Hello everyone! I want to extend my personal and sincere thanks to each and every one of my reviewers from last chapter, as well as everyone who favourited. You guys are awesome! I had a bit of an issue this week. You see, I had the epilogue written, but then I tried to upload it and we had a power outage and I lost over half of it. And it was a looong epilogue. So I decided to publish the first half now as Epilogue Part 1, and I will rewrite the second half and publish it next week. It's still the longest segment I've ever published at once, so no worries about it being too short. I'm sorry, I know I promised that this week was the last… technology hates me! That is my only excuse. So enough of my rambling, enjoy part one of the epilogue :)


Murtagh woke to a different world, remnants of the beautiful song he'd heard still whispering quietly. Sounds and words still echoed in the fringes of his unconscious, but they faded as he pushed the darkness away. With a monumental effort he yanked his eyes open, pulling his mind back to the world of the living. The first thing he saw was a pair of grey eyes. The second was a shock of red hair, tumbling and tangled.

Meralaena.

"I thought I heard a goddess speaking," he whispered, saying the first thing that came into his head. A goddess…

"Not a goddess," Meralaena rasped softly. It was obvious that the pain she was in was extreme, but still an absurd little smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Just… a woman… in love."

Murtagh watched in abject horror as her eyes, those beautiful, soft grey eyes, slid shut. Those eyes could maim at a whim, or they could melt – and now they were closed. Something about that fact seemed profoundly wrong to Murtagh. Meralaena's face was smooth, free of the usual worry lines, but even as she went completely limp, the peaceful little smirk stayed on her face.

"Meralaena?" Murtagh said, his tone hinting at alarm. "Meralaena, come one, cut it out. Wake up."

The human rider reached over and gently shook the Grey Folk by her shoulder, but she did not move. She didn't breathe. "No," Murtagh gasped, a cold feeling beginning to grow somewhere in the pit of his stomach. "No, this isn't happening." His body flew into a sitting position, and then he was kneeling by Meralaena's side, his hands desperately feeling her neck for a pulse. Her flesh was smooth and soft under his hands, and at any other time he would have noticed the sensation – except for the fact that the skin was cold. Icy cold, like a polished stone left outside in the winter. Deathly cold. "Meralaena?" he whispered her name as he felt the last flicker of hope leave him. Murtagh bowed his head as his hand slipped from her neck, a painful ripping sensation beginning somewhere inside his chest. Then the red rider drew in a breath, threw back his head and screamed. He screamed like he hadn't when his old mentor Tornac had been killed. He screamed like he had refused to do when Galbatorix tortured him. He screamed at the pain, at the rage, but mostly he screamed at the fact that Meralaena – his Meralaena – was gone. Gone, gone, and never coming back.

Gone.

Forever.

Gone.

Murtagh had known that it might come to this, but he had always hoped, in some dark corner of his mind, that things would work out. That somehow, Eragon would defeat that bastard of a king and Murtagh could have the red-head lying beside him. He had hoped, even though he had sworn never to hope again. When had he started hoping again? He wondered as tidal waves of pain crashed against his chest. He supposed that it was when he had first started dreaming about Meralaena. Murtagh hadn't realized it, but the first time he saw Meralaena, he had fallen hopelessly in love.

Murtagh's cry ran out of air, and he fell limp across Meralaena , eyes squeezed shut. Why? Why did he always have to get the short end of the stick? Why couldn't he have been the one to die? That way, Meralaena wouldn't be lying still and cold on the ground. That way, at least it would have been fair.

"Why?" he hissed out loud. Murtagh wasn't sure when he started crying, but a drop of liquid fell from his face and splashed onto the blood-covered scroll, making a little clear spot. "Why did you do it?" he asked. He gently pulled her into his lap, propping Meralaena's body up so that she half sat, half lay in his arms. Her form was soft, and when Murtagh gently scooped her up in his arms and stood, he was shocked by how light she was. Delicate, like a tiny flame in the midst of a windstorm. For a moment he closed his eyes and just breathed, inhaling her scent, a smell that reminded him of high places and windy mountaintops; a clean, pure scent, marred only by the smell of her blood. Past the burning in his chest, Murtagh wondered how someone so fragile could wield so much power.

Then the red rider's eyes snapped open and focused with frightening intensity, and a hot feeling began to gather in the pit of his stomach. To call it anger would be an understatement – the feeling that was condensing in Murtagh was more akin to rage, but even that did not cover it.

"Galbatorix," Murtagh snarled the word like a curse. "You did this." The human rider ran a gentle finger over Meralaena'c cold, soft skin and then howled to the sky, "You did this!"

Further away, Thorn awoke slowly. His last memory was of the white dragon clawing and tearing at his throat, and then falling… he shook his great head to clear it and winced at the motion. He was burned; the white dragon's fire had eaten right through his scales to the flesh beneath, searing his sensitive skin. The fall had wounded his tail, and at least three ribs were broken. Blood was dripping from his neck, but Thorn knew that if his enemy's claws had slit his throat he would have been dead by that point. Thorn rumbled and sought out his rider, only to find that Murtagh was already beside him. The dark-haired man picked his way through the rubble surrounding his dragon, and Thorn hissed in shock at the body in his rider's arms. The woman was limp, obviously dead, and her hair rippled over Murtagh's arms and floated in the breeze like a stray strand of rogue flame.

It is done? Thorn asked, cautious of his rider's emotionless expression. Murtagh had put strong barriers up, keeping his dragon from knowing what he was thinking, but the look in his eyes said it all.

"It is done. And we are free."

It took Thorn a moment to realize what his rider had said, and another to fully understand it. Free? You don't mean… hope rocketed through the red dragon. She did it?

Murtagh was silent, but his eyes were dark, smoldering. "Yes. She did it. She did it, but it killed her."

Thorn was silent as he digested this. She must really have loved you.

Murtagh nodded, a lump suddenly appearing in his throat. "As I loved her."

The red pair was quiet for a long moment. Neither was quite sure what to do, now that they were free – it had been so long since the two of them had been free to make their own decisions.

What do we do now? Thorn inquired. Should we go to the Varden?

"No," Murtagh said flatly. "Not the Varden." He approached his dragon and gently placed Meralaena on the ground, before coming around and beginning to heal Thorn's wounds. Thorn wanted to ask what his rider had in mind, but the cold, almost savage look in the human's eyes stilled his questions. Murtagh healed Thorn's throat, then moved on to his ribs. The bones snapped back into place before mending, itching slightly as they did so. Last of all the rider mended the gash in Thorn's tail, probably caused by a sharp rock when he'd fallen. When he was finished Murtagh straightened, and Thorn climbed to his feet, watching his rider carefully. Murtagh retrieved Meralaena's body and seated her in Thorn's saddle before climbing up behind her and securing their legs in the straps. "Thorn," Murtagh growled in a dark tone, and his dragon shivered involuntarily, "Take us to Uru'Baen."

Thorn was confused, but his rider's tone did not invite argument. The red dragon spread cherry-crimson wings and leapt into the sky, bearing his rider and his deceased enemy towards the king's stronghold.

Murtagh did not speak to Thorn the entire way back. Multiple times Thorn tried to talk to his rider, but the icy look in his eye coupled with the unidentifiable dark emotion radiating past his mental walls stymied any attempts at conversation. Thorn was loath to admit it, but at the moment, he was actually frightened by his rider.


Half a day and no words later, Thorn landed with a clattering of claws and a flaring of wings on the platform in Uru'baen. Wordlessly Murtagh slid off his back and started to walk away, ignoring his dragon and the body still slumped in the saddle.

Murtagh, Thorn growled, finally fed up with being shut out and ignored. I'm prepared to give you time to grieve, but why are we here? Was I mistaken when I thought that if we ever became free we would no longer serve Galbatorix?

Murtagh stopped, his back to the red dragon. Thorn saw the muscles in his back tense and his hands clench into fists, and when the rider spoke, his voice sent shivers down Thorn's spine.

"No," the son of Morzan replied in a voice like liquied flame, "you were not mistaken."

Then why are we here? Thorn inquired when Murtagh did not elaborate. His rider was silent, and Thorn saw a thin trail of blood drip from his fists where his nails had dug into his palms.

"We are here?" Murtagh said, "Because I have business with the k- with Galbatorix." Murtagh resumed walking, and by the time his dragon had worked out what he meant by 'business', he was across the platform and entering the building. "Stay here," he tossed over his shoulder. "Protect her body."

Murtagh, wait! Thorn yelled. Are you that foolish? One of the king's spellcasters will have alerted him to our newly changed names by now. Even being here is too dangerous, let alone seeking him out! Murtagh paused again, one foot already inside the fortress.

"Protect Meralaena," he ordered flatly before disappearing into the dark interior, shutting his dragon out of his mind as he did.

Murtagh! Thorn shouted, but his call bounced off Murtagh's barriers. The red dragon snarled, baring his ivory incisors as anger and fear for his rider welled up in equal amounts.

Thorn twisted his neck around to look at Meralaena. She was a lot less attractive than he remembered; her hair was limp and dank, absent of the usual curls and vibrant color, and the majority of her side was soaked in crimson liquid that coated her beige shirt and green skirt, and then trickled down to stain the leather saddle. Her face was pale, absent of blood and life, and she was slumped lightly across his shoulders.

Thorn was not sure why Murtagh was acting the way he was. What he was sure of was that his rider's sporadic actions and emotions were due to the death of the woman on his back. The red dragon had known that Murtagh had feelings for her; but never had he expected the reaction to be so strong. Meralaena was their enemy – it was logical to assume that she might die. Thorn snorted a stream of smoke as he mulled over the unfamiliar human emotions which seemed so foreign to his dragon consciousness.


Rage. Calm. Anger. Agony. Serenity. Finality. The feelings raged inside Murtagh, so much more potent than he remembered, threatening to overwhelm him and turn him into a raging, vengeful animal.

Meralaena.

At the single words, the single thought, the agony spiked, dragging an agonized moan from Murtagh's lips. As he moved, almost on autopilot, his hand reached up and brushed the spot on his chest just above his heart where most of the pain seemed to be coming from. His fingers dug into the flesh above the pumping organ, hoping to ease the agony, but he knew that nothing short of ripping his own heart out would end the pain. At the moment, he almost considered it.

Soon Murtagh came to the throne room and stopped, staring at the dark black door with darker and blacker eyes, eyes that suddenly seemed to reflect the change he was feeling.

I will do it, Murtagh thought coldly as he stepped inside, his gaze alighting on the raised dais and black throne, then sliding upwards to see the man sitting on it. I will do what Eragon and Saphira won't get the chance to. Murtagh moved forward, his hand twitching spasmodically towards Zar'roc's hilt as he locked eyes with the king. I will kill you. Murtagh drew nearer, the king unsuspecting, the red rider enraged. I will kill you for what you did to her. Galbatorix's eyes flickered up to bore into Murtagh's coldly, and at any other time the younger rider would have flinched. But not now. You sick bastard, it's your fault she's dead.

Murtagh came to a stop before the throne, but instead of stopping at the foot, he strode up the shallow steps and drew Zar-roc, the blade singing a soft 'shing' as it left the sheath.

He knew there were a thousand things that could go wrong. Galbatorix could have wards up against other rider's swords. He could have traps set to spring if he was attacked. He could have any number of magical protections around him.

So it shocked Murtagh when his sword plunged into Galbatorx's body with a wet squelch, the blade going through the king's body and the chair behind him. Galbatorix's mouth opened in a soundless 'O' and his eyes widened in disbelief, the first emotion besides anger to cross his face in Murtagh's memory. Murtagh's grip tightened on the blade, and he yanked it out to an agonized shriek from his former master. He then swung, a single, powerful blow, and loped the king's head off in the fell swing.

A dull thump echoed through the room. Then Galbatorix's headless body slithered to the floor, blood spilling from the stump of his neck and rippling over the stairs of the dais. The head rolled to the edge of the platform, and then rolled down the stairs and came to a rest in the middle of the floor.

Murtagh stood, hands white-knuckled around his sword's hilt, as Galbatorix's blood flowed in to the floor.

"That was for Meralaena," the red rider told the deceased body. "I only wish she was alive to see this."

Cautiously Murtagh let down the barriers around his mind, half expecting Galbatorix to jump up and start torturing him. But he didn't, and the only mind that Murtagh found close to his was Thorn's.

Are you alright? Thorn demanded on contact. What happened? Did you – Thorn broke off as he saw Galbatorix's body, minus the head, through his rider's eyes. Oh gods, you did. Murtagh sheathed Zar-roc.

"Yes. I did."

Why didn't his wards stop you? Thorn inquired as Murtagh stepped over the body and walked to the door. Surely he would have protected himself against this. Murtagh didn't respond for a moment, instead crossing to the wall and tearing a piece of cloth out of a tapestry hanging beside the throne. He then scooped up Galbatorix's head without looking at it and wrapped it firmly in the material.

To show the Varden, he explained when his dragon projected a question. As to why his wards did not protect him… Here, Murtagh's lip twitched upwards in a dark smirk. He was arrogant. I thought carefully about this on the way here, and I discovered something; Galbatorix had cast spells to alert him if we changed our true names, but not if someone else changed them for us. Therefore, since it was Meralaena and not us who changed them, he would not be alerted. And I could catch him off guard.

That doesn't explain why you were able to wound him, Thorn countered.

He must have been protected against physical attack. At this, Murtagh's brow creased in a slight frown.

"Yes, that confuses me also."

The two thought on it for a moment, before a heavy knock sounded on the throne room door, prompting Murtagh to jump a bit and grasp Zar-roc's hilt. The rider checked the knocker's identity with his mind, and relaxed when it was only a serving girl. But not just any serving maid, he realized – it was Ruuka, the girl who Galbatorix had sent to fetch him the last time he'd been in Uru'baen. There were any number of servants assigned to him, but Ruuka was the only one who had remained consistent. Murtagh did not exactly like her, nor did he pretend to care for her, but having a sense of familiarity in a place like Uru'baen had been essential for his sanity. More often than not, Ruuka had provided that sense of familiarity.

Murtagh strode to the door and yanked it open, making no effort to hide his scowl.

Ruuka yelped in surprise at the sudden appearance of the red rider and bowed automatically.

"S-sir," she said, "I've been asked to inform Lord Galbatorix that -"

"Galbatorix is dead," Murtagh told her flatly. Ruuka's eyes, a light jade green, widened in shock and more than a little fear. Murtagh stepped aside, and as if against her will the teenage girl's gaze was drawn to the king's headless body, then to the bundle in Murtagh's hands. She gasped, hands flying to her mouth. "Go," Murtagh told her. "Tell the other servants. There are still dangerous people here. If you move quickly you will be able to get out before his pet spellcasters realize what has happened." Ruuka nodded, her face still stricken, and turned to run. Before she left, Murtagh grabbed her wrist impulsively. "Ruuka…" she stopped, obviously frightened. Murtagh realized that that had been the first time he'd referred to her by name. "Thank you." He let her go, and with a final glance the girl picked up her skirts and bolted in the direction of the servant courters.

What about Shruikan? Thorn asked as Murtagh began to retrace his steps to the dragon landing platform. At the question Murtagh halted, his confident stride faltering briefly. You didn't even consider him, did you?

"Shut up," Murtagh growled.

Did you?

"Well…"

I thought as much.

"Do you think he died with Galbatorix?"

Hardly. The bond those two shared was sick and twisted, nothing like ours. With Galbatoriox's death, I cannot even begin to guess at what Shruikan will do.

"I suppose we should go talk to him and -"

Murtagh gasped out loud and went down to one knee as a powerful force, massive and malicious, descended on his mind.

Murtagh! His dragon cried, but Murtagh was suddenly unable to respond, and soon he lost the connection to his dragon altogether as the new entity spoke.

So, the rat has made his move, has he? The voice blasted inside his mind, burning and carrying an intensity that made listening almost painful.

"Shruikan?" Murtagh questioned breathlessly.

Yes, I am he. What has happened to my rider? There is foulness in the air.

"You don't know?" Murtagh questioned in surprise.

Galbatorix keeps his mind well sequestered from everyone, including me. Something has happened. WHERE IS MY RIDER?

Murtagh gasped again as the black dragon's voice thundered in his mind. "I -" the red rider broke off, not wanting to tell the black dragon the truth but knowing he could not lie either. Eventually he said reluctantly, "I killed him." There was silence for a moment that seemed like eternity, and Murtagh thought that Shruikan would try to kill him there and then – but then the dragon spoke again, quieter than before but still in a voice like rolling thunder.

He is dead, you say. Murtagh sent the dragon a wordless confirmation, along with his memories of the deed. Shruikan was silent again. Then, I see. His arrogance has finally destroyed him. An unidentifiable emotion rose up in the old dragon, and before Murtagh could identify it, Shruikan was pulling away. You have done Alagaesia a great service, boy.

Murtagh waited, and when the dragon did not speak again he said, "Why don't you come with us to the Varden? Perhaps with Galbatorix dead they would accept-"

They will not accept my presence, or any offer of friendship, even should I choose to offer it. Better for all involved if I simply stay here and die with my rider. I can already feel Galbatori'x death-force seeping into my bones, making me weary. It will not be long now. Be careful of the Varden, young one, Shruikan said. Do not expect anything from them. They will be as wary of you as they would be of me. With those last, disturbing words, Shruikan withdrew his mind and seemingly shut down.

As the black dragon's mind retreated, Thorn swept back into Murtagh's mind. Wordlessly the red dragon sent his rider a question. "He just wanted to talk to me," Murtagh answered, getting to his feet and continuing down the long, winding corridor that led to his dragon. "He said he is going to die, now that Galbatorix is dead."

It's a shame, Thorn said sadly. I didn't get to speak with Shruikan much, but I got the feeling that he was a very sad being. Galbatorix wronged no one more than his own dragon.

"Aye," Murtagh agreed softly. The red rider reached the end of the corridor and slid open the heavy wooden door before stepping out into the sunlight. He gazed at the sun and marveled at how much had happened in the past twelve hours. Meralaena had died not even five hours ago. With that unfortunate thought a sudden agony spiked inside Murtagh's chest, but he grit his teeth and refused to cry out. Logically he knew that the pain was psychological, but his physical reaction to her death seemed to be on par with even the most gruesome wound, for the sensation was likened to a dagger though the heart.

Murtagh! Thorn exclaimed.

"I am alright," the human replied. He stumbled forward and arrived, breathless, at Thorn's side. "We must leave this place. Too many shadows cling to its walls to linger."

I could not agree more.

Murtagh opened one of Thorn's saddlebags and got out an extra tunic. He wrapped Galbatori'x head – which he still clutched in his hand – in the clean material and then shoved the bundle into the leather container. Thorn expressed wordless distaste, which Murtagh eachoed, but they both knew that if the Varden were to listen to them, they would need some serious proof of their friendly intentions.

Murtagh wiped the king's blood from his hand and reluctantly transferred his gaze from his dragon to the body still strapped in the saddle. Since reentering the landing platform, Murtagh had been doing his best not to look at her. Now, however, there was very little choice. He jumped up into the saddle and slid into the second set of straps, shuddering as his body came into contact with Meralaena's icy cold skin.

"Now," Murtagh said apprehensively, "we go to the Varden."


Galby's dead! Woo! Oh and I had a reviewer last week who mentioned something about the images from the first chapter and the river scene popping up… I only meant that scene and her prophetic dreams to be metaphorical, like... the dream was symbolic of Meralaena and Murtagh being swept together towards a common fate, namely her dying to free him. Sorry if it was confusing. Thanks again to my reviewers! Next week is the end! What did you guys think of part one? Please review! I love you all!