Part 4

For the duration of the following week, Murtagh thought of nothing but Moira. She had barely known him, and yet she trusted him. She even enjoyed her time with him, which no one did in the present times. And the way she looked at him; it was that of a friend to a friend, not peasant to monster. She made him feel human.

At the end of the week, Galbatorix personally went to Murtagh's room to escort him to his chamber for further training. Galbatorix knew things about magic that Murtagh was sure no other person in Alagaesia, even the fair elves knew. There were secrets, short cuts around the drain of energy that magic took on its wielder. As well as lessons in dark magic, he sparred with him, seldom with armor or dulled blades. Galbatorix always rationalized this with, 'the enemy will not have them either.' This usually resulted in deep cuts and bruises.

After several days of this, Murtagh sat on the edge of his bed, wincing as he healed his many cuts with the utterance of 'waise heill.'

"Is this all life will be for us?" he asked Thorn, who was lying leisurely in his spot on the other side of the room.

Thorn merely looked back at him, no answer in mind.

"If Galbatorix is truly as powerful as he says he is, and he vanquishes all threat to his throne, we will remain his slaves forever. And if he isn't, and his kingdom crumbles, then the Varden shall surely kill us for our crimes," he said as he wiped his own blood on his pants.

I would like to think that Eragon would show us mercy, Thorn said, licking his supper from his lips.

"Perhaps," Murtagh replied, standing and examining himself to make sure he hadn't missed any. He spoke out loud because he found the silence of speaking through thoughts to be too lonely.

A breeze blew in through the open balcony doors, making the many candles flicker. The changing of light caused specks of reflected red to dance madly over the walls from Thorn's scales. Murtagh admired them for a while, then the red color brought his mind back to Moira's gorgeous scarlet hair. He pictured her as he'd last seen her; standing in the wind, a hand raised in the air, her brilliant face burdened with the weight of worlds.

You humans, Thorn interrupted his thoughts.

Murtagh looked at him questioningly, searching for an explanation.

Oh, you just make everything more complicated than it needs to be, Thorn said, picking meat from in between his long white claws. We dragons are simple. Us males put on a show for the female, and she either likes it and we mate, or she doesn't and we don't. There's so much gray area with you humans.

Murtagh considered for a moment before replying with, "who says that's not what I was doing?"

Thorn considered this. Then I suppose she wasn't satisfied, huh?

"No! That's not it at all! We had to leave, and she had to return home," Murtagh defended himself.

You could have escorted her home, Thorn said, and Murtagh looked absolutely stumped.

"Well, the goal for us is not to mate; it is to find a respectable partner for marriage. You choose your rider, do you not? And you consider deeply before hatching," he said, proud of his answer.

I suppose, Thorn replied, grinning, his white fangs shining in the candlelight.

"What's that stupid grin for?" Murtagh said, pulling a shirt over his head.

You were extremely attracted to her, Thorn said, still grinning.

"Well yes, she was gorgeous. Perfect, even. You yourself told me all that time ago that Saphira was an incredibly well sculpted dragon. Am I not allowed the same courtesy?"

I didn't mean that. I'm just saying that if you find her that appealing, why haven't you gone back? Thorn said, his statement met with silence.

After thinking on the question for quite some time as he washed his face in a basin, he turned back to Thorn and said, "because Galbatorix would notice we'd left."

I didn't say we. I said you, Thorn said, again met with silence.

Murtagh was utterly speechless. He had no comeback, no explanation as to why he hadn't gone.

"Alright. Fine. I'll take Tornac and I'll go now," he said.

Now! Thorn huffed, It's well past nightfall. How will you find your way?

"I know what direction to go. As long as I keep Uru'baen behind me and the mountains before me, I'll surely find it."

Thorn studied him for a long while, then shrugged his massive shoulders. Okay. Just be careful, and hurry back. If you're not back by daybreak, the King will surely notice.

Murtagh smiled, grabbed a few of his belongings, and turned toward the door.

"Get some sleep, my friend," he said to Thorn at the door. "I'll be back before daybreak."

Thorn nudged him lovingly with his snout, then turned to groom himself like a cat.

Sneaking through the castle without being noticed proved a much harder task than expected. There were guards at virtually every corner, and he couldn't use magic to conceal his presence because he knew Galbatorix would sense it. Nevertheless, Murtagh emerged into the stables, carrying his minimal supplies. Tornac peaked over his stall gate, nickered, and returned to eating his hay.

Murtagh made his way over to the stall, where Tornac's saddle was draped, gathering mounds of dust.

"Sorry I haven't visited, old friend," he whispered, entering the stall and brushing dirt from the horse's fur and mane.

The horse merely kept eating and stomped a foot as Murtagh tacked him. He synched the girth tightly, and the massive Fresian pinned his ears.

"Sorry," he said, patting Tornac's shoulder.

"Hello?" a small voice said, frightening both Tornac and Murtagh.

Murtagh stepped out of the stall to see Dara, peering into the darkness with a measly candle raised in her hand.

"Dara!" Murtagh exclaimed quietly, relieved to find that it was only her.

"Murtagh? What are you doing down here?" she asked quizzically.

"I'm going out for only a few hours. Please don't inform the King. I'll be right back," he said urgently.

Dara furrowed her eyebrows, then lowered the candle. "You were never here. Now go," she said simply, and with that, she turned her back on him and walked back out of the stables.

Right, Murtagh thought. He would have liked more time to question the woman on what, exactly, she was doing in the stables, but as it were, he was pressed for time already. Opening the stall wide, he mounted Tornac and heartily spurred the stallion forward. The horse grunted and leapt out of his stall and out of the open stable doors.

Murtagh had almost forgotten what an exhilaration it was to ride a horse. True, it was nothing compared to the brilliance of riding a dragon, but being astride an animal this much smaller than a dragon made Murtagh revel in the speed. When high in the air, it was easy to forget exactly how fast he was traveling, but this was entirely different. He had to stop himself from yelling into the night as he enjoyed the whipping wind over his face, and the heat of the horse beneath him.

It took nearly twice as long for Murtagh to reach the hill and pond, and from there, he rode another few leagues to a small, glowing village. There were no walls surrounding Altair, for it was viewed as meaningless when compared to the trading capital that Dras-Leona was. There were, however, guards doing routine walks through the tiny city.

Murtagh dismounted, hobbled Tornac, and walked silently toward the few houses whose candles were still burning. It wasn't hard to sneak past the guards and into the dirt streets of Altair. He peered into several windows; troubled at how he was to determine which was Moira's. He looked into the houses that bore candles, and just when he thought he would have to give up, he caught sight of her.

His heart leapt and pounded at the sight of her. She sat on a rickety bed, clad in a simple nightgown, knitting some kind of clothing and singing softly to herself. Her voice was incredibly serene, and at the sound of it, Murtagh shivered again. He approached her open window, and hesitated.

"Moira," he called in a whisper, and she jumped. She looked around before spotting him at the window.

"Murtagh?" she gasped, and approached the window. "What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?"

"I… I had to see you again," he said, the statement sounding somewhat juvenile.

Moira stared in amazement before beckoning to him. "Come inside, the guards will see you."

He grabbed the window frame and easily hoisted himself inside as she backed away to give him room. "I'm sorry I came at such a late hour, but the King would notice my absence during the day."

"It's fine," she replied, setting her cloth and knitting needles on her bedside table. "Where's Thorn?" she asked, peering out the window.

"Oh, he stayed in Uru'baen. I felt that if he came, the King would notice. I came on my stallion," he said, looking around at her small room.

It was small, yes, but it felt very cozy. Many candles burned, lighting the room with dull light, and warming it. There was the bed on one wall, and a clothing chest on the other, which was neatly organized as it sat open. His eyes went back to Moira, and they simply stared at each other for a second until she giggled nervously and broke his gaze.

"You live here with your family?" he asked, breaking the icy silence.

"No, actually," she replied, and he raised a questioning eyebrow. "This home belongs to my brother. I stay here with him. It actually belonged to my…" she paused, her voice catching. "My fiancé."

Murtagh was speechless. She hadn't bore a ring when they'd met, so the thought had never occurred to him.

Obviously noticing his astonished face, she quickly went on. "He was recruited for Galbatorix's army. He left two weeks before we were to be married," she paused, seeming to battle some internal conflict. "That was a year ago this winter."

Murtagh stared at her for a moment, comprehending what she'd said.

"Wow, I'm… I'm sorry," he said. "Is he here? Your brother, that is," he said kindly.

"No. Thanks to your warning I was able to get here just before the soldiers and warn him. He fled north; he should be back before the week is out," she said, staring at the ground and fiddling with her fingers.

"Did you love him? Your fiancé?" he said, and immediately mentally chastised himself for being so blunt.

Moira looked up at him, but didn't seem hurt by the question. "I don't know. It's hard to be in love when you don't know what love is. I cared for him, yes. I wanted to marry him, yes. But did I love him? It's hard to say. The match was perfect. We would have made a lovely husband and wife. He would farm the land, I would knit our clothing and weave rugs to sell. We would have been very prosperous. But he was a calm, collected man. I've always been a free spirit. When I was five, I stole my mother's horse and went galloping across the plains near Dras-Leona.

"So did I love him? Not like I love my mother, my father, my brother. But I suppose I did care for him to an extent. Again, I don't know what love is. I always fantasized when I was a girl that when I met my love, I would know it. I would feel it. I didn't, with him. But I suppose my thoughts about love were just a childish girl's fantasy, right?"

"No, no not at all. It isn't childish to wish for a simpler world. I myself do it many times. But perhaps you were right, and he just wasn't the right match. Perchance, you may have been happy to an extent and prosperous, but maybe he wasn't the one," Murtagh replied, awed by her deep reflection of the world.

"Maybe," she replied, looking deep into Murtagh's eyes with a confused and wondrous air. They stared for a moment until Moira cleared her throat and looked away sheepishly.

"So," she said, pushing her obviously recently brushed hair behind her ear. "How are those scars on your chest?"

"Oh, getting better," he said, looking at the floor.

"They're whip marks, aren't they?" she replied, her brow furrowed in pity.

"Um," he began, biting his lip, "yes."

Moira sighed in compassion, and stepped forward. She laid a hand gently on his chest, her fingers running along the cloth, and the touch somehow remained innocent.

"The King did it?" she asked, looking back into his eyes.

"Not him personally, but on his orders," he replied, his voice low.

"Let me see," she said, and without waiting for a reply, she hooked her fingers under the shirt and pulled it up and off.

Murtagh felt highly uncomfortable letting her do that, but when her hands found their way back to his skin, all doubts vanished. She traced the scars with her fingertips, very gently, scrutinizing each one. He watched her, captivated by her enthusiasm.

"What did you do? To merit these?" she asked, still touching.

"I," his voice cracked, and he had to stabilize it before continuing. "I failed a mission he sent me on… for the second time."

Moira seemed to notice his break in speech, and looked back up at him.

"I'm sorry you had to endure this," she said truthfully, but her eyes wandered from his eyes to his lips; a movement that was slow and deliberate.

Murtagh watched her cautiously, taking a deep breath to break the tension that was suddenly welling up in his throat.

She leaned forward slightly, inclining herself on the balls of her feet, moving closer to him. She watched him like she would a rabid dog, as if expecting him to do something violent. But instead of stopping, she leaned all the way in.

She pressed her lips gently against his, testing him to see if he would allow it. Everything in his rational mind was screaming "this is a bad idea," but he couldn't stop her… wouldn't. He began to kiss her back slowly and cautiously, afraid that the consequences of this would manifest immediately.

She deepened the kiss by pressing her lips harder against his and biting at his lower lip, and his brain spun as if he'd just been racked over the head with the broad side of a blade. She laid her hands on him then; one tracing up his chest, the other curving behind his neck and holding him firmly but soothingly.

Murtagh's better sensibilities kicked in then, and he grabbed her upper arms, completely calmly, and pushed her away.

"I… I can't do this. If we go any farther, I doubt I have the strength to keep myself from doing something… ungentlemanly," he sighed, his brain yearning to feel that warm, breathless feeling again.

He expected Moira to be disappointed, but she wasn't giving up just yet.

"Why did you come here, tonight, Murtagh?" she asked, tilting her head like a puppy and batting her emerald eyes at him.

"I… I don't know. Can't I just say that I wanted to see you again, and let that be enough?" he said, still holding her. He hadn't realized his thumbs were brushing her arms, up and down, feeling her smooth, tanned skin.

"I suppose," she said, tearing her eyes from his and looking to the side. "But Murtagh…"

She looked back at him, her huge eyes resembling the moon on a cloudless night. Her fiery hair fell around her face, perfectly setting her into a portrait of raw beauty.

"Sometimes not taking a risk is the biggest risk of all," she said, bringing her face closer to his again.

He watched her, watched the fire blazing behind her eyes. It seemed to mimic flawlessly the rebellion that stood out in her hair, her mannerisms. He sighed.

"Oh, to hell with it," he stated simply, and his hands darted to either side of her face, cupping her sculpted jawbones, and he pulled her into a deep, drawn out kiss he was unaware he could produce.

She returned his efforts back on him tenfold, seeming almost desperate as she traced her hands rapidly all over his body, feeling each and every flaw in the skin, each curve of muscle.

He did the same, letting his hands drop from her face to her sides, running them along her slender, chiseled frame.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, letting her kisses wander from his lips, to his jawbone, to his neck. She leaned against him, her body heat making him feel feverish. She pulled one leg up and wrapped it around his thigh, and something primal took over him.

He bit at her neck, playfully yet still sensually, and grabbed her thighs, lifting her up and enabling her to wrap both legs around him, still kissing and caressing his hot skin. He smiled to himself as he took a long stride forward and leaned down a bit so that she got top-heavy.

She fell with a slight squeal onto the bed behind her, bouncing slightly as he crawled on top of her like a prowling wildcat. He smiled, not a genuine or natural one, but a more of a sadistic, almost evil grin. And she responded.

Her hand found its way to his pants and fumbled with them as he clumsily and almost desperately pulled her dress up over her thighs.

She wrapped her free hand around his neck and pulled him close, kissing him again, but this time with more ferocity.

This is a very bad idea, his conscience was ringing in the back of his skull. He shunned it aside along with all his troubles.