Chapter 12.
***
The moon's serene gaze washed upon the ship; it was a strange, fair ship, designed with a combination of small, beautiful patterns and glyphs. There was no wind, yet the air thrummed, as if in anticipation of an impending occurrence.
Eragon's vision broadened, and in his field of sight, he saw a small group of figures, sat atop horses. The moonlight casted silver luminosity on the spectators making their hair glow like the moon's light. And in the light, Eragon discerned that each of the figure carried tall spears and lances.
But that was not what riveted Eragon's attention; he turned his eyes, and saw two figures, arm in arm, boarding the ship. Although their faces were veiled with cowls, from their forms, he knew that one was male and the other female. Suddenly, Eragon's heart lurched, seemingly familiar with the figures' strides...
...
Eragon felt himself rapidly surfacing consciousness, his senses flowing back into him with tingling force. His muscles jerked stiffly as he moved. A groan escaped his lips as his bones clicked, seemingly weak after lying for so long. Eragon's eyes fluttered open. Painful light stabbed his eyes and he immediately shut them close. Still, he felt the slight burning behind his eyelids.
Eragon clamped the emotions that rose to the surface as he remembered that his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness. Perpetual darkness; both in the cell he was kept in, and his mind's black inertness. Bitterness splintered its way to his heart, his memories haunting him. The torment he had suffered, endured - was a reminder that he could be better, should be better. The Twins had captured him so easily, without as much as breaking a sweat. Determined never to let such a thing happened again, he vowed that he would push himself to the limit; in daily exertions, both physical and magic.
He tried to shift his body, only to be seized by powerful aches that seemed to have shackled any movements. It was unbelievably painful. More thoughts swam in Eragon's mind, the trivial thoughts drowning as he concentrated on the partner-of-his-life's psyche. He found her in his head, guided by the throbbing light that seemed to have swept away the pain.
Saphira? He reached out to her.
His dragon's reply was not long in coming. Yes, little one?
Are you beside me?
Yes.
Can you nudge me? My body doesn't seem to be functioning properly at the moment.
Eragon felt shuddering movements around him, and he felt pain as something made contact with his left shoulder. That seemed to have awakened Eragon's body and his arms and legs responded to the "nudge." It felt like a spear driving through his whole body. He opened his eyes and gasped.
Careful, little one. Saphira prodded him gently on the shoulder yet again. Eragon gave another jolt, waiting for his body to adjust. Once he felt calm and relaxed, he heaved himself upwards, which he found to be a laborious task. Saphira supported his back with her snout.
Eragon grunted his thanks as he felt the rush of blood in his head. Temporarily dizzy, he closed his eyes for a brief moment and revelled the fresh air that washed upon his face. He opened his eyes and readjusted to the scene before him. He glimpsed the yellow-brown sea of sand on his left. Hadarac.
His eyes wandered again and he found himself staring at huge orbs of blue eyes. They blinked. "Saphira!" Eragon exclaimed, only to cough as his voice broke mid-sentence. He coughed a few more times, his throat feeling sore.
Little one, there is a drink in the pack. Saphira said as she reached down and hooked the bag sling with her teeth and tossed it infront of Eragon. He sent her his thanks and fumbled through the bag, grasping the bottle of faelnirv. As soon as the liquid entered his mouth, relief washed upon his senses and eased the pain in his sore muscles.
A few seconds later, Eragon jumped up, stretching his body like a wire, bending and twisting it as he wished. His muscles ached, but it was a marvellous feeling. Then, he turned to Saphira and embraced her neck as tightly as he could. Saphira's neck shook as it reverberated with laughter.
Careful, little one, you're starting to choke me.
Eragon lessened his grip. Sorry. He pulled pack and stared into her sapphire eyes. I've missed you, Saphira.
And I, you, little one. She grinned, and then her expression became fierce, But know that I won't ever let you out of my sight again.
Eragon laughed and Saphira's countenance softened. You attract trouble. She muttered.
Eragon shook his head and he looked around; their camp oddly tidy. His sleeping bag and the pack were the only things on the floor. He frowned, where's Arya?
As if on cue, Arya entered their camp, her dark hair tied back, except for a few tresses that fell on her face. To Eragon, it seemed as if he hadn't seen her for an eternity and he couldn't help hold back a huge grin. His slumber had made him forget how stunning and graceful Arya looked. Her flawlessness rendered him speechless, abruptly obliterating everything on his mind. He only saw her.
She was dressed in her leather outfit and her Elven sword was strapped on her belt on her right hip. Her dark clothing clung to her like a second skin, blatantly outlining her voluptuous figure. Her slinking strides, gentle and elegant, belied the strong strength within her.
Arya's beautiful emerald eyes met his, and Eragon felt that intense, familiar lurch every time he looked at her. His heart stuttered helplessly as she smiled at him.
"Eragon." She said, her lilting voice invoking a visceral response from him.
"Arya." He replied, smiling, "Thank you for healing me."
"You're welcome."
Saphira jetted smoke at Eragon. He coughed. "And Saphira, thank you too." He said, after recovering from the warm smoke that had temporarily enveloped him.
He glanced at Arya who was still smiling. But then she seemed to catch herself in the action and she looked away, her smile fading. Eragon's smile faltered slightly and he looked at Saphira.
Thank you for the lovely smoke.
Saphira held her head in mock-arrogance. That got a chuckle out of him and Saphira smiled.
"Well, I better get ready." He announced. With that, he picked up his pack and prepared himself. Arya stood where she was, her bag on her shoulder.
Eragon noted that his tunic was fresh and clean, but he still wore his tattered trousers. He glanced at Saphira, I'm sure I was wearing a bloodied tunic.
Saphira grinned; amusement radiated off her in waves, Arya changed your tunic.
Unable to help it, Eragon reddened slightly, realizing why then it was only his trousers that was unchanged. But of course, she needed to have removed most of his clothes to heal his wounds. He casted a look at Arya, who suddenly sensed Saphira's mirth. Her eyes narrowed at the sapphire dragon.
Deciding he should say something, Eragon said, "Is there any place I can wash myself?"
Arya shook her heard. "No."
Eragon felt foolish for asking- they were near the desert. He spoke to Saphira, On our way to Gil'ead, can we stop at Lake Isenstar?
Saphira craned her neck. Of course. I need a wash myself. My scales are covered with sand.
You are still beautiful though, Eragon smiled.
Saphira beamed. Eragon rummaged through his pack and found clean trousers. Arya tilted her head ever so slightly, "I'll give you your privacy." With dignity, she walked away from the camp. Eragon hated her brief departure, but then again, it would have been a very awkward situation if she remained. Without more fuss, Eragon changed his clothing, and in the process, found that his legs were healed. Gratitude for Arya filled him. He would never forget what she had done for him; he owed her.
Eragon ran his fingers through his matted hair, disliking its greasy texture. However, he made himself appear more decent; he washed his face with water and strapped Brisingr to his belt. Beloth the Wise circled his waist and his body was soon clad by his armour. He felt something missing, but he didn't ponder upon it.
A few seconds later, just as Eragon finished packing his stuff, Arya came back, her face stoic. Eragon wanted to see her smile; he disliked Arya's impassiveness. A plan formed in his head, and he told Saphira. The sapphire dragon grinned, loving the idea.
As soon as they packed, Eragon mounted Saphira, with Arya climbing after him. It had felt so long since he flied. Anticipation built up inside of him, excitement filtering through. Trapped in a cell for several days, Eragon had decided he didn't like confined spaces. It removed his liberty, his right to fly. A Dragon Rider's freedom to air was as much as anyone's freedom to breathe.
Eragon stroked Saphira's scales, admiring her beauty. As much as he cherished being freed, he revelled Saphira and Arya's presence above all else.
Arya's arms snaked around his waist, gripping him tight as Saphira launched to the skies. Exhilaration swelled within Eragon as air whipped his face. It was an exquisite feeling. Too long had he been deprived to fly the skies with his dragon. The feeling was unequivocally wonderful. They soared high above the clouds, the sun bathing them with its warmth. Eragon's plan filled Saphira's head, and they were anticipating the Elven princess' reaction.
Saphira rocketed upwards, reaching the pinnacle of her strength, to the highest point she could manage. Trepidation mingled with excitement filled Eragon, and behind him he felt Arya tense; they both knew what was coming. Saphira lingered beyond the clouds, her wings heaving with tremendous force, getting them as high as she could.
Around his waist, Eragon felt Arya's arms tighten, coiled around him like constrictors. They were so high.
Get ready, Eragon told Arya mentally, briefly brushing against her mind. It sent shivers down his spine, and Eragon hoped that she hadn't felt it. Arya sent him an image of her wrestling with Saphira when they reach the ground. Eragon laughed, acknowledging her threat. Eragon lingered in Arya's mind, as if seeking his consent to stay there.
There was the slightest hesitance, and then Arya complied. Eragon felt Arya's hint of fear of being so high, and he wished to calm her, wishing that she would enjoy the experience... wishing to bring that smile he wanted her to have.
...
Eragon's anticipation and excitement filled Arya, erasing her fear. Her assent to his mind connection was a great decision. Saphira had flown them so high; Arya thought that a dragon could never reach this height. They were truly beyond the clouds now and Arya's fear began to return. Eragon's serenity obliterated that and she could sense him smiling, in anticipation of what Saphira was about to do.
She gasped, tightening her hold on Eragon all the more, if that were possible. Her vice-like grip must be suffocating him, yet he did not protest. Hasn't she flown high enough? Arya asked, her voice tinted with anxiety.
Arya could sense a smile in Eragon's sentence as he replied; She will reach her maximum height soon.
That did not give Arya any comfort whatsoever. She dared to look below them, only spotting glimpses of the land as the white clouds drifted to cover them. Gradually, Saphira stopped flying upwards and they seemed to dangle in the air. The sapphire dragon veered her head momentarily and gave a huge grin.
Saphira... Arya began to say, then the dragon gave one last heave of her wings and they went the tiniest bit upwards, then slowly, tilted forward, as if they were hanging on the edge of a cliff. Arya's mental sentence didn't finish, as Saphira plunged steeply downwards.
Eragon's yell, accompanied by the dragon's roar, echoed throughout the sky. Arya screamed, the force of the rushing air below them whipping her face and hair with swift, relentless force. Saphira's body pierced through the clouds, the trio covered with the droplets of water. Eragon's yell turned to laughter as Arya's scream rose. They were plummeting with such speed that it was impossible not to scream.
Arya's sense of fear faded as Eragon's excitement filled her mind, and soon she found herself enjoying the dive rather than dying of fright. The land below them greeted them in a blur of a rush, and Saphira's streamlined form and steep angle only made their speed go all the more faster.
"Saphira!" Arya shouted, almost close to a plea. Arya felt Eragon shake with laughter and she sent him a sense of playful reprimand. They continued to plummet to the dragon and Arya was worried when the ground below approached them with rapid speed.
With a loud whooshing sound, Saphira unfolded her wings and the flight abruptly decreased, and they glided through the air, the ground below them no more than several feet.
Arya was gasping; with relief, exhilaration or just pure fear, she didn't know. Eragon was still laughing, his stomach vibrating with the sound.
That wasn't funny. Arya spoke to him mentally, trying to berate him but failed. She felt herself smiling.
Saphira's voice filled their connected minds, Now, that was fun.
Her amusement to Arya's previous screaming had sent the dragon into a laughing fit. Arya let her; she hadn't had this much excitement for a long while.
As their merriment faded slightly, Eragon withdrew from Arya's mind, Thank you for sharing the experience with me; with our minds linked. He said. Arya felt his deep honour to have been able to share that with her.
Likewise. She replied in the Ancient Language. The experience had been frightening yet exciting; she was glad to have had him in her mind during the descent.
Saphira had been flying for no more than several minutes until the city of Gil'ead loomed upon them. Eragon nudged Saphira mentally, Lake Isenstar first.
Following her rider's instruction, she veered her direction slightly, heading for the glimmering lake beside the city. In companionable silence, the three observed the city ahead as they neared it. The Elven banner, accompanied by the Varden's was situated at the highest points of the gate, indicating that the city had been conquered. Tents surrounded the city and Eragon discerned the elves' glittering armour as they moved below them.
One of the elves has contacted me; they are glad that you are present. Arya said, I have told them that we will land soon.
Eragon nodded. Within a few more minutes, Saphira reached the lake and she prepared to dive. Eragon shielded their packs, so they would not get soaked. Saphira closed her wings yet again, but the plummet this time was not as steep.
Allow me to enchant a spell to protect our eyes, Eragon told Arya. She agreed.
As soon as Saphira was above the lake, she drove straight in, like an Elven arrow. The water met contact with scales and skin; it felt surprisingly warm. Saphira's dive produced plenty of bubbles around them, but as it cleared, Arya could clearly see the contents of the lake. Fishes, of all colours and sorts, swam around them or beside them. The lake's plants were a combination of dull grey to wonderful, bright colours. All manner of sea creatures steered clear of Saphira apart from a small group of colourful fishes which swam beside her. Arya was enthralled by their beauty.
The Lake was mildly deep and Arya could see the shafts of sunlight that shone through the surface of the lake, making the water glow with its light. It truly was a magnificent sight.
Saphira swam with her tail and Arya felt them rise upwards, breaking through the surface of the water. Arya had held her breath and as soon as air was around them, she inhaled, revelling the freshness of her senses. Eragon removed their spell and wove another one; a spell which dried them.
"That was beautiful, Eragon." Arya whispered in his ear.
There are things far more beautiful compared to that. Eragon said in her mind, his mental voice the equivalence of a spoken whisper. Far more perfect...
Arya caught a hint in his words. She didn't know whether to be mad at him for saying such bold wordsor elated for the compliment. As if confirming her feelings, her body betrayed her, her cheeks reddened and a smile formed her lips. She didn't reply to his sentence, lest they give away her true feelings. She simply gave a slight squeeze of her arms. She knew she enjoyed his words and touch far too much. Her steel resolve was deteriorating. She almost laughed at her helplessness against him. No more than two days ago had she promised she would keep away, distance herself from him.
Yet here she was, breaking every rule she had made.
-x-
A Day Ago
Murtagh and Thorn waited patiently in the opulent hall. Murtagh felt the marble floor's protest as Thorn's claws scratched the ground. Although they had only been waiting for a few minutes, Murtagh felt Thorn's agitation rise to the surface. Galbatorix had sent for them, but where was he?
Murtagh allowed his eyes to wander, absorb in the hall's grandeur. As insane, or as evil as the dark King was, he had a good taste for beautiful craftsmanship. Marble columns held the hall's roof, the ceiling painted with a cerulean sky and the hall's walls were decorated with grand, invaluable paintings. The hall was bright, illuminated by incredibly bright lanterns which never seemed to stop burning. Murtagh and his dragon stood at the front of the hall, infront of a huge marble throne. Engraved on the head of the throne were words of the Ancient Language. It read: Ruler of Alageasia.
Murtagh scoffed at that. None could rule a land, but the land itself. Nature was the ruler. None can control the day and night, none can control the weather; so how was he a Ruler if he did not rule them so? Murtagh shook his head. Galbatorix had probably kept in mind that he meant that he was the Ruler of the people of Alageasia, not the land itself.
There was a loud boom as the doors opened and closed. Galbatorix strode in; his dark robes flowing behind him like wisps of smoke. His crown adorned his head and Murtagh glimpsed his sword tucked underneath the folds of his robes. His built was not robust, but he had an aura of menace and ultimate power around him. The air cackled with vigour as he walked past.
Murtagh couldn't help but wonder, how can one man, mortal or immortal, hold the power equivalent to the strength of countless of dragons? Not just the strength, but also the knowledge. Murtagh had come to realize that knowledge far exceeded the value of brute strength. Although one fighter with a decent amount of skill of the sword may have the endurance of a thousand runners; given the right knowledge of how to use a sword, his adversary may know how to exploit it in ways that would leave the fighter defenceless or kill him in a few seconds. Ultimately, the one with the valuable knowledge would undoubtedly win.
That was why an army of a thousand men could easily be defeated by a rider and his dragon. None would be able to withstand against the vast wisdom the dragon and his rider holds. Murtagh shook his head slightly, too deep in thoughts. He cleared his head, just as Galbatorix reached his throne. He looked upon them with all his authority and power.
Murtagh met his eyes, and he could not deny the dominance the King held over him. He was like a mere rabbit against a formidable lion.
"Murtagh, Thorn." He spoke their names in a gentle tone, belying his supreme command.
"My King," In a bow of feigned respect and forced submissiveness, Murtagh leant on one knee and said through gritted teeth, "You have requested our appearance." Reluctantly, Thorn tilted his head slightly as well.
"That I did, young ones." Galbatorix said. He studied them, as one might study a fly caught in a trap. Curiosity, fascination and pity mingled in his countenance.
Murtagh wanted to twist that little "countenance" into an expression of pain. Nothing would ever please him more; Murtagh's hatred of Galbatorix went beyond any level of abhorrence. It was truly inconceivable how much loathing he held for him. A man who had experienced a taste of freedom, then be put on a leash was the most tormenting sensation. The lost of freedom was past insufferable. Thorn shared his feelings.
"Such a shame you are not as loyal as your father was." He sighed, his expression one of pity. Thorn snarled, unable to keep the pain he felt through his Rider's bond.
Murtagh gripped Za'roc's pommel. He bitterly repeated the words he had spoken so long ago, "A son does not choose his father."
Any mention of his father awoke such a level of pain and revulsion within him, that it was comparable to his hatred of Galbatorix. However, more pain than hatred was evoked whenever Morzan was mentioned. Murtagh wanted to love his father, even feel some kind of admiration for him, but there were none. It was obliterated the instant he threw the sword at his back. It slashed a wound in his soul much deeper than the physical cut.
Galbatorix' expression altered to one of interest, "True as that may be, but a son can also follow in his father's footsteps."
Murtagh countered boldly, "Some sons freely choose to follow, and others are forced."
Galbatorix grinned, "Even if they are forced, then don't you think that it was their wyrd who led them to have become forced? You may have been forced, boy, but that doesn't change the fact that you are your father's son. He has served me as you are serving me now. One aspect, however, differs blatantly between you and your father; he was a follower." Galbatorix paused dramatically, his cruel smile forming, "You are a slave."
Murtagh's expression of furious defiance turned to one of intense fury. Thorn growled, low and deep, echoing his Rider's antagonism.
"Morzan choose the wrong person to follow." Murtagh said through gritted teeth, "I would know who to follow if such freedom was presented to me."
The two Riders locked eyes, neither one refusing to look away. Abruptly, like a huge piercing needle, a stab of pain went through Murtagh's skull, driving his thoughts away. He gasped, his knees dropping to the ground. Beside him, Thorn shook his head, a growl ripping from his throat.
Murtagh fought the pain, attempting to counteract the mind invasion. Despite his resolute defence, Galbatorix crushed them, revelling in their helplessness. A myriad of whispers echoed in Murtagh's mind, submerging his own thoughts. Thorn assisted him, alleviating his pain by fully opening his mind to his Rider's. The throbbing in Murtagh's head insisted, but he refused to beg for mercy.
Brusquely, the torture ceased, and Murtagh's mind cleared, save for Thorn's thoughts. Murtagh inhaled deeply, nauseated by the experience. Slightly trembling, he stood up, his forehead filmed with perspiration. His hands curled in fists, Murtagh glared at the king.
"Nevertheless," Galbatorix continued, as if nothing had happened, "As you have just illustrated, Murtagh; you have more determination... more anger."
Murtagh froze, restraining any response. Instead, he glowered, his expression fierce and unyielding. Beside him, Thorn shifted uncomfortably after the mind invasion. Galbatorix chuckled.
"Murtagh," He said, as if he was jesting with an old friend, "Your anger is indeed mesmerizing to observe, but it proves more useful in tasks. You see, anger is one of the fiercest emotions," Galbatorix spoke as if he was teaching a young child what a spoon was used for, "The sentiment allows us to do things we may have fear or hesitance in doing so before. It controls our actions, in the midst of our rage. Answer this question: would you rather kill a man whom you seek revenge for, or a man who was simply a soldier in the opposing army?"
What a foolish question, Murtagh thought to Thorn. Nonetheless, he answered, "Of course, the man whom I have to take revenge on."
Galbatorix nodded, "What if he had your blood? If it was your brother, father or uncle: would they have still been easier to kill?"
Murtagh would have thought deeply about the question first, but he spoke his initial answer, "If what they did was truly unforgivable, if their intentions were to kill me as well, then I would not hesitate."
Galbatorix smiled, seemingly pleased with the answer.
"You see, the anger enhances one's drive to kill," Galbatorix said, his gaze becoming distant, he was no longer looking at Murtagh, but at nothing in particular, "If anger is ignited, if pain and anger was all you feel; everything would simply... vanish. Whoever caused you that anger and pain would not be left alive for long. Soon, the anger would be the motive of your conduct. Your target, your sole objective; your revenge would become your life. You would put everything else above it... nothing would matter in the duration of your wrath. You would do absolutely anything to get your aim achieved." He paused, "Anger makes you feel invincible."
Murtagh felt that Galbatorix was no longer addressing the subject, but also recollecting a faraway, precious memory. Despite his hatred for the king, Murtagh felt the tiniest hint of sympathy for him, for he knew which memories the king spoke of: his dragon's death and his total fury when the Elders refused him a new dragon. But then Murtagh remembered how he enslaved Eldunari's and twisted Shruikan's mind to make him become his; all his empathy receded.
Galbatorix slowly returned to reality, locking away his painful memories, "You see why anger is important, Murtagh? It can be the core of a person; their very foundation. It drives them to do things which may be impossible, but yet in their eyes, nothing will seem impossible."
The King's icy stare fell upon him, his ancient eyes searching his. He began another topic.
"Morzan died in the hands of Brom… great Riders they were. Very powerful," Galbatorix paused, "With you as the oldest living Rider of the new generation, I expect more like you: strong and adamant. But of course, not so much stubborn."
Murtagh wanted prove that statement, but he refrained himself. Instead he stared at the ground, calming his previous fury.
"I have been... disappointed." Galbatorix murmured gently.
Murtagh looked up, his fury replaced by confusion and frustration at Galbatorix' sudden and constant changes of topics.
"Did you know that the Twins had actually succeeded in capturing your brother?" Galbatorix revealed.
Murtagh's eyes widened with surprise. "...Eragon?"
"However, a few days ago, he ... escaped." Galbatorix imparted sadly, tapping his fingers on his marble arm rest.
Murtagh didn't know what to feel; if he should be glad that Eragon escaped, or resentful that his brother has freedom and he doesn't. It was selfish of him, but he couldn't help but feel that way.
"Nevertheless," Galbatorix continued, "The Twins have died; better for them, for if they had lived... they would have suffered a very... excruciating death."
Murtagh didn't doubt his words. Galbatorix had a way of even surpassing the most malevolent methods a monster could perform.
Galbatorix waved his hand, "It is a small matter. There are bigger things at hand. Eragon is no threat. He is but a child."
Murtagh wanted to smile at that. Eragon had proved to be a formidable opponent; his strength and knowledge startled Murtagh, but it shouldn't be so unexpected. Eragon had the opportunity, to be fortunate enough to have been taught by one of the legendary dragon riders; Oromis. Murtagh had regretted the Rider's death, he would've rather had him as his mentor than the dark King.
"Despite Eragon's escape, the Twins did prove themselves quite useful. They specialised in torture, and I'm sure the Varden's rider had received a significant amount of affliction." He smiled, "The Twins had been ferrying the egg to the outskirts of the Empire, yet they still did not find its Rider."
The news caught Murtagh's crept in yet again and Murtagh glanced at the dark king, his attention seemingly distant. "If the dragon egg should not hatch, I might be tempted to force it yet again…"
Murtagh winced. The small reaction captured the King's gaze and he smiled maliciously, "Fortunately, for our adversaries, the temptation isn't merely enough. The dragon egg is male; I have heard its thoughts. Interestingly, it knows what surrounds him; tricking him would be adjoining impossible. Dragons have strong defence, even when they are naught but an egg." Galbatorix stood his form immaculately demeaning.
"Besides, I have no rush to get the egg to hatch, but it would be a great matter if it did." He sighed and descended from the steps, biding his time.
Galbatorix contemplated something in his thoughts for a long moment, then he murmured, "I want you to ferry the dragon egg to the Varden, Murtagh."
Murtagh jolted as if he had been slapped on the face. He could not suppress his shock, "What?"
"There will be purpose in the action, of course," Galbatorix said, smiling, "None in the Empire is the dragon egg's Rider."
"So you suppose that its Rider is in the Varden?" Murtagh asked.
"My thoughts exactly," Galbatorix replied, "It is a risk to let it hatch for someone in the Varden, but the risk will be worth it."
Murtagh couldn't see how. But Galbatorix elaborated, "I have rigorously deliberated the consequences, but I assure you, the Rider will side with us."
"They will not," Murtagh said, "They are the Varden; they oppose you."
Galbatorix grinned, and walked infront of Murtagh, "You are not exactly on my side, Murtagh. Now, how did I make sure you were?"
The realization dawned on Murtagh; Galbatorix was going to bind the Rider with dark oaths. But, in order to completely have them under his control, he would have to know their true names... which he didn't. Galbatorix didn't even know who the Rider would hatch for.
"You do not know who the rider could possibly be, and their true name would also have to be considered." Murtagh said, echoing his thoughts.
"In order for a plan to be great, it has to be methodically thought through," Galbatorix said gently, "I have contemplated every aspect of the plan. You, Murtagh, will tell me who the Rider is as soon as the egg hatches. I have been in practice with learning the true names of people, I am sure a little puzzle will not exhaust me. Now, you will also stay there for the remainder of the hatchling's growth and education. This process will last several months, and I will be able to contact you through your mind."
The enormity and absurdness of the plan overwhelmed Murtagh. He was simply speechless.
"While your stay there, you will observe the Varden's plan; their tactics, strengths and weaknesses," Galbatorix continued, "All of which, you will report to me."
"As soon as the hatchling and his Rider are ready, I will bind them with oaths, through you," Galbatorix said, "They should follow you; the expletives are inescapable."
Finally, Murtagh found his voice and said, "What if I do not follow your instructions?"
Galbatorix sneered, "Then, you will suffer as you have never been before. Your oaths inevitably bind your services to me... forever. You know you cannot change anymore, Murtagh. What you are now... is what you'll be for the rest of your life."
Murtagh closed his eyes. No, he could still change. A person can't stay the same forever.
A/N:
Sorry for the long delay, guys. I'm getting minor writer's blocks and it's extremely infuriating. I'm getting a little rusty in writing, unfortunately. But, to be honest, I also need more motivation, more "fuel" to write, if you know what I mean. I'm finding it quite hard to let the story flow, but rest assured though, I have a rough outline of what's going to happen. Now, I just need to put the pieces together... :) Wish me luck; I don't want to give up on this story... and writing in general.
Thank you for the reviews,guys- they are one of the things that keep me going in writing this story. Until the next update!
CJ.x
