Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon.

Author's Note: I have completely rewritten this from this chapter on. Please let me know if you like it better or think I should keep it the way it was. 

Here's to the strong; thanks to the brave.
Don't give up hope... some people change.
Against all odds, against the grain,
Love finds a way... some people change.

Some People Change by Montgomery Gentry

The corridor was lined with flickering torches that lent little light. The few spaced windows let in only darkness, deep and think. Misery and despair seeped through the gray stone blocks of the wall. Every room was as silent as a tomb; every room, but one.

High in a dreary, loveless tower that cut into the sky, muffled sounds came from behind a closed wooden door. In the room beyond the large door, a pale figure rummaged through misplaced trunks for items that only he knew the purpose of. As he leaned over the narrow bed, made and ready for the night, and placed these particular items of clothing and weaponry in their assigned sheathes or pack, his shadowy black hair fell into his youthful and handsome face. The young man was tall and muscled from years of hard training with both sword and bow. Alas, most details of his figure were distorted and hidden by the long, black cloak clasped clumsily about his shoulders.

After securing his sword belt under his cloak and his quiver on top of the material, he slung his curved bow over his shoulder. He kept to the shadows as he moved near silently through the halls. The closer to the ground he became, the more butterflies thrashed in his stomach.

If possible, the courtyard was even gloomier than the ominous castle's interior. Slithering shadows loomed in the corners, seemingly alive. The stone underfoot felt cold, even through the soft leather boots the few passing humans wore. Turning to a hidden path, he froze, for a large figure bearing a crackling torch was heading toward him. The mysterious youth leapt into the shadows, pulling his cape to cover the slightly glowing skin of his face, leaving only his eyes visible. The other, a half asleep watchman, passed by with nothing but a long yawn. When the guard was out of sight, the dark-haired man slipped onto the deserted path to the stables, where he hooted twice, as if he were an owl.

One shadow dancing against the small building separated itself from its comrades and repeated the call. The man that clasped the young man's arm in a quick embrace was a good twenty years older. Together, they quietly walked a few yards from the stable, where a large, dark warhorse waited. The older man passed his companion two long strips of cloth, keeping two for himself. They knelt, one at the front and one to the back of the great beast. They lifted its hooves one by one and tied the clothes around them for quieter passage.

The cloaked young man climbed quickly into the readied saddle, while the older man took the reigns and began leading the horse. Neither spoke. When they approached the two tall watchtowers and gigantic iron gates, they pulled hoods over their heads. The gate had creaked open only slightly when it stopped again. The rider nudged the horse forward. The crack between the twin iron masses was just wide enough for the horse to fit through.

"They approach from behind," the older man whispered.

"Will there be a fight, Tornac?" the rider questioned quietly.

"No doubt, milord."

The riding, hooded figure nodded discreetly, and then kicked the horse into a faster gait. Through the gates they trotted, hooves thudding softly. The man jogged beside them.

"Prepare yourself, milord." The man did not even bother to keep his voice low. The rider heard the ring of a sword being pulled from a sheath, and knocked an arrow to his bow. He turned in the saddle and peered into the darkness, but soon let out a shout, for he could not see well enough to aim. He replaced the bow and arrow and pulled out his sword.

Five burly warriors were charging toward them, two on mounts. Tornac was rushing to meet them. By the time the cloaked rider reached the fight, one man was already dead. He swung his sword at the closest enemy and made a deep cut across the man's chest. He flinched, and the rider took the chance to finish his adversary off. One horse was now galloping back toward the castle, saddle empty. A pained yell filled the rider's ears and he spun to search the night for his companion. Tornac was bleeding heavily from a wound in his stomach.

"No!" the rider yelled, voice nearly as pained as the dying man.

"Run, Murtagh. Be safe," came the gasping voice of Tornac.

Murtagh turned his horse sharply, and kicked him into a gallop. He spared Tornac one last glance as a single tear dropped from the corner of his eyes and trailed down his cheek.