A/N: I hope Paolini doesn't kill Murtagh off in the next book .
There he is.
So majestic.
A fire in the sky.
A flame upon the endless blue.
His scale redder than rubies,
And infinitely more precious.
With wise crimson eyes,
That are filled with an overwhelming puzzled sadness.
He looks at me,
And his grave eyes seem to question
'Why was I brought into this world,
Only to be enslaved and made to strive through this pain?'
I pity him,
For how can I not?
He is bound to the one
Whom he hates most,
But not bound as strongly as he is to his Rider.
I want to cry for him
Right then,
And for his bonded Rider.
For I know,
Only too well,
That they will not cry for themselves.
They will attempt to cut off their emotions
And become as ice.
So I will cry for them both,
My shackled suns,
My fires in the sky,
And believe that they'll one day be free,
Not just in death,
But in the living world as well.