.
This could be a scene right before the fight they had against Eragon or Oromis. I'll leave you to wonder n.n
Originally, this made part of a short chaptered fic I was planning on doing. Now I'm not sure if I should or not. We'll see. Your response could help, of course. Heh.
Please review! It'll only take you a moment.