REVIEW RESPONSES! YEAAAAH!!!
Dreamgirlhoo: Yes, ARYA WILL DIE! BWAHAHAHA! All Mary-Sues shall be crushed beneath my almighty sneaker heels. Or whatever.
Not enough angst between the brothers here. That comes next chapter, when Murtagh rants at Arya for hitting Thorn and Eragon defends the mighty MS. It's going to be FUN! ZWEE!
Ann: Thanks! I'm glad you like it.
Lady Hikari-Yami: Murtagh and Eragon join up? Hrm. –looks intelligent- I'm not too sure, really. I mean, yeah, they were friends once, but circumstances change…that's an idea. I've already got the vague shape of a plot forming, so I'll see what I can do.
Fredsonetrueluv: Not the Mary-Sues! NOT THE MARY-SUES! The Mary-Sues are really conquering CP's stuff…I mean, there's Arya, who'll probably become the third Rider (and thus enhance her perfectness), and then there's Katrina, who's a useless MS whose only purpose is to draw Roran and Eragon to Helgrind, and then there's…there's…okay, so there are only two. But they're bad enough.
Carline: -clutches Murtagh- NOOO!!! HE'S MINE! MINE, I TELL YOU, MINE!
Okay, since you won't believe me, let's ask him. Murtagh, who do you belong to, me or Carline?
Murtagh: You. Duh.
See? He's mine! You know he is. –shifty eyes-
I'll use your suggestion another time. I have some loopy ideas that'll come into flower if Murtagh ever gets captured. In fact, I think the third Rider will have something to do with it…you'll see. Ohh yes. You'll see.
Alsdssg: Eragon and crew shall be released this time around. I don't know, this plot is rather…well, nonexistent. I have half-formed ideas—Murtagh getting captured by Varden, Eragon getting captured by Galby—and then the consequences just kind of dance along. Either way, every choice just leads to more and more and more until I drown in the Swamp of Plotiness…
You might notice a coupla references to Why Galbatorix is Lame in here. That's how much that fic has influenced me. Seriously, every time I read the books now, weird random scenes keep popping up in my head and totally ruin the solemnity of the scene. -bangs head against wall- RRAARGH, it's enough to drive me nuts! But in a funny way. X.x
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The cave was dark, with a faint smell of blood and decay overlaying everything. Murtagh sensed them before he actually saw them; they lit up in his mind's eye like torches in a pitch-black night.
"Litha," Murtagh murmured softly. Between his fingers, a small globe of light flickered. Twitching his fingers, Murtagh sent the light hovering above them, illuminating the scene.
Eragon stood directly opposite him, his jaw hard and set. A tanned, rugged man that had to be Roran stood just behind him, his eyes flicking nervously around. In one muscular hand he held a hammer with easy familiarity, a familiarity that made Murtagh raise an eyebrow. He'd heard of unorthodox weapons in his time, of course, but a hammer?
"Murtagh," Eragon said suddenly, his strangely elfin eyes narrowed. "I should've known Galbatorix would send you."
Murtagh smiled lightly. "It is quite the opportunity, after all." He paused. "I suppose you're here to rescue Katrina?"
Roran made a strangled noise. Murtagh glanced at him, studying him thoughtfully. What a family reunion, he thought, darkly amused. His brother, his cousin—all they needed were the ghosts of Morzan and Selena to make it a party.
"Go down, two cells to the left," Murtagh advised quietly. "There are other prisoners the Ra'zac are keeping, too—you might want to take them to Surda; they'll only get eaten here." He shrugged. "But it's up to you."
Roran's eyes flitted toward Eragon, who nodded slightly. Warily, still keeping his eyes on Murtagh, Roran backed down the hall, vanishing from sight. As soon as he was gone, Murtagh raised a curtain of rippling fire over the entrance, blocking him away.
"This is between us, as Riders," Murtagh said when Eragon opened his mouth to say something counteractive, shaking his head. "Your cousin will only get hurt."
Eragon hissed softly, unsheathing his sword slowly as he took a step closer. It was a new sword, Murtagh noticed, most likely dwarven manufacture. Well, it couldn't compare to Zar'roc, anyway. Murtagh left the sword in his sheath, watching Eragon with a strange, detached calm.
"What do you want?" Eragon said coldly.
Murtagh shrugged. "Depends, really."
"So you're to capture us, then?" Eragon said, his voice sharp and challenging. "To take us back to Galbatorix, to bend us into service as his slaves? Like you?"
The last words echoed, faint and mocking. Murtagh sighed. "You might say that," he said at last, his voice mild. "You have the diplomacy and tact of a starving hyena, did anybody ever tell you that? Calm down. Yes, I have my orders, but I don't know if I can be bothered to drag you kicking and screaming back to Uru'baen." He paused, shaking his head slowly. "And if I did want to, Eragon, do you really think you could stop me?"
Eragon's jaw tightened. "I was tired last time. You try fighting for a whole day and see how you can take it."
"Pride," Murtagh said quietly, shaking his head.
"Truth," Eragon returned, sharp anger flaring in his eyes. "Maybe in your urge to slaver at Galbatorix's feet you've forgotten, I will never serve Galbatorix. Alive or dead."
Murtagh paused, the thought bringing a faintly ironic smile to his lips. Actually, the dead do serve, he thought, brushing against the wavering voices in his head. The dead, through the Vault of Souls, were what gave him and Galbatorix their strange, unbreakable power.
"You have no idea how you wrong you are," Murtagh said, and attacked.
The dwarven blade and Zar'roc collided in a shower of sparks as Eragon parried hastily, his new elfin reflexes appearing with startling clarity. He was a whole lot faster than the last time they had fought; surer of foot and quicker to react. Murtagh, after his first intial strike, found himself holding a defensive stance as Eragon pressed forward.
He's fast, Murtagh thought, half-admiring. Sad that this battle isn't about swordsmanship…
Murtagh narrowed his eyes, pressing forward with his mind as he thought a few rapid commands.
The effect was instantaneous. Eragon yelped as the dwarven sword in his hand glowed a shimmering blue, the air around the blade shimmering with heat. An instant after that, the blade dimmed and the red washed out—but the blade was useless now, brittle—and Eragon knew it. With a grimace of disgust he threw the blade aside, where it shattered with a resounding crash. "That's a foul trick, Murtagh," he snapped, looking annoyed.
"I know," Murtagh said. "Life's unfair. Get used to it." He paused, then sighed. Sheathing Zar'roc, he stepped forward slowly. "I have no choice, Eragon."
He reached forward, gripping Eragon's hand. Eragon shuddered, closing his eyes as Murtagh attacked again, this time with his mind.
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The voices were always there. Annoyingly. They were like an itch he could never scratch, buzzing at the back of his mind, surging forward in times of sharp emotion in a roar that threatened to overwhelm him. They had driven him to the brink of insanity more than once or twice; they even haunted his dreams—lost, drifting calls of those who weren't and wanted to be. That day, so many ages ago back in the Vault of Souls, Murtagh had given up something that he had just begun to discover and love, something whose loss had hurt him deeply, in return for these voices.
But along with the voices came power. Frightening, neverending power. Power to destroy worlds, to twist minds, and maybe—though Murtagh had never tried—to change time itself. Most of the time the power was a faint trickle in his mind: it was there, but he rarely tapped it.
Murtagh inhaled deeply, pulling away the mental barrier he had laid over the voices. They murmured, swelling, the power gushing out of him like a newborn stream. His hand tightening on Eragon's, Murtagh released them.
He felt Eragon scream, the cry shaking through his frame, vibrating through Murtagh's. Eragon's defenses flickered as the Rider fought, struggling to repel Murtagh's attack. Murtagh's breath was harsh in his throat, his eyes half-closed as he let the power flow; let himself be carried away on this rush of strange, exotic ecstacy, to revel in the feeling of pure, untainted power and mastery and—
MURTAGH!
A burning pain streaked through Murtagh's left arm as half-blurred images shot through his mind: fire, smoke, Saphira descending with a triumphant shriek, the Ra'zac rising to meet her, Arya and the white flame of magic, striking, hitting—
Thorn! Murtagh screamed, shoving Eragon away from him. He spun with blind panic, knowing only that somewhere, Thorn was hurt, Thorn was dying, and he, Murtagh, was stuck in some stupid cave because he couldn't find the way out! Thorn, hold on! he thought frantically, groping for the entrance.
His arm burned viciously, the pain nauseating. Somehow, Murtagh managed to pull himself out of the cave, only to find himself a staggering height above the ground. He could see Thorn lying below, a red glimmer of ragged scales on black stone. Murtagh closed his eyes, fighting to think rationally. It was a long, agonizing moment before he finally remembered: "Durna!"
He jumped as he spoke, and the air around him acted like a giant parachute, slowing his descent enough to prevent any serious injuries. Once on the ground, Murtagh scrambled to reach the dragon, jumping over the rocky terrain. Thorn? he said, heart pounding frantically. Where'd it hit, where's your—your wing—
Thorn was lying on his side, a position that Murtagh had never seen him in before. A wing was crumpled under him, with the familiarly acrid scent of blood in the air.
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Oww…
Thorn was more stunned than anything when the magic thrown by Arya first hit him. It tore into his wing, causing a great big huge gaping hole that Thorn could only stare at for a few frozen moments. Then they passed, and then he was falling.
MURTAGH! he'd yelled, mostly out of shock. Then when he actually hit the ground, that's when the pain set in—horrible, overwhelming pain from where his wing had crunched the ground, where he had slammed into it full force, blazing upwards. His head skittered down the face of the mountain, smashing heavily onto the rocky ground. Thorn swayed on the edge of consciousness, pain shooting through every vein of his body.
Thorn! he could hear Murtagh say. The Rider's voice was distant, almost like an echo. Thorn, hold on!
Like I've got a choice, Thorn gasped, feeling the hot slickness of dragon blood pool under him. Murtagh…
The words were fading rapidly, and it was a struggle to hold onto them. Strange, everything seemed so distant and blurry…
His wing hurt so badly.
Everything hurt.
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Murtagh found himself shaking as he bent by his dragon, his fingers slipping clumsily through the blood. Thorn? he said frantically. Thorn, I need you to move, you're right on your wing—
There wasn't an answer, not even a responsive flicker of consciousness. The connection between them was lifeless, without anything at the other end. Murtagh's heart stopped dead as he stared at Thorn, frozen by a single thought. He's not—he's not breathing—
"Thorn?" he whispered disbelievingly. Come on, don't, you can't—it's just the wing, how—
He was gasping like a drowning sailor, his frame shuddering as he stared. Thorn wasn't moving, wasn't breathing—he couldn't be dead, could he? He—
Then Thorn's chest moved.
It was a tiny movement, but then Thorn inhaled more deeply, his eyelids flickering. Murtagh groped along the mental connection—to his overwhelming relief, it was there. Thorn was unconscious. But he was alive.
Murtagh choked, staring. It took a few seconds for him to breathe again, relief sweeping through him to the point of giddiness. Murtagh shook his head, laughing—laughing at his own idiocy, for jumping to conclusions, for thinking the worst. "Guess I knew you wouldn't die on me," he whispered, kneeling by the dragon's side. He was shaking violently, almost hysterical with a combination of adrenaline, relief, and violent anxiety.
He touched Thorn's scales gently with trembling fingers, letting out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. If Thorn died, he would dry up and die himself. He was a Rider, and Thorn was his dragon, the one who knew him inside out. Thorn was his only companion in the hellpit Galbatorix called a city, the one who knew him better than he knew himself…
Murtagh closed his eyes, controlling himself. Laying his palm flat on Thorn's flank, he began to heal.
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-snuggles- Thorny! Thorn's too awesome to die. Like Murtagh. Both of them hold a special place in my heart, they're so PWNSOME! Eragon, on the other hand…
…let's just say that if he weren't so important to the tale, I would've knocked him off quite a while ago. But as for Arya—well! –evil cackle-
A lot of you gave me opinions on whether Murtagh should win or not, and I have decided already. I'll tell you next chapter. Speaking of the next chapter...
If all the stars align properly in the sky (a.k.a I have enough time, enough inspiration, and enough REVIEWS!!!!) I'll post the next chapter on Sunday! –hint hint- You know you want to review. PRESS THE PRETTY PURPLE BUTTON!
However…um…I was going to say something else. Hrrm.
Oh, yeah. Um, I need names. I need one for a FEMALE HUMAN and a MALE DRAGON. Yes, the third dragon egg is gonna hatch! NOT TO A MARY-SUE! NOT TO A MARY SUE! YEECCCH!!!
Yep, the third egg is gonna hatch. And yes, it's going to be to a female because there are already three male Riders and I'm an ardent feminist. Equality among the genders! Blah blah blah! Crusade! Yay!
But I digress. NAMES, PEOPLE! DON'T FORGET!
And of course…
REVIEEEEEEEEEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!