II: Desert Worms
"Good Morning, Worm, yer Honour..." - The Trial, Pink Floyd.
The morning was harsh, still. No wind. Frost lingered, grasping to the shadows, glistening, spitefully. Everything else was in heavy, heavy, light. It quivered, sticking to helmets, pouring down men's faces – glaring. Their steel skins were irksome, stuffy. Stifling. Gaunt horses – weary, weak, absolutely useless – tried to tug them along, trembling in sweat, sinking further into their own tracks.
Nat hated this – everyone hated this – but Nat hated it more. Morning Patrols. He was sure of it. The bitter banter, black humour, and snide asides were lost on him. That's what made it bearable. Laughing. Especially at how damn ridiculous it all was.
Don't swear. Makes you less adorable. Nat held in a grunt of disgust. He was a scraggly lad of just-under-sixteen, hollow-cheeked, with a constant, befuddling, wide-eyed peer from beneath his greasy mop. He had a tough enough time convincing the others of his age. This sort of insolent reluctance, he could recall his mother saying, chastising him at a much later date, made him seem even younger.
Reluctance, after all, was his war. Forget fairy tales of magic and dragons and elves. Except they were real, now, weren't they? Oh.
Nat had first used magic six months ago. He'd hardly progressed, but that wasn't all that surprising. He was weak, mostly useless, and ran away from swords more than he picked them up. Still, this was inevitable. He had magic. The Varden were desperate for magicians. And my parents happily gave me away. It was expected of him, after all, to continue what the parents had started. To make the same mistakes, over and over again.
So he complied. Eventually. Bitterly. Reluctantly. The arguments started weeks before and lasted to the very end, until he was posted 'as far damn away as possible.' He missed his sister, but he didn't care – not then, anyway. He wanted to make a point. Pah. What point was there to make? Except the point of a sword rammed down his throat, of course. Just bickering. Endless, childish, trivial, ridiculous bickering.
He didn't like to laugh at it. It wasn't very funny to him.
"Stop draggin' behind us Nat!" Nat looked up. He'd been blissfully oblivious to the never-ending dragon puns the other lads had been making during his ritual morning patrol melancholy. He held in a smile. That was bloody awful, Jace, well done.
"Hey! Runt! Don't be such a draaaag now, will ya?" Hicks was at it now too. Nat snickered. Ridiculous.
"Very punny Hicks." It was the captain who looked up now. "Now shut yer trap."
Nathanial, Nat, or Runt, as he was referred to, sped up to trot alongside the rest of the patrol. Life, unfortunately, was life, and he hated it with a fiery passion right now. But he could make the best of it. He wasn't just a runt, but their Runt. He might have hated it, but he had a place. A home. That was enough to ask for, in times like this, wasn't it? Was it?
It was Nat noticed first.
It was Nat who was always the first to notice.
He was still draggin' behind when he looked into the glaring sky.
No.
He then started screaming. They all started running.
It was so scary. It was so frightening and scary. To know that the black thing above them, was something so brutal, so bloodthirsty, so medieval. It wasn't human. It wasn't human at all, and Nathan was scared, he was very very scared. It wasn't like the other times, when you laughed at how stupid it was, to see someone's guts ripped out and watch someone else screaming, because that was unreal, and it wasn't happening to you, and there was so much red and so much shouting you didn't care.
This was unreal.
When you saw a dragon, you knew you were dead. It didn't matter what colour your tunic was, or what banner you carried. You were dead.
Nat began to cry for his mother. He was still crying when he was ripped apart by a creature the same colour as his own blood that stained the earth.
Murtagh sighed. I hate morning patrols.
There was, however, one advantage of Morning Patrols. This was it.
Murtagh admitted it grudgingly, at first. But then again, that was Murtagh's attitude to most things. A nod of agreement; daggers for eyes. This especially applied to dragons.
Murtagh did not like dragons.
Well, used to. He did now, of course. But he used to hate them. How could he not? It should have been obvious, really. His father had a dragon. It burnt people's homes. Killed them. Ripped their families in half. That sort of thing. The Butcher's Knife. It was a monster, of course, everyone knew that. Not a dragon. Or were Dragons just monsters now, were they? Murtagh didn't know, nor cared. Not something he troubled himself to think about. A book – maybe something by DeBlanc - was something he troubled himself to think about. People just never troubled to ask the right questions.
Philosophy was beautiful. Books were beautiful. Thought was beautiful. They were forgotten things, lost in the banality of breeding and greed. Where was a philosopher in times of war? Their works would be torn to pieces. The same mistakes would be made. Again. And again. And again. Blah blah blah. War was a repetitive business, after all. It was irksome, tiring, really. But there would always be a stray piece, a spare page, a word. You couldn't destroy words with swords and sorcery.
Books, unlike dragons, he had always loved. Reliable things. Dragons, unsafe to say, weren't. Dragons, unsafe to say, weren't creators. They were destroyers. If it weren't for Dragons, Murtagh would never have existed, after all – existed, not lived. Murtagh had never lived. He hadn't asked for this. That was the wrong kind of question. He hadn't asked it. He hadn't wanted it. He never would.
Stop? It was a small, voice, suddenly surfacing into the cloud.
I'm ranting again, aren't I? I should stop doing that. Guilt, was the word on his tongue. I should really stop doing that. It's not fair, and I keep ruining things like this and –
This was cut off by what could only be described by a large, calming smile. Thorn couldn't speak yet, you see. Of course he couldn't, he was only three months old. He was just an oversized lizard, after all. If he did, it was stunted, broken sentences. Otherwise it was all pictures, all feelings. Murtagh didn't mind. Thorn simply didn't waste words.
Thorn began to hum contentedly. Yes, this is what made the day worth it.
Flying.
They soared together, alone. Through a canvas of cloud and endless, limitless blue, they painted their own trail, their own lines, twisting and twirling. It was silent today: no wind. That, Murtagh found phenomenal. The clatter and chatter of the city had awoken him when he was born, and would stay by him until he died. But up here, in the sky, there wasn't any of that. It was empty.
It was incredible.
Thorn loved it too. Murtagh knew. It was easy to see, bond or no bond, behind that contented hum was something much deeper. An everlasting well, so deep, of rich feeling that he poured over the untouched sky. Feelings, so fervent, so affectionate, always overflowing. Feelings Murtagh couldn't dream of matching.
It was incredible.
Then again, Thorn loved the sea too. Thorn loved the forest. Thorn loved the desert. Thorn loved the city. Thorn loved sunlight, Thorn loved moonlight, and Thorn loved no light at all. Thorn loved closed walls, open plains, flowers in the spring, winter frost. Thorn loved squirrels and woodpigeons and deer and anything with legs. Especially for breakfast. But chasing was most of the fun.
Thorn loved people too. This was the part which Murtagh really didn't get. And Thorn loved to chase them. Nibble their clothes. Blow smoke in their faces, and cock his head. Maybe offer a friendly lick. Thorn didn't really understand the fact that most people tended to be afraid of oversized fire-breathing lizard. Most people didn't find it endearing. Most people tended to scream.
When Thorn chased after people, Murtagh had to chase after him. Stupid.
But still, regardless of what people thought, regardless of what people said, Thorn loved everything. Feelings Murtagh couldn't dream of matching.
That's what makes you stupid.
Thorn was dangerous, risky, and irresponsible. Thorn was stupid. To the point that it was ridiculous. To the point that it was hilarious. To the point that it was completely and utterly loveable in every single fathomable way.
Thorn could always make him, Murtagh, smile. Genuinely, without hate, without bitterness – smile.
Stupid oversized lizard.
It was a term of the greatest affection that only Murtagh could give.
White Winter Star: I don't really know either! It's a little non-linear at times, but I think an eventual plot will show itself. Most of the perspectives will be from the side of the empire. Also, I play with canon. A lot. Expect some backstory from Galbatorix, and some of Morzan's backstory too, eventually. Most chapters will probably be pretty short, but updated reasonably frequently, with hope!
A/N: The first half of this is rather similar in basic plot to a one shot I wrote when I was 15 - it's still up and around, go check it out! I know this is going slowly, but this is a slow fic, so eh. I want to write some chapters to get to grips with Murtagh's character. There's some changes here, it maaaay be a little out of character, but I wanted to start with something, before going into the crazy realm of character development, which I plan to flirt with like crazy.
That's enough of my babbling. Please review and stick with me if you can!
EDIT: I've changed quite a bit of the later part of this. Feels more subtle now. Also, the whole Thorn-doesn't-speak-much feels better explained now. Hope you guys like it. Don't feel you have to review this again - I just felt like I needed to make a few more things clearer.