A/N: This was supposed to be a one-shot, but I couldn't resist. Please leave a review!


Jörmundur paced his tent impatiently, as he was oft to do when he was stressed, or worried, or unable to think of an easy solution to a problem. Not that his pacing ever brought about any tangible results, other than wearing out the rug, which was a pity, as it was a gift from the King of Surda himself, and had been brought with them all the way from the capital city of Aberon.

And he had found himself with a myriad of problems today: not enough gold for their war efforts, not enough soldiers despite the slow trickle of men who found their way to camp, lured by the promise of meeting a flesh-and-blood dragon rider, not enough steel to forge weapons, not enough food for countless insatiable mouths, not enough time.

A momentous battle was quickly approaching their doorstep, and though none of Jörmundur's birds had caught wind of any troops, he knew it was to be soon, soon.

And where was that blasted son of Morzan who he had gone so far as to trust with such an important mission? The boy—man—had been gone for several days now and the spellcaster he had sent with him had not yet contacted him to inform him that their mission had been completed or failed or whatnot. Last night, as he paced back and forth on the same spot on his rug, he decided to summon Trianna to his tent, who he requested to scry the three—after all, you could never really order a magician to do anything, arrogant, prideful things that they were—and she had graciously complied, conjuring the image on a small hand mirror the woman kept on her person at all times for such purposes.

He recognized the prone forms of two men (sleeping, he assumed, as it was quite late at night), their figures illuminated faintly as if they lay next to the dying embers of a campfire, but not the son of Morzan, not anywhere in the vicinity. And when Trianna once again murmured the same words, her spell focused on just one man this time, no picture appeared, only a splotch of inky darkness that swirled and expanded until it reached the edges of the mirror, completely enveloping the glass.

He had sent Trianna away then, too engrossed in his thoughts and worries to thank her, or even notice her leave.

A woman brought lunch in then, disrupting his pacing and setting down a plate laden with food on the table. He hardly felt like he could eat, he never did, but knew that, especially at his age, he needed to keep up his strength.

He was about to take a bite of cold chicken, forks inches away from his mouth, when he was interrupted. Why couldn't they wait for him to finish eating, at least?

"A man here to see you, sir," a guard informed him. "And it seems quite important, sir, if it isn't too bold of me to say."

"Send him in."


The hot afternoon sun beat down on Murtagh's back uncomfortably as he climbed up what he hoped was the last hill standing between him and the Varden camp. He had gotten directions a few hours ago from a family he had happened to cross paths with not long after he exited the small copse. There was a town nearby, apparently, one too close for comfort to the impending battle and they were making for the safety of Surda.

"The Burning Plains, you ask?" The old, grizzled man scratched a chin covered in thin, wispy hairs with a wrinkled hand. A young boy, no more than six, clutched at his other and stared at Murtagh with wide, distrustful eyes. "Aye, of course I know it, godforsaken place that it is. You'd be wanting to go southwest, towards the Jiet River. Can't see as to why you'd want to though. There's a war brewing. Best flee while you can."

Murtagh thanked him politely.

The elderly man stared at him through unusually bushy eyebrows. "You're not one of those Varden folk, are you? Off to fight the empire? I've no love for the king myself, but he's a good deal better than those rebels, those invaders, coming into our land, stirring up trouble where—"

A woman quickly shushed him and hurried him along, casting a suspicious glance at Murtagh, and he was spared the trouble of responding.

Murtagh crested the hill and sighed in relief as the camp sprawled out before him, rows of tents arranged in some haphazard order. The horses of King Orrin's cavalry were picketed one side, and men ran about tending to them. He noted a wide space near the river set apart for weapon training, and more than a handful of soldiers were sparring or shooting arrows at straw bales.

He was stopped by sentries at the edge of camp and forced to answer a few suspicious questions, but was quickly recognized for his parentage, an occurrence that had become much more common recently and which Murtagh couldn't make up his mind about whether or not it was a good thing.

He was ushered into Jörmundur's tent and instructed to give a recollection of events, which went exactly as he thought it would, which is to say quite badly. By the time he had finished telling his story, all of the blood had drained out of Jörmundur's face and he was clutching the edge of a wooden table in the middle of the room for support.

"No!" he gasped. "It can't be! Nasuada a dragon rider! And sworn to the service of the king! We knew one of the eggs hatching was a distinct possibility, but hoped since they hadn't for so long…" His eyes roved unseeing over the table littered with maps and reports, and a plate piled high with untouched food sitting neatly at one end. "Indeed, fate has a cruel sense of humor," he murmured, as if to himself. "That it would have to be her, she who devoted her entire being to this cause."

He straightened up, suddenly completely in control of himself, his earlier lapse forgotten. He had the resolve of a true military commander, which Murtagh couldn't help but admire. "The people of the Varden must not know this," he said with certainty. "Not yet. Not on the eve of what will surely be a deciding battle. It would do nothing but sow dissension and unrest through our ranks. To learn that our previous commander has betrayed us for Galbatorix… morale would plummet and people would desert by the dozens."

"Not betrayal," Murtagh avowed. "She was forced into service. Nothing she does is of her free will." He could too easily picture himself in Nasuada's position. He had almost been there once, and had lost a friend's life and risked his own fleeing that unfortunate fate. He felt compelled now to defend her honor—because she had the purest heart of anyone he had ever met and he ached at her suffering. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he had just shared her bed. Probably.

"Nevertheless, the people of the Varden will not see it that way," Jörmundur asserted. "They must be warned about the dragon—but the rider's identity we keep secret."

"That secret won't keep for long," Murtagh warned.

"Until this battle is over at the very least. You are dismissed for now. There is much to be done in less than a week, and most importantly, Eragon must be sent for." He sent him away with a wave of his hand and glanced down at the table, for a moment appearing less like a military commander and more like the aged man he had met on the road.

Four days after the Fateful Encounter and three days after finding his way back, Owen and Steven stumbled into camp, much in the same manner Murtagh had after half a day searching for it. He greeted them, pleased that they were safe, that his carelessness had not lead them into any danger, and that they had brought Tornac with them. He took the reins from Steven's hands, and gratefully patted the animal on the neck. The beast was trembling with exhaustion, as were the other two horses. The men had ridden as hard as they could to make up for lost time.

Owen looked at Murtagh as if he had died and was meeting his ghost. Steven wordlessly clapped him on the back and led his horse to the makeshift stables, dragging the younger, visibly shaken man with him. Neither asked what had happened, for which Murtagh was immensely grateful.

He spent his days up to the impending battle trying to keep himself busy—training, taking care of his weapons, helping cut firewood and the like. He focused his mind on the task before him and never let it wander. His iron control slipped at night, though, and his memories turned into dreams of soft skin and whispered promises. To claim you as my spoils she had said, and he turned that phrase over and over again in his mind, sometimes agonizing about why he hadn't insisted on staying and letting her claim her prize.

He was sharpening his sword at the armory one afternoon (under the watchful eye of weapons master Fredric) when he heard the commotion. "Shadeslayer! Shadeslayer is here!" someone ran by, shouting. He looked up from his whetstone and into the sky and saw that this was indeed correct-he could just make out the form of Saphira in the distance, her scales shimmering such a pure, deep blue that she made the sky look like a washed-out imitation. Relief and anxiety rose to his chest-he was delighted to see his friend again, but grieved at the news he would have to share with him.

A dozen men around him likewise looked up in amazement, some of them dropping their tools and running towards the edge of camp where Eragon was sure to land. Murtagh had no desire to join them, fighting the hungry crowds in a vain attempt to catch more than just a glimpse of the famed dragon rider. Besides, Eragon would certainly have dozens of nobles to shake hands with and exchange superficial pleasantries with before he would have time for Murtagh. No, he was certain his friend would find him before long.

"Oi! Come back here, you good-for-nothing slackers!" Fredric shouted, as some of the workers ran off to join in the excitement. "That boy and his oversized lizard will still be here to gawk at tomorrow, but you'll be lucky to be if you don't get this work done!" He shook a mace in the air threateningly, but pointlessly, as the men darting away had their backs to him.

A few of the men turned back sheepishly, but the rest were already out of earshot, or pretended to be.

"We've got some thousand men to get fitted with armor and only two more days," the armorer grumbled. "This is madness." Murtagh grimaced in agreement. The Varden was like a massive ant hive, but less organized, teeming with hordes of frenzied workers, each one having to be fed constantly, and outfitted-with armor and weapons—and taught how to use them, as many recruits were farmers and stable boys drawn by the promise of fame and glory or perhaps the opportunity to meet a real-life Rider and his dragon. It would be a miracle if they were ready after just a week. Not that anyone could really be "ready" for a battle. Just slightly less unprepared.

He inspected the edge of his blade, honing it against the whetstone until he was convinced it was as sharp as it was going to get. He sheathed it carefully, satisfied.

Fredric looked up from where he was mending a damaged helm and glanced at Murtagh thoughtfully. "You there, boy," he called out, and Murtagh bristled internally at the term—he had been a man for more than two years now—but kept it from showing on his face. "You know your way around a sword, don't you? How about helping one of those young lads over there choose one?"

He inclined his head at a small group of men gathered at the other side of the tent, alongside a row of broadswords, hesitantly lifting them to feel their weight. Not men—boys—he corrected internally. They couldn't be much older than fourteen, much too young to be engaging in war, but Murtagh reminded himself that there was no such definite age limit when it came to fighting battles, and he had been defending himself from enemies at an age much younger than that.

He approached the group and addressed one of the boys, "Not that one. Here, take this, it's a bit shorter and would suit your height better." The boy jumped in surprise at being spoken to, almost cutting himself with the blade, then set it down carefully and reached for the one the older man had indicated. Murtagh cursed internally. Did Jörmundur want to win so badly that he was willing to send these untrained children to what was certain to be their death?

The boy held it away from him as gingerly as if he were holding a poisonous snake. "Move it closer towards your body," Murtagh instructed, wrapping his hand around the boy's wrist and pulling it closer to the his waist. "Hold it more firmly. The last thing you want is for your enemy to knock it out of your hands. Put your hands like this—not that!—unless you want to cut yourself?"

He gave a few more instructions until he was satisfied the boy was holding it properly. "Good," he said. "This is a good blade, although a bit dull. Know how to use a whetstone?"

The boy shook his head shyly. "No, sir."

He led the boy over to the same stone he had just been using and showed him how to work it, explaining how to know when the sword was sufficiently sharp. The boy absorbed this information solemnly, giving only short answers whenever asked a direct question.

"What's your name, boy?" he asked, more out of politeness than curiosity, and the boy answered, "Nolan, sir."

"And how old are you, Nolan?"

"I'll be fourteen in two weeks, sir."

Damn. Fourteen had been too generous, it seemed. "And what is a thirteen-year-old boy doing fighting for the Varden?"

"Trying to protect my family, sir."

The boy's motives were more down-to-earth than he had originally thought. "And who is your family?" he asked, allowing his curiosity to pique.

"My mother and sister, sir. They stayed in Surda while I came here—my mother didn't want me to but—I wanted to do what I could to protect them." He blushed a bit at this last statement.

"And your father?"

"I don't know. I never met him. He died a few years after I was born."

Murtagh eyed the boy's reddening face and gently lifted the sword off the whetstone. "Here, look at the edges. Sharpened to perfection. Take this sword and know that with it, you'll be armed just as well as anyone else in the Varden. Excluding our dragon rider of course, and perhaps the elves."

The boy's eyes were wide as he held the sword again. "Thank you, sir."

"Just 'Murtagh' will be fine. No need to keep calling me 'sir.'"

He examined the boy's face carefully for a reaction to his name, but there was none, and the boy's face remained just as solemn.

"You're going to need some decent armor, too. Let's get you taken care of."


An hour or so later, Murtagh found himself walking back to his tent, thinking over his interaction with the boy. He had not grown any more talkative by the time Murtagh had found the appropriate size chain mail and helm to fit him, but he seemed to have relaxed considerably in his presence and responded enthusiastically when Murtagh offered to have a sparring session with him the next day, an offer that had surprised even himself.

He was not sure why he decided to take such a sudden, personal interest in the boy. Perhaps because he was reminded a bit of himself, thrust into a situation where he did not want to fight, but was forced to—whether it was to protect himself or because he felt compelled to protect others.

The entire experience was quite strange to him, after only being on the receiving end of instruction, to finally be the one giving it. He was not sure he was quite ready to take on the role and desperately wished Tornac were there with him, as he had many times before. He knew it was the natural order of things, for the student to one day become the teacher, he just hadn't thought the day would come so soon.

He stopped short when he noticed a figure outside his tent, arms crossed, staring pensively at the horizon. Murtagh knew that figure, perhaps even better than he knew his own. He hurried his pace to greet his friend.

At the sound of his footsteps, Eragon turned and looked at him, arranging his features into a smile. Murtagh stopped again. These were different features than he was used to.

"I didn't realize the elves would be so thorough in their training," he finally managed to say. "What happened to you?"

Eragon merely reached forward and grasped his forearm. "All in good time. There are more important things to discuss." His smile faded and he whispered, "Is it true?"

Murtagh gestured to him. "Come, let us have dinner together."


They sat in Murtagh's tent, he on his cot, Eragon on the floor. Murtagh noted with interest that while he had allowed himself a generous portion of chicken (as generous as one could get in an army camp), Eragon consumed no meat. He made a mental note to ask about it later.

They remained quiet for a few moments after Murtagh finished his tale about the Fateful Encounter (barring a few Minor Details). Eragon had stayed silent throughout most of the story, interjecting only a few time to ask for clarifications, which surprised Murtagh greatly. Where was his (sometimes) irritating, overly inquisitive friend? Where were his questions, his insatiable thirst for information? He supposed he had done a lot of maturing in his absence. Murtagh wondered if he had too.

Eragon finally stirred. "So," he said. "Fate has an interesting sense of humor. Pitting a vassal against his liege lord in a battle of the ages."

"Not interesting," Murtagh objected. "Cruel."

"I suppose so," Eragon conceded.

"So?" Murtagh demanded. "What will you do?"

"What else is there to do? Fight."

"And will you kill her, if given the chance?"

"I do not think it will come to that. I'm sure she will prove to be a formidable opponent." Eragon paused, scratching his chin. "You said she claimed that Galbatorix has 'ways to grow his power without limit.' I'm sure he will have lent some of this power to Nasuada as well. We shouldn't underestimate her."

"No, but I think we have one advantage."

"And what is that?"

"There were no reports up until now of a dragon rider loyal to Galbatorix. Meaning the king was choosing to deliberately keep her existence secret until the upcoming battle. I wager he would have sent her in halfway through, at a time the battle would seem to go badly for us in order to demoralize our troops, and to confront you after you had extended most of your energy. The king wants you alive after all, and I'm sure she has orders to capture you.

"But I found out by accident, and now we know better what kind of threat is coming, and how to prepare ourselves for it. They no longer have the element of surprise."

Eragon admired Murtagh's insight into the situation. He could always trust his friend to provide a fresh perspective on what otherwise seemed a hopeless situation.

"But enough for tonight. I want to hear about your training in Ellesméra. Tell me about the city, and the queen! I have heard all kinds of interesting rumors."

Eragon gave a brief account of his travels, including his stay in the dwarven city of Tarnag and the troubles he had found himself in there, the days they spent traveling up the Az Ragni via raft, finally reaching the magnificent city of Ellesméra and meeting the queen. He gave a vague outline of his lessons (leaving out a few Not So Minor Details himself) and spent a deal of time embellishing his experiences at the Blood-oath Celebration and the dance that had given him the body of an elf and cured him of his deformities. "It's completely gone now, my scar," he said, absent-mindedly touching the base of his neck where the knot used to be. "It was wearing away at me, having all so many attacks every day. It's one less worry I have now, at least. "

He lapsed into silence, not noticing the sudden hardened edge to Murtagh's expression as his mind drifted back to how badly the celebration had ended.

It was Murtagh's turn now to be quiet after the tale had ended. They sat for a while, both wrapped up in their thoughts, until the candle burned low and threatened to go out. Eragon excused himself, knowing that, as a human, Murtagh needed more sleep than him. He had noticeable dark bags under his eyes, or perhaps it was just the shadows cast by the flickering candle. Murtagh nodded and wished him goodnight, waiting until Eragon had left the tent and melted into the darkness before he blew out the light.

The next day came too soon, and not soon enough. Shaking off his dreams and wrenching open his bleary eyes, he reluctantly pulled himself from his cot and got dressed. He buckled on his sword and left his tent in search of breakfast.

The camp was so large that it took him almost fifteen minutes to reach the cook's tent, already bustling with the morning breakfast rush, the guardsmen finishing their nightly watches to eat their last meal before bed, armorers and smiths hurrying to scarf down a quick meal before a busy day of work, the noises of the indignant animals being brought to slaughter and the voices of the cooks shouting over each other adding to the mix to form a familiar, cacophonous melody in Murtagh's ears.

He waited in line for a meager slab of ham and chunk of bread, eating them as he walked towards the armory where he had promised Fredric he would spend the day helping outfit more soldiers with weapons. He was kept busy most of the morning until the weapons master stopped him, jabbing his finger meaningfully at the sky where the sun had managed to crawl it's way up without him noticing, and handing him a bowl of something hot and a mug of ale, which Murtagh accepted gratefully.

Nolan showed up sometime in the afternoon, peeking into the tent at where Murtagh was sharpening a dagger, his gaze patient, but pointed. Murtagh lips quirked in amusement and stepped outside, directing the boy behind the tent. They sparred with real weapons, though deliberately slowly, because Nolan needed to get used to the weight of his new sword, and training blades would not offer that.

They were in the middle of practicing a move when Varden horns began to sound throughout the camp. The two froze, listening intently, then Murtagh ordered Nolan to find his assigned batallion and quickly, while he sheathed his sword and ran towards the edge of camp.

He skirted around tents, dodging horses and men hurriedly donning their armor and grabbing their weapons. He caught sight of the massive form of Saphira a little ways ahead, Eragon on her back, both of them looking over the ramparts. He approached them, and the two men exchanged glances.

They waited several minutes, which to Murtagh felt like several hours. By then, a considerable amount of men had joined them. They pressed in, too close. Someone behind him sneezed. A few coughed. Impatient horses snorted and pawed at the ground. More minutes dragged by and Murtagh wondered if there had ever been a time he hadn't been standing here. A different lifetime perhaps. Finally, he heard a man to his right shout out, "I see them!"

Everyone tensed and strained their eyes. What Murtagh had mistaken for a haze in the distance detached itself from an outcropping of rocks several leagues away and slowly began to make its way toward the Varden camp. His eyes widened as he realized what he was looking at—the empire's army, so immense that it stretched far beyond the limit of human vision, blurring into a shadowy mass alongside the Jiet River in the distance. Men around him muttered in disbelief at the colossal size of the army. This is what they would be fighting?

Not far away from Saphira stood Jörmundur, and Murtagh could hear him conferring with one of this commanders. "—preparations to send an envoy immediately, discuss terms—"

Their conversation was cut short, drowned out by an deafening roar. The murmurs grew silent and the Varden turned their attention once again to the mass of soldiers in the distance. As they watched, a shadowy figure detached itself from the blur of the soldiers, rising upward on the thermals, its enormous wings stretched out. The dragon—for there was nothing else that it could be—roared again and a clap of thunder resounded as it flapped its massive wings. The shadow of the dark, ominous clouds hid its true color, but Murtagh knew that it was a deep, rich green, its splendor unmatched by any emerald the rich earl's wives of Galbatorix's court wore around their necks.

He thought he could just barely make out a slender figure on the back of the beast, and he let his imagination fill in the rest—proud, bitter eyes offset by an alluring smile that seemed to say I've come to claim my spoils.

"She's here," he breathed.