Hey everyone! So I decided to start this up again, because I am lazy and it is intolerable. (Bad author.)

So we're going to start off with some Murtagh, and then we'll go from there!

Thanks!

Disclaimer: Not mine. I want IC so bad. But it belongs to CP and I am not him. (Unfortunately)

I: Eyes

"Murtagh, my boy, come help your cousin!"

The familiar call rouses you, waking you from your nap. You smile, stretch. The sun feels good on your stomach and the wind is just right. Today is a good day, an excellent summer day. You just returned from a hunting trip, there is plenty of food, and later you might go visit the old storyteller.

"Lazy." Roran mutteres, already hard at work, tilling the earth. You grin.

"I just spent five days out hunting for your sorry arse." You say loftily. "And you call me lazy? What were you doing, cousin?"

A blush colors Roran's face, and your eyes gleam brightly.

"Out wooing Miss Katrina, were we?"

"Ah, shut up and start working." Roran's face is still red, and laughing, you help him till the soil. It feels good, the movement of the earth. Clean, honest. Farming is good work, and it's all you've ever wanted to do.

Later that day, you and your love struck cousin walk into tow and you pass a clear puddle of water, left over from the heavy rains a few days ago. Roran's hair is brown, slightly curly. His nose, like yours, is strong, his face defined. And his eyes are brown.

Yours are blue.

For a moment, a heartbeat, you wonder why, but then you shrug, move on. Lots of people have blue eyes. It's not uncommon.

(But no one in your family has them, and you can't help but wonder.)

II: Love

"Murtagh, would you like to accompany me into the tunnels?"

You know that you should go with Ajihod, really, you do. It would further prove how loyal you are, how willing you are to serve the Varden. You should go. Eragon would want you to.

But he's on the other side of the city, presumably talking with Arya, and since you are not a magician, you can't talk to him.

Ajihod is waiting patiently for your answer, dark eyes hooded, and you struggle to make your decision. The leader of the Varden in waiting.

But so is his daughter.

"I am sorry, sir. I have already made plans." Your stiff, formal speech shows again as you fall into the habits of court, the ones that Tornac drilled into you thick skull until you were fit for noble company. (She is noble company. You hope to the gods that you won't forget anything.)

"Already have plans?" A black eyebrow rises, half exasperated, half amused, because he knows, the bastard. "Very well. I will call on you another time."

"I look forward to it." You bow and slide past the man, turning through the maze of Farthen Dur with steady strides and shaking hands. You shouldn't be doing this. She is good and noble and wonderful and you are the bastard son of a monster with questionable morals and dark thoughts. You should leave, while you can, while she won't get hurt.

"Murtagh!" Nasuada calls, her face lighting up, and you know that you can't turn back, even though you should. Instead, you smile, hoping your face doesn't crack with the effort, and take her hand.

The two of you spend hours in the tunnels, walking together through the city, talking, laughing. You decide that you love her.

And then a messenger rushed up with terrible news, and Ajihod is dead and Nasuada collapses into your arms, sobbing, and all you can think of is it should have been me.

The funeral is two days later, and the woman you love is together, her hurts hidden. The dwarves put Ajihod in the ground, and the Varden goes on.

You have the woman you love, you have trust, you have hope. But your heart is shaken and you see his face at night, asking you to come along, telling you that he'll call on you another time.

And he is dead, now.

(It should have been you.)

III: Flight

"Run, boy, run!"

You hear Tornac shouting behind you, roaring, his horse screaming as it is torn to pieces but swords and bows and arrows. You spare one glance behind you, and the silver-washed city, the blood, the screaming.

"No!"

But your shout falls on deaf (dead) ears and you keeping running, like he told you to, and you are blinded with pain and with tears. You never cry, and now you can't see—

Perhaps it is for the best, because then you can't see the arrow, magicked, speed towards your heart, you can't see his face, torn, broken, and you can't see yourself, stunned, howling, as the arrow, barbed and fatal punches through your chest and you go flying, eyes dulling, and the stars seem to be weeping –!

(And they are weeping, aren't they?)

IV: Defiance

"Master will be pleased to see you."

Oh how you wish that you weren't tied up. You dearly, dearly dearly don't want to be tied up. You want to be freed, want to be able to fight the monstrous Twins that plan to return you to Galbatorix. You don't want to go. At all.

Somehow, you know that you'll die if you go, or worse. And that is not an option.

But they have taken your weapons, taken everything that could possibly free you, and you lie bound and helpless, half-starved, waiting for death.

Eragon would think you weak. You tell yourself, furiously. The thought enrages you, but for all your rage, your strength, you cannot break free.

But you can live. That thought, that one thing no one can take away, your right to life, your spirit, keeps you alive. You suffer in glaring silence, do not show pain or fear (even though you hurt and you're terrified, so very terrified). Within a month, you are dragged through the hated gates, back into Uru' baen.

The citizens, some of whom recognize you, watch in solemn silence. Your blue eyes flash defiance, and then there is a movement. They salute you, the gutter rats, the dirty street dwellers. As they should. You are one of them, always have been, and you are proud.

When they take you before the King, who practically spits in fury, you smile coldly and glare coolly.

He cannot take your spirit. He calls you names, spits on you, tortures you—

And you wait, lax against the ropes, and his guard is down, and then you lunge at him—

Galbatorix screams in rage and shock and surprise and magic leaves his hand, catches you in the heart, you fall, blood and fire crackling, sizzling—

He is roaring because you defied him, you didn't give in—

And you are dead before you hit the floor.

(Eragon would be proud.)

V: Rejection

"Touch this."

There's an egg, sparkling, crimson, shoved beneath your fingers.

It takes you a moment to figure out what it is—you haven't eaten in days and you're hazy with pain and hunger and fear. You can feel the King above you and you bare your teeth at him, violently, even though you're helpless and he can kill you with a flick of his deadly fingers.

And then you realize that the cool, smooth thing under your hands is one of the dragon eggs and you recoil, because the Rider is in your blood, your father has it and your brother has it, and you don't want it, because what use are you to a dragon? You're crippled and ruined and hurt inside.

(And the egg is red, like your father's dragon. You do not want to be your father.)

Galbatorix snarls in frustration and drags your hands to the egg, forcefully.

You growl weakly but you're held there, your fingers pressed against the cool shell, waiting, fearful, of what will happen.

Nothing does.

The egg doesn't wobble or squeak or shatter. The dragonling inside it doesn't want you, apparently.

Galbatorix curses and kicks you, swiftly, in the ribs. You hiss and then he's gone, the red egg winking away.

It didn't choose you.

For a moment, you are releved. You won't be your father.

And then the sting of rejection comes.

You aren't good enough.

(And really, have you ever been?)

I: End

"It's okay."

The battlefield is lit with smoke and fire and blood and you watch him, calm, dispassionate. Your brother is struggling with something that is greater than himself (pain, fear, heroism) and he's trying not to cry.

You watch and wish you could feel, but Thorn is dead and you should be too and you can't feel anymore because there's no point, really.

The bodies of the dead lie around you.

They killed your Thorn.

You killed them.

Roran Stronghammer, Blodhgarm the elf, Hrothgar's successor Orik, elves, humans, dwarves, Urgals. All are dead because you killed them.

Eragon is fighting with himself because now it's his turn to kill you.

"It's okay." You tell him, gently. "Come on, it'll be over."

"I can't." Eragon whispers, his blue sword glittering. (Zar'roc is buried inside Roran's chest.) "I can't, you're my brother."

You almost smile at him.

"It's okay." You repeat, and then you lunge, leap for him—

His sword comes up—

It punches through your armor, your chest, your lungs.

You fall to the ground, wheezing, your vision guttering like a candle.

He looks at you like he's about to cry. "It's okay," you whisper, and then you die.

(Thorn is waiting for you.)

If you have any questions, comments, or requests, please leave a review! It's open to everyone!

I think I am going to do Brom next, okay?

Thanks!

~WSS