A/N: Hey! I'm back! Thanks for the awesome reviews, everyone! Really! Greatly appreciated. I'm sorry I haven't updated, I'm on vacation right now. :D And for those of you who were wondering, yes, I DID first hear that name from the movie Meet the Fockers. But I don't own the movie, but I do own the character Gaylord, and seeing as Gaylord is a name that several people have, I don't have to stick a disclaimer up, even though I don't own the movie! :D Preteen emoness in the following chapter. Sorry it took so long to stick this up. And yes, I know that cigars weren't invented back than. Hence the reason cannabis is in the cigars and not nicotine. Us humans have been smoking weed since the prehistoric days! And the cigars aren't like the ones now, they're more like…ancient. Like some marijuana wrapped up in paper.

I have decided, I WILL continue this story! I was planning on pursuing the whole cigar thing, but I did so much cool stuff on vacation I decided to skip the cigars and continue on to the plot.

Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon

Chapter 2- Morzan's Castle

AJ and Murtagh slid off of Thorn's worn leather saddle. AJ groaned and rubbed his butt moodily. "This sucks," he moaned.

"You were the one with the cannabis, boy," sniffed Murtagh. A few days prior, Murtagh discovered his son was in possession of illegal substance - cannabis, as he dubbed it. It caused you to hallucinate and commit idiotic acts, from the simple burping in a bartenders face to attempting murder. Thus, Murtagh outlawed it and its demonic illusions. "You did not even use it right, AJ. You are suppose to sniff cannabis, not smoke it!"

AJ shuffled his feet guiltily. "I apologized, father. Several times. I did not know it was illegal!"

"That doesn't make it all right." And now they were on their way to Morzan's Castle for AJ's punishment. Murtagh had sentenced him to community service in the old crackpot palace of Murtagh's childhood nightmares.

They had stopped at a tiny, uncharted body of water that held a copper tint to it. Trees with hundreds of limbs outstretched towards the sky and moss covered trunks as wide as a dragon's foot packed together all around the area. Dead trees - how they died, Murtagh had no idea - lay intertwined together in a natural playground. Thick brown roots slithered through the lush overgrowth surrounding the water, sometimes lifted a few inches above the ground. Pebbles of all variations of colors littered the path, while nearer to the water was what appeared to be a beach.

AJ and Murtagh unclipped their black traveling cloaks in the same, swift motion and draped them across a nearby tree branch, the material gently flowing with the wind. AJ sat down in the dirt and proceeded to rip off his boots and roll his leggings up to his knees.

"What are you up to?" said Murtagh suspiciously.

"I'm going over to the water," responded AJ innocently. "I just want to know what sand here feels like."

Murtagh smiled and kicked off his boots as well. The two tiptoed their way through the pebbles, wary of dangerous plants and poisonous animals. After a few dozen strides, they reached the beach.

AJ stretched his toes, feeling the rocky sand squelching between them. The grey sand was so different than the tan kind he knew back home- definitely not as smooth or pretty, but decent none the less. A few ducks swam in the copper water.

Murtagh placed an arm around his son. "How's the sand compare to Arough?"

"Not as soft."

"Agreed."

"Hey, dad? Where are we?"

Murtagh tapped his chin thoughtfully, which was quickly developing into an annoying habit. "I'd say we're about a day away from Morzan's castle." He made his way back to Thorn, but before he could return to his ruby dragon, he halted, squatted, and stared at the ground. "AJ, come here!" he hollered. "Be careful, though! There's nettles on the way!"

AJ obliged and avoided the nettles until he reached his father. "Yes?"

Murtagh's slender fingers were carefully pressed against the tough surface of a gray pebble with about ten holes cut right through it. He brushed away the dirt blemishing the rock. "A moonstone. Bloody hell, I haven't seen one of these since I was twelve."

"What in all of Alagaesia is a moonstone?" said AJ.

"This, obviously." Murtagh indicated the tiny rock he lifted. "A rock with holes in it. They say rocks with these holes straight through them have been kissed by the moon god. Tornac and I used to go hunting for them when we were bored."

AJ gazed at the rock in awe. "Amazing!" He scanned the ground, and his eyes lit up. "They're everywhere!" Dozens of moonstones scattered through the pebbles higgledy-piggledy. AJ greedily swept ten up instantly. "Can I keep them?"

Murtagh chuckled. "Of course you can keep them." They continued searching for moonstones for a few minutes. They soon grew bored and climbed on the piles of dead, intertwined wood. They discussed the rare color of copper water, and they dipped their feet into the liquid, only to flinch back when a lobster pinched Murtagh's big toe.

By the end of the overcast day, both were tuckered out from bonding and playing together. They set up camp, lit up a campfire, and laid back on the grass while trying to see stars through the constant cloud coverage.

Murtagh wondered how Nasuada was doing, taking care of the kingdom as he conducted the annual check up and status report on Morzan's castle. Of course, it wasn't called that anymore. The proper name was "Warfare Relief Center." Or WRC for short. Murtagh converted the palace to a refuge hotspot for families affected by the war almost eleven years ago. To his surprise, several flocked there, all aware that they were finding comfort in Morzan's old home.

Murtagh gazed at his son tucked into his sleeping bag. He looked more and more like his mother everyday. "Goodnight, AJ."

"'Night, dad."

"Love you."

"Love you, too." AJ yawned, closed his eyes, and within five seconds the floor was shaking with his snores.

Murtagh lay on his back and stared absentmindedly at the stars, lost in many a depressing thought. He remembered the days when a knife helped him cope more than his dragon did, the days when a heavy chain circled his ankle, how it would heat up when Galbatorix was furious…

He rubbed his ankle with his other foot instinctively. He still had scars from when they stuck it on him- the only scars that remained when he went through the bizarre slave healing process after the king died. The healing seemed to have reversed time's toll on his nineteen year-old body, once so frail.

He remembered Nasuada crying when he stuck the ring on her finger, how everyone had gossiped about it.

He remembered how Eragon had sailed away into that bloody sunset. His departure would have made a beautiful painting- so romantic looking did the pinkish orange sunset appear, glinting on the mast of the large ship. How Saphira gleamed a majestic blue. To most people, his leaving was so perfect and gorgeous and quixotic.

But Murtagh wasn't most people. To him, Eragon's perfect little goodbye was sickening. To him, the sunset was taking away one of his last remaining relatives and his lovesick dragon's unborn baby.

Sickening. All sickening.

Murtagh's eyes flickered to Thorn, only to see his stomach slowly inflating and deflating in a rhythmic motion. Murtagh yawned, rubbed his eyes, and snuggled tighter into his sleeping bag.

"Up and at 'em!"

AJ's eyes snapped open as he jumped four feet out of his sleeping bag. "Ah! Dad! Damn, it's only sunrise!"

Murtagh grinned. "You find breakfast, remember? Part of your punishment."

AJ groaned.

"Now, boy!" He nudged the small of his son's back with his heavy black boot. "Up! Or you're banned from visiting friends and flirting with local girls until you're twenty!"

"You are legally an adult at the age of sixteen," barked AJ sleepily. "You can't ground me until I am twenty!"

"You live in my palace, you live under my rules. Either that or I shall chop off your head."

"You wouldn't behead me," sneered AJ. "I'm the crowned prince! You wouldn't have a son to take your place."

Murtagh grinned in mock devilishness. "That can easily be fixed."

AJ shivered.

"Now get breakfast! I want to be in the air in an hour, boy!"

AJ unwillingly stumbled out of his bag. "I'm up, all right?" He scratched his belly through his baggy shirt and slipped into his tunic and boots. He walked off deeper into the woods, leaving Murtagh alone to pack up. While rolling up the sleeping bags and tossing the moonstones into a plain leather traveling bag, he conversed with Thorn.

The sky was cloudless, and the afternoon sun seemed to warm the plants.

Eragon crouched down in the tall grass of a beach in the fetal position, his eyes closed. He studied all the animals camouflaged around him - their breathing, their size, their heat, their thoughts - until he felt a familiar nudge in the back of his mind. Lunch, it said.

Coming, replied Eragon. He stood up and made his way back from the beach dunes and headed to a spread of trees. Elves surrounded him chatting, laughing, joking all in the Ancient Language. Eragon halted at a particularly large tree and looked up.

Treetop houses scattered in every possible direction, connected by thick wooden bridges and grass rope. Unsteady looking latters dropped from a branch on every occupied tree, such as the one Eragon now stood in front of. The homes were just one of the many communities in Alalea, the land of the elves. Eragon gripped either side of the rope latter and forcefully pulled himself up until he reached his neighbor's front door. He pivoted and briskly walked down the right bridge, it swaying beneath his stride, until he arrived at his front door - a plain wooden framed object. He walked in.

A beautiful elf with raven hair and emerald eyes busily set up the dining table. "Will you help me?" she sighed.

"Sure, Arya." The two mates placed all the vegetables and fruits on the small table fit for four. The two sat down and began dishing up. "Do we have any company tonight?"

Arya shook her head. "Just us."

"Oh." They continued talking about their day.

"I went down to the beach today," said Eragon. "I wish you would have gone. It was so peaceful. No wind at all."

"That's a nice change," noted Arya. "It always seems to be blustery down there."

"Aye." Eragon could clearly recall the tall grass forming the dunes to be constantly billowing in a never ceasing pattern.

"Did you hear Quilette is pregnant?" said Arya lightheartedly.

"Really?" said Eragon wide-eyed. Arya nodded. "That's great! Of all the people to get pregnant, Quilette would have been my last suspicion. She's only been Aaron's mate for some odd months."

Arya shrugged. "I guess they just love each other more that most," she hinted.

Eragon slowly chewed his papaya, a watered down glare illuminating his eyes. "What does that mean?"

"What's what mean, hun?"

"The way you said 'I guess they just love each other more than most.' You sounded bitter."

"Did I." said Arya, the cold civility in her voice like acid. "Strange."

Eragon frowned. "What's that matter?"

"Oh, don't you 'what's the matter' with me!" Impulsively, she slammed her hands against the tiny table, causing the wooden utensils to rattle and Eragon to flinch. "You know I want a child!"

Shit. He hated this topic, and she knew it. Eragon's gaze slid down to his lap where he was now twiddling his thumbs. "I know you do; I do, too, but you know elves aren't that…"

"Yes," said Arya into the awkward atmosphere. "I know, Eragon. I am an elf, after all. It's just…" She sighed dejectedly. "They say having a child is the greatest sign of love around here. I guess we just don't love each other enough, Eragon." She stood up and headed to their room.

Eragon stared after her in shock. He abandoned his food and followed her. "What does that mean?"

Arya buried her face in her hands. "Do you want to follow your traditions and get married? Will that increase our happiness? I know your family back home finds the elven ways of mating without matrimony somewhat sleazy. Do you find my customs sleazy, Eragon? Is that it?"

"My family back home is not me, and they only feel that way because most of them have never trained with elves. The ones back home who have trained with elves find nothing wrong with it!"

"I do not think so."

"And why is that?"

Arya sighed anew. She strutted out the door. "I am going to go head for some fresh air."

Eragon's heart sped up. "Will you be back?"

Arya pivoted around and glared at her lover. "Eragon, I traveled halfway around the world with you to move here and left behind both our families. Of course I am coming back!" With that, she stomped off.

"You know what?" muttered Eragon after she left. "Sometimes I wished we had never left." He remembered with vivid detail the fortune Angela had read him so long ago.

You will leave Alagaesia forever.

Eragon knew what would happen if he ever departed from his home country; he was aware of the consequences. Now he would never see his family again. He sighed and picked up his wineskin and glared at the red liquid substance inside. "Draum'r Kopa."

The wine shimmered for a moment, and woman stared in her beat up mirror crazily, the worry on her face so deep it almost left scars. Katrina. Eragon sighed; the image vanished into a the same old blood red drink.

Katrina glared mutinously into the eyes of her reflection. Oh, how she wanted to take a knife and chuck it at the glass! She plucked out one short strand of hair, her mane recently whacked off. "RORAN!" she shrieked. "COME HERE! IT'S AN EMERGENCY!"

Roran appeared in the doorway of the dressing room seconds later, his breath coming in labored rasps. "What's the problem?" he breathed. "Are you hurt? It sounds like you saw a snake!"

Katrina turned to gaze at her husband, but all she could see was his blurry form as salty, hot tears streaked her face. "Look at this!" She shoved the strand of hair she pulled out in his face. "Look at this!"

Roran squinted, trying to get a clear view of the thin strand. "Yeah. It's a piece of your hair. What about it?"

"W-What about it?" she sniffed. "It's a gray hair!"

Roran peered even further, analyzing this "gray" hair. "Damn, Katrina. All this crying and screaming over your hair?" He scratched his chin. He didn't see her problem!

"Not just my hair! My youth!" she wailed. "It is highly unf-fair at Nasuada will be b-beautiful and young for three hundred odd years, and I go gray in my twenties!"

"It's not gray. It's white."

"Bah! White!" She fled the room. "I'm going through my midlife crisis twenty years early."

"Damn, Katrina!" hissed Roran. "I told you. It's a white!" His face softened some as he grabbed her face and demanded they make eye contact. "Would I lie to you?"

"No," whispered Katrina after a moment.

Roran smiled. "That is what I thought."

Katrina returned his smile, took a deep breath, and tried to put this behind her. "We are going to the palace in an hour, so get cleaned up."

"Oh?" muttered Roran with mild interest. "On what occasion?"

"We go all the time! But if you really want to know." She grinned and winked. "Murtagh's birthday is next week. He's been unbelievably stressed lately, and Nasuada and the whole castle for that matter thought it would be nice to throw him a surprise party."

Roran arched an eyebrow. "And I did not hear about this?"

Katrina tapped her foot. "I told you at least thrice. How could you forget your cousin's birthday?"

"I didn't," said Roran nonchalantly. "He prefers to ignore it."

The sun hid behind the hills in a final goodbye all AJ and Murtagh finally slid off of Thorn some few miles away from Morzan's castle where no one would notice the dragon in the woods. Murtagh and AJ slipped out of their nicer looking tunics, traveling cloaks, boots, and shirts and shrugged into Murtagh's worn out old basic outfit of baggy tees and tarnished shoes. "Okay," said the father. "We want to look undercover and help the people there. Right now I'd say we're dressed as meat packers or possibly farmers, who are the typical people that volunteer." He grinned toothily. "Am I crownless?"

"As always," smirked AJ in return, examining his father's medium brown locks. "I would have no idea you were the king if I wasn't your son…"

Murtagh laughed, and the two took a nice, long walk down to Murtagh's childhood home until they arrived at the open front doors.

Welcome to Warfare Relief Center (WRC) serving those affected by war and others in need said a large sign outside the door.

"Why did we not pass any gates?" asked AJ, his face somewhat sweaty from the walk.

"I ordered to tear it down. A little foreboding, don't you think?"

AJ nodded. They drifted into the palace. The walls were a lively light blue, much different than the once miserable gray ones occupying it when Murtagh grew up. The entry hallway, once adorned with an overpriced red rug now lay bare. The interior designer felt it would loosen up the atmosphere and decrease the awkwardness when a warfare victim, upon first visiting, did not walk on a runner (that probably cost more than their homes) when they first stepped foot in WRC. A man waited near the door to greet them.

"Good evening," he said. "May I show you around?"

"No, thank-you," said Murtagh kindly. "We have been here before."

The man nodded. "Have a good day, sir. And remember, you all are welcomed here anytime."

AJ smiled bashfully and clutched onto his daddy's hand like a shy little boy would.

The man at the door gazed at AJ with gentle eyes. We are here to help, they said.

Memories flooded Murtagh, as they always did when he dropped in every now and then to meet the patients and get a status report. He stared at the large staircase directly in front of him. It led to the old dining room, the drawing room, the dressing room, and a few more empty chambers he used to love to play hide and seek in. However, he did not use the stairs. He and his son took a left and made their way to a small wooden door somewhat dull and ugly beside the stairs. As they entered the door, the largest soup kitchen in the world came into view, and dozens of men and women lined up to get their food. A few volunteers stood behind a counter near the coup cauldrons to dish the grimy people up their grub.

AJ stared at the chamber with wide-eyed horror. He tugged on his dad's hand he was holding. Murtagh bent down and AJ whispered in his ear, "Are these the people who were affected by the war?"

"Some of them," responded Murtagh in the same, hushed voice. "These are the ones who can't afford food. It doesn't mean it was because of the war; they just are too poor." His face screwed up.

AJ recognized the specific frown. "It's not your fault, dad. You're doing your best."

Murtagh blinked in astonishment at his son's words.

AJ rolled his eyes. "I've lived with you my whole life. I've learnt how to reads your expressions." He gave his father an uncharacteristic peck on the cheek.

Murtagh's face softened somewhat. He erected himself to his full height and walked up behind the soup kitchen counter. He tapped one lady helping out on her frail shoulder. "Excuse me, miss."

The woman jumped.

"Oh, um, sorry…"

The woman examined Murtagh and the boy holding his hand and her face warmed. "How can I help you?"

"I was wondering if you could direct me to the sleeping quarters?"

The woman smiled and pointed to an entryway to their right. "Go through there and keep walking straight."

"Thank-you." Murtagh flashed a toothy smirk.

The woman stared at him interestedly. "You look familiar. Have you been here before?"

"A few times." Murtagh tugged his boys fingers. "Let's go. Thanks for the help." He dashed out of the chamber and passed through the indicated door and continued strutting through about five dark doors attached to rooms filled with storage until he finally arrived in a large, once-ballroom chamber completely garnished with mattresses and persons wearing gross clothes and volunteers helping out.

Murtagh and AJ fit right in with the volunteers. Murtagh muttered in AJ's ear, his breath tickling his son. "Mingle and talk with the people. I'll meet back with you in about an hour."

AJ groaned.

"Pretend you're having fun or you'll be in even more trouble than you already are, and if I don't see you talking to these poor people then you will immensely regret it." He gave the boy a small threatening nudge and vanished into another room.

AJ had no idea what to do. Never having seen so many troubled people, he scanned the area. Only about a dozen people with plenty of spare beds in neat rows, their mumbled chattering echoing. Taking a deep breath, he walked up to an elderly woman sitting on a mattress and staring off into space. He knelt down and nervously placed his hand on her shoulder.

The woman, face and body smudged with dirt and clothes ripped to shreds, gazed at the boy somewhat startled.

"Sorry," cried AJ. "I did not mean to startle you."

The woman's gaze still stayed on him, her knotted, wispy hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

"Umm…" Her stare was unnervingly blank. "I am… AJ…"

After a moment of awkward silence, the woman rasped. "AJ?"

AJ nodded. "What's yours?"

"Angie."

"Angie?" clarified AJ. "That is a lovely name. My sister was almost named Angie, did you know that? But we decided to call her Rosie." A lie, but small talk was necessary.

Angie smiled slightly, making her seem ten years younger. "How old is your sister?"

"Two. Adorable, really. You know, my mother and father were in an argument one time, not too long ago. I think it had something to do with dad's work. Something about danger and…I can't remember. But anyway, Rosie's head was snapping back and forth when someone new was yelling. Everyone grew quiet; there was this oddly tense silence in the air. Rosie comes over to my mother and taps her.

"Mom asks her what she wants, not particularly caring at the moment. I think she was too worked up over father. Rosie crawls on her lap and stares intently at mom's skull. You know what she says?"

Angie slowly shook her head, fascinated.

"'I found another gray hair on mommy's head!'" AJ began laughing uncontrollably.

Angie couldn't help but smirk today. "That is pretty cute."

"That's not the end of it!" he chuckled. "Mom glares at Rosie. Rosie just grins innocently, and all of a sudden dad starts cracking up, too. 'You're getting old, babe,' he says." AJ's eyes lit up. "While mom is staring down my father with the power of a shade, Rosie was watching him thoughtfully. She slides off mom's lap and onto dad's. Then, she pounds on dad's tummy with her chubby hands. Then she said, 'Daddy's tummy jiggles!'" AJ hoped this story would somehow lighten the atmosphere of the situation.

It worked; Angie giggled.

"Then Rosie is trying to pull off his tunic so she can get a better look at his jiggling stomach, and she can't do it. 'Daddy!' I remember her crying, 'You're gettin too fat fo yor tunic!"

Angie and the few surrounding people started sniggering.

"Dad," continued AJ, "Who is by all means not putting on weight, just blinks and mom starts laughing until everyone is laughing and Rosie has no idea why the hell they are. Then you know what she does? She runs all through the pal- house chanting, 'Daddy needs diet! Daddy needs diet! Daddy needs diet!' doing her odd little Rosie dance."

Angie's snickering turns into a full laugh. "Kids can be strange, I must admit."

A ratty man stared at them. He said to Angie in a strange accent, "You're friend is crazy."

"A little bit," rasped Angie.

AJ sighed, thinking back on the good times. "Yeah, we have quite a bit of fun in our household."

Murtagh sat down in a old chair and scooted in under an old table and an old man sat across from him. He had thick eyebrows and a friendly countenance.

"How many people have checked in for food in the past month, Frank?"

"About three hundred," replied Frank. He was the only one in WRC that knew that the king was in their presence at the moment.

Murtagh frowned. "Three hundred? Did you have enough food?"

"Plenty, milord."

Murtagh nodded and jotted something down on a yellowed piece of parchment. "The past year?"

"About seven times that."

Murtagh nodded anew; the scratching of his quill reaching his ears. "Those staying the nights in the past year?"

"About one hundred, sire."

"Damn it, call me Murtagh."

"Yes, sire."

Murtagh rubbed his forehead. He reread his various notes and numbers he had marked down. "Is there anything we have not covered?"

Frank bit his cheek. "No, Murtagh. Nothing other than the fact more than half of the chambers in the home are still unused."

"Good," said Murtagh. "And the…den?"

"We've tried sticking people down there, milord. None of them liked it; the area seems to be the only place in this castle that seems to unnerve them."

"Well that's understandable." Murtagh stood up; his chair squeaked and echoed throughout the bare room. He rolled up the parchment and stuffed it in his pocket. "May I take a walk around the perimeter and examine the outside?"

"Of course, milord. Take all the time you would like, but I am positive you will fine the surrounding area of WRC to be most taken care of."

"Thank-You, Frank. You have taken care of this place lovely."

Frank smiled; no one knew why he preferred to be called Frank. His actual birth name was Frederick. "It is my civic duty, sire. I am flattered you pay me so much more than I requested."

Murtagh shrugged, waved him goodbye, and headed outside. He passed his son, who was apparently trying to break the ice between him and the homeless. Murtagh motioned for him to keep talking and spent ten minutes walking outside.

As he step foot out of the palace, fresh air wafted in his face; he realized he had been their much longer then he had assumed. The sun had dropped and stars speckled the cloudless sky.

And then, all of a sudden, Murtagh could have sworn he heard whispering. He pivoted around. "Anyone there?"

More whispering.

The darkness was bone-chilling; it made your imagination run wild. Who could possibly be whispering? Murtagh tiptoed and followed the sound of the hushed voices for how long he knew not. "WHOSE THERE?" he called.

The whispering instantly ceased; a single cry rang through the air.

Murtagh was running now, his mind touching the talking people.

"Run!" someone hissed. The old bell chimed atop if Morzan's castle, indicating it was ten o'clock; Uru'baen's curfew. All were to be indoors by now. The bell caused Murtagh a slight distraction, but that was just enough for the people to escape his mental hold. He could hear footsteps running frantically into the woods.

Murtagh sighed. Probably some teenagers breaking the curfew, Thorn.

Yeah, chuckled the dragon. Most likely.

Murtagh pushed the memory to the back of his brain and headed back inside. WRC, there doors never closed, was the one exception to the Uru'baen curfew. No doors needed to stay closed.

As Murtagh step foot into Morzan's castle, he stopped dead in his tracks. The blood from his face drained when he stared down in horror at the site before him.

There lay the man who welcomed him and AJ inside prior that day on the floor, dead. His farmer clothes were stained with blood.

But what was disturbing was the stick stabbed through his heart. And attached to the stick was a note addressed to Murtagh.

A/N: Okay, I know the ending was lame and confusing an d undescriptive. I'm so tired you have no idea. Forgive me for the typos. I've been on vacation for three weeks and I still AM. UGH. Well, I hope you liked it and it wasn't too fillerish, because it wasn't really a filler :D The ending was cheesy, though. I had AJ tell that story because I wanted to really show the bonding between the family and all…