A/N: I made up a word/name in the ancient language.

It's a chapter with almost no action… I feel really bad about that, but Eragon has to recover, and – important! – think about some things.

Reviews:

-Zack-Cody-Dylan-Cole: Hints of slash? I didn't even notice…oops. But my characters have long taken over anyway, not leaving me with too many choices. xD

-Jack Skellington's Mistress: I can only agree with that ;)

-DDudeDerek: Naah, not perfect. Perfect is a pizza with extra cheese or a day at the beach. This is just an attempt to write the first story of my life ;) Yeah, Saphira needed to come in somewhere, however, she won't play a big role… her main purpose story-wise is to give Eragon a reality check.

-DrownedHopes: :sniff: See bottom of the story. All good things come to an end. xD


Privacy

18th Harvest Moon


It took Eragon a while to realize that he was alone now, alone and free – bound only by his word. But his word was a completely different matter than the chains of his captors and the walls of his cell. It neither hurt nor restricted his breathing.

With the windows open he had been able to pick up on what was going on outside to a certain extend. He had heard Murtagh leave the estate on foot, return about an hour later and then there had been the well-known thuds of a dragon taking off. Now the quiet was only broken by chirping crickets and an occasional birdcall.

Eragon wondered about the women, of whom at least one was supposed to show up later today. Who were they? What did they know about Murtagh and what about him? Murtagh must have some sort of connection to them or they would not be coming here, and this insight really surprised Eragon, because it meant that at least Murtagh did not mistrust them. But the dark-haired mistrusted everyone!

Except him, Eragon, that was, back in their days together. Somehow this felt odd. He had always been rather proud of being so special in this regard…

Eragon reckoned that he was going through a phase of strange thoughts and decided that he could as well muse on. It was likely some after effect of the fever or the medicine.

Alright, so now Murtagh was gone and he did not exactly know if he liked it or not. That last look on the older one's face had been… disturbing. The past two days Eragon had spent almost every minute awake concentrating on his hatred for Murtagh. He was realistic enough to understand that he had done it partly to not think of other things - after all, it was easy to lose oneself in anger. But why was loathing Murtagh so simple? Eragon knew many other servants of the enemy and the crimes they had committed, yet his animosity for them was of a completely different nature…

At this point he changed his decision: he did not feel like investigating his thoughts any further. These few minutes had already caused him a headache. Murtagh was gone and the house was empty until these women would show up, end of story.

Eragon sighed and looked down on the kitten that had just woken up. "But I'm not alone, I forgot. You'll stay with me, won't you? I guess I should give you a name, then." He watched the cat cleanse itself for a moment. "All I can think of right now is something in the ancient language… I hope you can understand it," he chuckled. The cat regarded the source of the strange sound for a moment before continuing with its task. "That was a 'yes', I think. Then it's decided. Your name will be Shiras, which means companion."

Was he really talking to a cat?


The next hours passed by in a haze. Lulled by the chirping and the soft, warm air, Eragon was more asleep than awake, alternately dreaming and daydreaming. Saphira never left his mind and he remembered past events and tried to imagine what seeing her again would be like.

In more conscious moments he wondered whether Murtagh and Thorn would find her and whether Saphira would let them help her. He could answer both with yes. For one thing he knew that Murtagh was an incredible tracker, finding almost anything in the wild. And Saphira was always thinking practically – she would simply consider Murtagh and Thorn tools to get better and to get back to her Rider.

Footsteps outside interrupted his dreaming and Eragon was alarmed instantaneously. Basically everyone could come here and he could not defend himself. He scanned the room and decided that the large candlestick on the table was the closest to a weapon he could find. It was about four yards away. He had to get it!

He rolled to the side of the bed and carefully slid down. When he made a tentative step with his right leg, a small scream rang through the room and Eragon swore loudly. How was he going to fight if he could not even walk? With clenched teeth and fighting dizziness he moved step by little step to the table and leaned down on it heavily when he got there. He closed his right hand forcefully around the candlestick and noticed that he was soaked in sweat. Great, Eragon Shadeslayer, really great. No one would possibly dare to attack him now, would they?

"Just what do you think you're doing there?" asked a raspy, cracked voice.

Eragon spun around and saw that it belonged to a small, old woman who stood with her walking stick in the door frame.

Now she lifted the knobby wood and pointed it at him before waving it about in the air. "I haven't seen you in a few days, but you certainly can't walk around yet," she said heatedly. "What do you want with candles in the bright daylight anyway? And why are you wearing clothes? You can't wear clothes."


Eragon smiled when he remembered what he had first thought of Jora. It was late evening now, but he could not sleep because he had been dozing so much that day. The candles in the candlestick - which was now at the bedside table - flickered in the nightly breeze. It was still unnaturally warm for the season and Eragon preferred the shutters open.

At first the woman had seemed to be an old grouch, but he had quickly learned that she was in truth a kind and skilled lady. She had made him undress and examined him closely - inspecting every part of his body which had left him very uncomfortable - applied fresh bandages and left new medicine. She had said that he was making excellent progress, that in fact she could not believe he had been able to walk around at all. Eragon had wisely decided not to tell her that he had already held a sword, too.

It had turned out that Jora was not a very talkative person; however, Eragon had managed to get a few questions answered. He now knew that he was on an estate of Murtagh's family – his family?! – in a village called Breoch, south of Uru'baen, and that he had slept respectively been unconscious for two days after their arrival. He had also learned that the old woman used to work on the estate as a handmaid and he had sensed that she had some kind of grandmotherly feelings for Murtagh, although technically he was her lord.

Because of this he had asked her whether she thought that people changed over time, with Murtagh now being the king's top vassal and murdering people. But Jora had just shaken her head and told him that the child she had once known was still there, but maybe only people of her age were able to see through the walls that he had built around him. "Why else would he care for you so much, hardly sleep, sick with worry?" Eragon had not answered her and was glad that she had left soon after.

And then there was Rynia. She had stood in the door a moment after her grandmother had left, introduced herself shyly and talked about the potato soup she had cooked. Eragon could not remember how the soup had tasted – he had chatted away animatedly with the young woman while eating.

He understood now why it had been so easy with her: they were very much alike. Both had been born and grown up in a small, peasant village and had a similar outlook on the world. In their eyes, a thunderstorm destroying the crops was as eligible to be called 'catastrophic' as a political uproar. Eragon had been astounded to find that after all that had changed in his life, his perspective was still the same.

Then she had also started talking about Murtagh, telling him how surprised she had been that such a mighty warrior was so kind and peaceful at heart. At this point Eragon had feigned a yawn and thanked her for her company, saying he was sorry but that he needed to rest. What a pathetic excuse.


The next day did not bring any significant changes. Eragon was curious about the house, but figured it was better to wait just a bit longer with the exploration. He contented himself playing with Shiras and thinking about Saphira. Luckily it was easy to fill his head completely with thoughts of the blue dragon, as there were now quite a few things trying to push their way into his mind.

Rynia came alone that day and could not stay long, but when she saw that Eragon was bored she said that she had seen books downstairs and asked whether maybe he wanted to read something. He had eagerly agreed and she had brought him two large volumes, bound in costly leather, and a small, simply bound book. His hands came to rest on one of the big ones first and so he read thrilling tales of unknown heroes until he could not hold his eyes open any longer.


On the second day after Murtagh had departed, Eragon felt like leaving the bed for a while. He got up cautiously, grabbed the second big book and a chair and walked slowly to the balcony. The moment he was outside he knew he should have done this earlier. He put chair and book down and limped to the balustrade, relishing the sight that presented itself.

In front of him was a large, walled courtyard with a barn on the right and small estate buildings on the left. From his position on the balcony, however, he was able to see what was behind the wall: Around the south side, which the balcony was facing, corn fields were lying idle, attacked forcefully by a wide range of wild flowers. In the distance to his left Eragon could make out the village, which was partly hidden by a small hill and surrounded by neat fields. In front of the estate ran a small river and to the right and apparently everywhere behind him was forest.

Golden and yellow and the dark green of summer were still the dominant colours far and wide, yet the first spots of bright red heralded the oncoming autumn.

After drinking in as much of the beauty as possible Eragon sat down on the chair and opened the book. He noticed with frustration that it was in a language he did not know. With a grunt he got up again and limped inside, returning after a moment with the small book.

On opening it his breathing accelerated. He saw the typical, scratchy handwriting of a child and he knew instantly it was Murtagh's. Curiosity overruled all other emotions and he began to turn the pages. Murtagh's letters were so large that sometimes only six or seven words fitted on one page. Eragon guessed that he had been about nine or ten years old when he had written in this book. The content was mostly banal: The catch of a large trout - adorned with a clumsy picture of a boy with an over-dimensional fish - the death of his favourite dog, reports of sparring lessons with Tornac, and endless talk about hunting successes.

And then Eragon stumbled upon something that made him both chuckle and blush. Murtagh recounted in great detail how he had watched the cook - a woman - and the smith meet at dawn one day and without much talking have a quick fuck against the wall of the smithy. Murtagh even tried to write down the sounds that the woman seemingly had made – 'oh-oh-ah-oh' - and commented that he thought it must be very annoying for the smith to be near a woman who made such noises.

Eragon closed the book and leaned back, a smile still on his face. Murtagh. Would he ever understand the older youth? He permitted himself to reminisce about their past.

How good it had felt when the dark-haired had taken on responsibility after Brom's death; once he and Saphira had trusted him, he had guided them securely. Security. That was something he had always connected with Murtagh.

Then at Farthen Dûr he had been so worried after Murtagh had been taken prisoner and he remembered how happy he had been later, seeing that his friend was well. And finally, in the battle, having Murtagh fight alongside him had given him a warm feeling in his stomach.

When he thought about it, many things they had done together had caused this feeling…

Yet now it was all different, and it was purely Murtagh's fault. At least Eragon tried to convince himself of this, because in fact he knew better. After all, if Galbatorix knew Murtagh's and Thorn's secret names, he did not really have a choice.

Then why did he hate him so? Eragon was confused and he did not like being so in doubt about his own feelings.

One thing he knew for sure, though. Deep down he missed Murtagh. He might find another best friend one day and as family he had Roran. But there was no other Murtagh. Murtagh was… special.

Well, but what was now? Murtagh had said he was not his enemy… and there were the things that the women had told him... Eragon sighed. But how could anyone truly believe what Murtagh said? The actions mattered… yet the actions were even stronger in their meaning. Murtagh had done a lot for him and he had shown that he cared…

Eragon gave up. He needed a friend to sort this out, he needed Saphira. His thoughts began to wander and he tried to imagine where she was right now and how far Thorn and Murtagh had travelled. Hopefully they would come back soon… all three of them.