A/N Hello! I'm back with the second instalment (obviously). Hope you enjoy!
Chapter 2: Tears Catching On the Breeze
He was caught, captured in a howling storm that refused to release him from its grip. The wind shrieked as it fought the trees without mercy, the rain roared its displeasure, the fog that hid his surroundings from view was relentlessly silent but menacing all the same.
He stood there for a while, helpless to do anything but pit his will against the forces of nature; he could not move and they were immovable. Eventually his ears numbed to the cacophony and the other sounds made themselves known- the whispers of the dry leaves still clinging to their branches, the aching gasps of the pines as they bent so they did not break, his own shattered breathing.
Then they, too, faded, until only his pulse remained, and he desperately hoped that, at least, would not leave him.
Die in a dream and never wake up, said his nightmare, using Nurse's words but his father's voice.
He heard a scream, and he knew whose it was but fought not to dwell on it. Then a child's cries cracked the quiet the scream had left behind, and he knew whose they were too and he didn't turn around even though they came from right behind him.
The echoes of the storm, the sounds from beneath it, came back to join his heartbeat, but then the cackles of leaves became the shivers of flames devouring firewood and his pulse was not the beat of a heart but the beat of a drum and the woman's screams returned and his breathing escalated until he was screaming too and the wind and the rain screamed with him, with them, and a small hand gripped his but he didn't look down because the mist was pulling together and he could see something, sense something forming, and it was familiar, and the storm filled his lungs and he was drowning and
he woke up coughing and his voice was raw. He didn't cry. The sobs would make his throat hurt more.
I=I
Eragon was watching him, he could tell. The six-year-old was curious, would have been more so if Murtagh hadn't warned it out of him. He was constantly frightened that Morzan's next beating would knock it out of him altogether, but it seemed unquenchable. It got him into more trouble every month, but in itself it was endearing in small quantities.
He couldn't say exactly why his brother was staring at him unabashedly, but he could guess. He had probably noticed that he hadn't had enough sleep recently. Six years on and Murtagh couldn't shake his mother's death- he understood a lot more now than he had then, and the cruelty his father had shown Selena that day inspired both fear and defiance, both of which he hid. Morzan had hated her, thought of her as useless, until the day she died in childbirth.
It's not what she would have wanted.
He remembered with shocking clarity the autumn months that year- Dranaedr's whip-like tail, the King's half-warm arms, his tutor's indifferent expression, the sleeve of the priest's robes soaked a slightly different charcoal. Perhaps these small details were why he had such vivid dreams.
Murtagh finished breaking his fast and slipped, unnoticed by all but Eragon (he hoped) out of the Hall. Making a small detour to grab his Languages copybook and a bottle of ink from his rooms, he headed to the schoolroom.
The lesson was exceedingly boring, and halfway through copying down a list of Dwarven words containing the hnd phonic, his head drifted to the window looking out onto the courtyard, where Eragon was having his fourth lesson learning how to handle a small rounded shield. His trainer was building up the power of his swings, hoping to increase the strength of Eragon's arms. However, as the strikes got heavier, Eragon clearly decided that blocking was taking too much effort, and started to avoid them rather than use his buckler, which was (judging by the frustration on the trainer's face) not something he had told him to do- or, more likely, something he had told him not to do.
Murtagh almost laughed out loud as Eragon refused to abandon his strategy and caused the man more and more anguish. All that stopped, though, when Morzan strode out of one of the courtyard doors. Neither his brother nor the trainer noticed his arrival immediately, and he looked on in growing horror as his father's face became grimmer with every dodge. Having seen enough, the Rider grabbed Eragon by the upper arm, turned him about, and hit him across the face, then yanked him inside.
"Murtagh," his tutor asked pleasantly, "have you finished copying that list? We will be moving on to Arithmetic soon, and we wouldn't want to leave any work unfinished, would we now."
Murtagh grimaced and got back to scribbling down the words for instigator and unfortunate, but the scene swirled around his head as he laboured.
Later, when he had buried his head in a book about 'Elven Culture' -much of which he assumed was propaganda- the door opened and Eragon slipped in, adorned with a black eye, a ring of developing bruises around his wrist, and many more marks concealed beneath his clothes. The brothers did not often seek comfort from each other, but that was not to say they minded giving it, and the younger curled up in the elder's lap as the latter stroked his hair gently.
I=I
The pyre flickered before him like a wraith, Selena's pained cries going up in smoke, and this time when a hand reached for his he made the mistake of turning to glance at its owner, and saw a young boy with tousled hair and water leaking from a swollen purple eye, and Eragon ripped his hand back and tore into the mists, and Murtagh said nothing because he couldn't speak or move and this time he choked on his tears rather than the rain.
A/N Thanks for all your lovely reviews! Please continue with the feedback. I'll get back to anyone who has any questions whatsoever ASAP.
BBDN
