Hello again, darlings. First off, I want to sort-of apologize. I didn't mean to leave you guys, but I did warn you that updates are going to be considerably less frequent. College started again, and it's time-consuming, if anything. But I am sorry, and I'll try to be better, okay?

Also, I feel bad- I left this story alone for so long because I was incepted by Inception and am now up to my neck in that fandom. Er, oops?

Okay, I want to thank you, all my delightful, delightful readers. You guys go above and beyond every time, and it's nice. :D The reviews are thoughtful, the feedback excellent, and just all around spectacular. You are seriously the best fans in the world. 333333333333

I was given some questions but I can't remember them- my email, for some reason, purged all my folders, in which I keep reviews and stuff. So, if you have questions, please PM me or drop a review or something, and I'll answer to the best of my ability! Thank you so much!

To my betas: You guys are the best. I love you. You are invaluable to this process.

Disclaimer: I am not CP. Not even close.


"And we stand
So close but yet
So far
Caught in the middle
Unable to move forward
Or back
Needing what we
Cannot need
Wanting what we
Cannot want."

-Need

Chapter Six: Longing

The air was dry and cool, brittle, almost like the forest after a fire. It was still winter, but this land, this dry, treeless land, was barren of snow. The grass underfoot was shriveled and brown and the dirt was hard and caked to the earth, the waters, few and far between, were slow and low.

The animals, the strange, foreign cats with spots and manes and the deer that leaped like rabbits, the horses with black and white stripes, the huge, hulking graya creatures with heavy tusks and long, long trunks, were everywhere, however, wild and fierce and unafraid of the traveler.

Of course they were unafraid—they had never seen a two-legged being in living memory, as the traveler had discovered when he looked through their minds. They didn't know what his people could do—they didn't know about the dangers of arrows and swords and the fires that elves set. They didn't know about the Light, the magic that was so much stronger now, so much more powerful in his people that every day the elves cried out as one of their own died, claimed by the laws of a power far greater than any they had ever experienced.

Even here, so far away from the ancient forest, the traveler felt the aftershocks of powers ripple through him, the waves of fires that burned through their setters, of waters that drowned their makers, of souls swallowed whole by a void, and emptiness that sucked their life away.

The powers of the dragons, the wordless magic, the strong Light, burned in his people now, and it was killing them because they did not understand.

But he had no time to wonder about them now—every second of every day he was drawn on, deeper and deeper into the dry wildland, through the herds of striped horses and the maned cats, through the barren fields and the drying streams.

He couldn't fight it any more. He didn't even look back, didn't ache for his mate and his family, his friends. There was only the way forward, the path on, and there was nothing left behind him, nothing but the ashes of a terrible, terrible war. The dragons could not find him here, they could not bare their teeth or breathe their fire. He was safe as long as he kept walking, kept learning and journeying and discovering.

The wind brushed his face, dryer than anything he had ever felt, and he kept walking, the beat of his feet a rhythm, a warrior's drum, the calls of the animals and the roar of the wind ringing in his ears…

Murtagh opened his eyes and found himself standing alone in a dark room, leaning heavily on Zar'roc, pain firing up his leg and shadows swirling behind his eyes.

He swayed, terribly confused. This was not his current home—this was a dark room in the keep, a secure room, bound with powerful magic. This was a hidden room, the doorway covered by a statue. This was the room that held the Eldunarí and the dragon eggs.

And Murtagh had absolutely no idea how he got there. He had been in his room, lying on his bed, staring glassily up at the ceiling, at the cracks in the paint and the fat spider that busily spun her web, thinking about the rather disastrous meeting with Arya.

Said meeting had started with violence and ended with violence. The green-eyed elf woman had been furious at him to start with; she blamed him for Eragon's death and her newfound, raging emotions had gotten the better of her. And then he had told her about his meeting with Faolin, and received a few painful (though not very dangerous, fortunately) wounds for his trouble.

Murtagh had honestly felt that he had been making progress with Arya, however. He had convinced her to lower her sword, to accept that he was not her enemy. He had even extended his clan's offer to her and she had not thrown him out, at least until he saw the map and opened his damned mouth.

He should have known better, really. There was a time to speak and a time to be silent, and he had spoken when he should have been silent and then he had been forced to beat a hasty, limping retreat. Arya had become irrationally angry when Murtagh told her that he had dreamed about the map.

She had sort of bared her teeth at him and slashed him again, this time on the arm, and she couldn't be calmed with words, so Murtagh wisely left to avoid further injury, because he wouldn't attack her back.

But he hadn't received any answer about the map, and it was bothering him. He had dreamed of those places, of the wide, wide plain and the lake that was as large as the sea. He had seen them, smelled them, felt the cold air on his face and heard the wind whistle in his ears.

Every night he saw them, walked them, and to find a map, an ancient, cracked thing, with those places drawn out, had nearly killed him, had sparked his familial curiosity and he had almost taken the map and fled.

But, being crippled, he wouldn't have gotten far and Arya's retribution would have forced him to fight back, and he had put it down and left.

He kept seeing it though, imprinted against his eyes, the cracked, peeling paint, the wide plain and the sea-lake and the almost-desert-like land, and the hints of a golden forest, and it was driving him mad.

Murtagh had been there, in the forest that was bursting with golden light. It had been a dream, or so he thought; he had passed out on the battlefield, his body full of lightning and burnt things, and he had stood on the soft earth and talked to his brother while the sweetest birdsong filled his ears. He had seen a river that flashed with a thousand faces, and he had seen something else too, something large and dark that stood in the river and forced the waters to bend around it.

That forest, that was the end, was what the traveler in his dreams was searching for. It was what Arya was looking for too, Murtagh knew it, in the same way he knew that he was being pulled away from Belatona, away from his clan and his duties.

His skin itched, his fingers twitched, his eyes kept looking towards the east, towards the sunrise. All day he had been distracted, had been tortured by the agony in his leg and the tug in his bones, the force he could feel dragging him towards the plains and the lake and the desert-grassland and the forest.

And quite frankly, he was tired of it. He was just plain tired, too, far more tired than he had thought. He had been sure that he wouldn't sleep, that the call would have kept him awake through the night, attempting to drag him from his bed. But he had dozed off and dreamed again and now he found himself in the most important room in all of Belatona, the Rider's Treasury.

And he was still confused.

This room was full of important possessions. Here were the Eldunarí and the scrolls that Griffin the Gray One had found or had brought to them. These scrolls had the Rider laws and legends inked on their parchments, had the ancient spells that had formed the basis of Rider life. Murtagh did not know where the blonde, bearded man had recovered the scrolls. To his knowledge, all of them were burned when Galbatorix came to power. The mad King had destroyed everything, had burned libraries and towns to the ground to erase the remnants of the Rider era. But yet, there were still scrolls, smelling like must and moths, sitting in front of him, words that could shape the future of Alagaesia.

And Griffin had had them.

Murtagh wasn't sure what to think of Griffin. He was remarkably well-informed, deeply connected in Uru'baen. He knew most of what went on in the City of Sorrow, probably thanks to his brother Jarn, and he knew when and where the Empire's raids would hit. Jarn was the same; mysterious and well-informed. And the third brother, the shy, thin one, Lore, would turn up every other week or so, laden with scrolls and maps and information, darting away as soon as he had handed over his burdens to Griffin.

The three brothers—or cousins, or half-brothers—were powerful. They were the Last Ones, the direct descendents of the Gray Folk, the little-known beings who bound magic to the ancient language when one of their own almost destroyed the world with his (or her) power. And as such, the trio mystified and confused Murtagh. They felt old, ancient, like relics of the past, crackling and humming with a power he himself would never understand. He was wary of such power, nervous around Griffin or even the twitchy Lore.

But they were useful, despite being confusing and a little frightening (not that Murtagh would ever admit to that), so Murtagh was content to leave them alone, as long as they didn't threaten his family.

The Treasury had its scrolls and its Eldunarí, around twenty of them, all pulsing and glowing and brushing up against his mental shields but not trying to breach them. Most of the Hearts were still wary of him because he had used them, had taken their powers like Galbatorix.

He was trying, though, to be better, to be kinder and to not use any Eldunarí unless they offered their assistance.

Two of the Eldunarí, the bright gold and the cerulean, were at the front of the collection—Glaedr and Sirocco, the two "leaders" of the Hearts, so to speak.

They prodded his mind curiously, but Murtagh shut them out. He couldn't deal with them at the moment—he was too busy trying to figure out how he arrived in the Treasury and why.

He looked around, blinking, swaying, his mind whirling, his dreams flashing before his eyes. He stepped deeper into the shadow, looking around, and his bright eyes settled on the greatest treasures in the entire city, for the entire resistance. Tucked away in the corner, surrounded by a powerful, pulsing reddish enchantment, which Murtagh cast himself, lay six dragon eggs.

They were silver, black, blue, red, yellow, and one was a strange sort of marbled gray-white. Five of them had been in Ophelia Kindmother's possession. She had taken them with her when she and Deloi and Talon finally abandoned their cave home, hidden them, and then after her death Deloi had brought them to the Varden for safe-keeping.

Three of those eggs, the black, red, and marbled, were from the Fall, taken and hidden from the Forsworn's raids. Two others, the blue and the yellow, were Ophelia's own offspring, magicked into waiting for their Rider to appear.

And the last egg, the silver egg, had been, at one time, a living dragon named Kimerlun. He had been captured and slain by the Forsworn, his Eldunarí forced into submission and then later given to Murtagh and tied to Thorn.

Galbatorix had created a black spell that bound Kimerlun's ancient magic to Thorn, and when the words were spoken, Thorn grew. His body aged due to the old magic, and Kimerlun's spirit grew younger and younger, his Heart shriking until he was hatchling-sized, his magic pure and untamed.

And then the King had reached in to that pure power and seized it, twisted it, and somehow managed to create a living egg from the soul.

Such magic defied the laws, defied everything Murtagh knew. It even baffled Griffin and Lore, the carriers of the old magic. It did not seem possible but it was, because Kimerlun lived.

His egg was waiting to hatch to a Rider, and he was as strong as any of the other eggs. And these eggs were the future, were the reason for fighting. None of the others in his clan knew where he had hidden the eggs—no one but Nasuada knew, and she had a way of killing herself if she was captured.

Murtagh watched the eggs for a time, marveling at how the lights from the Eldunarí reflected and refracted off the eggs. It was beautiful, memerizing, even. He could feel his eyes start to slide shut and he swayed, caught up in the power of the room and in the remnants of his dream.

He felt the dry wind on his lips, heard the roars of huge cats and the cries of horses, the stamp of feet on dry earth.

He saw the lake, flashing, a piece of unbroken glass, and the plain, blanketed with snow. And at the edges of his vision, he saw the twinkling of golden light, heard the rush of running water—

"Who are you?" A harsh voice interrupted Murtagh's thoughts, snapped him awake, and he jerked, rocking to his left foot to lift Zar'roc.

Firelight washed over the room, and Lady Nasuada, the only other person who had the ability to enter the Treasury (it had been the terms of the treaty forged between the Riders and the Varden) peered at him suspiciously, gripping her sword, until she recognized him and relaxed.

"Murtagh." She said evenly.

"Lady." He replied, just as steadily, even though his mind was scrambling to shake free of the images and his senses were reeling. The sight of her was almost overwhelming—after a day of living in dream, of seeing far-off lands instead of the one in front of him, she was startlingly real, her edges sharp, clear cut.

Murtagh could smell her too, the faint trance of something flowery and of the spiced tea she was fond of. He almost stepped back but found he couldn't. He was caught by her realness, and he stayed.

"What are you doing here?" Her tone was not hostile, only slightly curious.

You should be angry with me. Murtagh thought sadly. Why aren't you? Everyone else seems to be.

"I don't know." He answered honestly. There was something about Nasuada that made him tell her the truth—it had always been that way, even when he was a prisoner in Farthen Dur. He couldn't lie to her. He didn't want to, which was worse, because he couldn't afford this, couldn't deal with whatever this was. He was a warrior, a cripple, a broken man. He had Riders to lead and a war to win.

And Nasuada could get him to walk away, to leave it all behind, probably with one word.

And damn her, she knew it, too.

She tilted her head and studied the red Rider thoughtfully. "Can't sleep?"

"Can't stay sleeping."

The silence fell between them and, for some reason, it cut like a knife (or lightning). Nasuada shifted, her torch throwing light into the deep recesses of the Treasury. Murtagh watched her, his sword still half-raised, half-expecting her to rage at him, to call him a traitor, and egg-breaker.

She didn't.

They stood awkwardly apart, the air around them humming, his hands white around his sword, hers shaking eversoslightly.

The tension was almost unbearable. It had been like this for the last two months—always sidestepping, skirting one another, never making eye contact, always shrinking, running, hiding. In meetings they could barely look one another in the eye, could barely speak to each other. The only time they had had a genuine discussion was when Nasauda asked him to bind his clan to the Varden and he refused.

And now they were in the Treasury, in the middle of the night, clinging desperately to weapons and hurts and still not looking each other in the eye.

"How did you get in? None of the guards saw you." Nasuada said carefully.

Murtagh shrugged. "I don't know." He replied softly. "I don't remember falling asleep."

Again the silence fell between them, heavy and uncomfortable, and Murtagh couldn't help but laugh bitterly.

The Lady of the Varden watched him, surprise flickering across her face.

"Where would we be if the Twins hadn't betrayed us, that day in Farthen Dur?" He asked her, still smilingly lopsidedly. "If the Urgals hadn't killed your father and taken me?"

Nasuada looked away, at the glittering Hearts and the eggs and the ancient scrolls.

The red Rider could almost see it, in his mind's eye—He and Nasuada, by a river, in the forest. She was not the Varden's leader and he was not a Rider. They were simply warriors and that was alright, because they were free of the stress and the grief and the pain that they had been handed. They were talking, easily, and she was laughing.

They were holding hands, by the water, and something in Murtagh shuddered and groaned.

In another time, another world, they were lovers, friends.

A surge of hate flooded Murtagh, hot, irrational. He hated the Twins, for betraying the Varden, so long ago, below Farthen Dur. He hated Galbatorix, for causing the war, for fracturing the world and everyone in it. And he hated himself, because he was damaged and wounded and hurt and there was nothing he could do about it, no magic he could cast to mend himself or the world.

Nasuada's face was impassive but her eyes were soft.

"Maybe things would be different." She said quietly. "My father would be alive. Eragon might still be alive. But we wouldn't be us, would we?"

Murtagh blinked, drawing back slightly.

"You wouldn't be the leader of the Riders. You wouldn't have Thorn or a family that looks after you. I would still be just Ajihod's daughter, a woman, not the Lady of the Varden. We wouldn't be here, in Belatona, with winter closing in and our warriors tired but strong."

Murtagh let her words sink in, and his bitterness made his chest ache.

"We'd be different people." She continued, and, almost hesitantly she stepped forward, into his space, and he was torn between leaning in and pulling away.

"Would that be a bad thing?" His voice was so soft it was barely a whisper, but she heard him. He couldn't voice what he was trying to say, trying to get across- maybe it would be easier if he had never been captured, if she had never been forced into becoming a leader.

She understood, and her hand came up, her fingers (trembling) an inch above his skin. She looked him in the eye and took his breath away. "I don't know."

And they didn't—they were simply two people, two humans, hurting and broken and scared, and they wanted something they couldn't have. He wanted something he couldn't have. He longed for it, he ached for it, he saw it reflected in her dark dark eyes and he almost took it, then and there.

It would have been easy.

In his mind, he saw them, walking by a river, and how they laughed.

He closed his eyes. He had wanted this for so long—since he first met her, nearly three years ago, when he was a prisoner and she was a princess of sorts—and it was almost too much for him to handle.

His heart ached, his chest felt like it was being torn open.

He looked into her eyes, ice blue meeting dark brown.

He opened his mouth and any one of a thousand things could have come poring out (I need you I'm afraid I can't do this Why me Why us I think I might be in—)

"I can't." He said, and then, with a quickness that surprised even himself, he slipped around her and limped rapidly down the hall, his heart hammering and his eyes blurring.

The fire in his leg, the wound, caused him to trip, stumble, but he kept going, unable to be with her in a room full of lives cut short and lives not yet lived.

His throat filled with something heavy, something like sorrow, and then he was outside, trying to breathe in the clean air and not quite remembering how.

I can't. He thought, half-mad. I can't do this.

He shook and breathed and he felt It stronger than ever, the pull, deep and powerful and he almost followed it, almost took that first, shaking step forward towards the end and he would have never looked back. But something deeper than the pull, something in his soul, held him back.

Something was wrong.

And it was then, standing in the dark of the night, breathing wounded, heaving breaths, leaning heavily on his sword, that Murtagh noticed that something vital was missing.

He reached through his mind, flicked through his thoughts, but there was nothing, was no familiar, comfortable prescence, no feeling of his other half at all.

Starting to panic, Murtagh called out.

Thorn?

And there was no answer.


... I am an evil person.

Yes.

Review!

~WSS

Oh, and there is intential symbolism with Murtagh and Nasuada in the Treasury. It's one of Murtagh's themes. See if you can figure it out!