Clashing Wills of Steel

Murtagh swung his Father's blade, the ruby glowing brighter than the fresh blood that spewed from sliced skin and sinew.

The rider waited for the irony-haze that rested over everything to settle and allow him to see the situation he was in and where Thorn had gone. They had never been separated, not since his hatching.

Another faceless figure flew towards him with a battle cry, his face hidden from his coppery-colored helmet; with a practiced lung and swing the mysterious person's head hit the ground with a squelched thud. It skidded, his face now visible as blood gushed from between his white teeth still clenched in hate and purpose.

Murtagh looked around again, slicking his hair back with the blood that dripped from his gloved hand. The ruby in the sword was the only light he could see and he needed clarity. As he looked around, he realized that he was elevated somewhat and when he turned he saw he was on a slope. He decided to climb.

When he reached the top there was a blinding, hot light and Murtagh looked up to see that Thorn had arrived, his giant wings throwing the putrid stench of decay to him.

"Thorn!"

He screamed it, but it was overtaken by a yell promising death form an unseen person.

It was then that Thorn opened his massive jaws, his usually pearl teeth glittering with a black, dripping liquid and his breath was hot miasma. He lowered his head for another growl, and it was here that Murtagh saw someone on his dragon's back.

Thorn dove then and Murtagh was too petrified to move from seeing his own dragon, his other half, coming at him with murderous intent. But he did not clamp him in two; it was the person on Thorn's back that was obviously the one with the right to kill.

Except it was Murtagh's own self he saw with that glowing, corrupting sword he had stolen from Eragon coming towards him.

He looked down again at himself and found the sword was gone, instead there was an ornate bow. He reached back and found a quiver, but all the arrows were gone. Thorn opened his mouth and fire spewed all around him, casting light on the hill he had thought was earth, but was truly mutilated corpses. He looked down and saw the bodies of once beautiful elves. Their faces were contorted in their pain of death and wrinkles, their eyes plucked out and mouths ripped open to expose lolling tongues. Their necks were bent at wrong angles, and limbs were obviously pulled out of their rightful sockets and bleached bone splintering out of their pale skin.

By the time Murtagh looked up he barely had enough time to see the sword coming towards-

He woke with a start and a silent yell, alarming Thorn aside of him.

Did you see? Murtagh asked with a pant and a hand to his chest. Sometimes they had conjoining dreams, their bond so tight, but Murtagh hoped this one had only plagued him.

I did not share whatever this dream was, he answered back with a soft rumble.

Murtagh leaned back against Thorn's neck and put the hand that was not over his heart on his cool scales. He quickly showed the quickly dissipating dream to his dragon, who curled in on him more with each passing second of explanation.

You have not had a nightmare in decades, Thorn noted.

Murtagh grunted in reply, focusing on quieting his sprinting heart.

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He distantly heard the clanging of flashing swords and the twain of bow strings, but mostly Murtagh did not take in all the weapon practice around him. It seemed empty both in skill, as it was the sapling elven he was waiting to finish, and with intent. These children looked like they were playing with toys, no matter how easily they could outmatch any regular human swordsman.

Murtagh looked over and watched that funny-named boy de-limbed a body of straw before splitting the lump from head to torso, no one straw falling before he was finished from his speed.

Narrowing his brown eyes now at three girls who let loose arrows at the same time, all to embed inches from the center, Murtagh wondered what he'd be like if he was a child born of peace. Would he be different, and if he was, would be want to be different? It sounded foreign, like the nomads' language, to think that he could be without that battle-lust that had plagued him for so long. At the least he wouldn't have a sword haunting him in his house or nightmares of realities past.

His eyes were taken away from the archer with a small snarl, and he saw it was Abrhvitr who had let out the soft exclamation. The taller girl was pulling on her white-silver hair almost to the point of lifting her up from the ground.

Murtagh lifted an eye from the chivalrousness fighting style and a moment later the teacher was making the older girl let go of Abrivhr's hair; the small girl did a good job of holding down her annoyance. Murtagh knew she loved her hair, if only to remind her of winter snow to combat the waning summer heat.

It seemed elven children did not hold any inhibitions from landing low-bows, something the teachers were clearly ashamed of. Yet what Murtagh knew was most shameful of all was how Abrhvitr danced around her opponent for too long, waiting for them to open up for her and never taking the initiative. Apparently it was thought cowardly; that other girl must have grabbed her hair to try and drag her in.

Murtagh heard the instructor whisper about finding a new partner for the other girl (apparently her name was Nuanenvindr; a vain name if anything) but Abrhvitr shook her head and only asked for a new sparring partner. The educator pursed her lips slightly, but did not argue. She simply took the two boys aside who were clashing swords and ordered them to switch.

Abrhvitr now stood before a new opponent, and Murtagh saw she didn't even bother tying her hair back up as one might guess. The boy seemed a little full of himself, and Murtagh suddenly had the feeling this would be an easy fight.

Ineed it was, as no more than a few seconds into the fight Abrhvitr quickly spun her legs, knocking the boy from his ankles and causing him to drop on his behind with a sharp yelp. As if to add insult to injury, Abrhvitr strode forward and sat upon his chest.

Then she truly shocked Murtagh for the first time when she looked over at him and grinned with light, red eyes.

Murtagh gave a single nod of praise as Thorn's booming laughter pounded at his temples.

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"Teach me how to be better."

"Don't talk when I'm attempting to nap."

Murtagh had meant it as a light jab, but it seemed Abrhvitr took it seriously as she remained silent. When he finally opened his eyes to look across at her, sitting with her legs tucked under her, he sighed and sat up with a huff. He didn't give much care to the blade so of grass he felt fall off of his tunic.

"With what?" he asked, and Thorn perked up as well. It seemed neither of them cared about favoritism; she was their friend after all.

"I want to be a better swordsman," she said, her hands clasped at her knees. "I have read of your conquests, and how you nearly bested Eragon Worldsaver. He tricked you for the victory."

"Oh right," Murtagh said, absently rubbing his stomach that had been stabbed out of necessity.

"I implore you," she said as she leaned forward so now her forehead touched her knees, "Please teach me to best my opponents in an artful way."

Get up, young one, Thorn said, his deep voice rumbling in a comforting way. We will help you.

It was much easier said then done, because once Abrhvitr had a wooden stick in her hair (because Murtagh was not going to get out any sharp objects when teaching swordsmanship to a kid, despite how the elves did just that) Murtagh realized he knew more about bloodshed-fighting than artful-fighting. No matter how much she may pester him, teaching her how to fight for example, he was not going to continue his war-born practices with a child of peace.

So he had to stand there and remember way back, back to when Tornac had first taken him when he was small and awkward. Soon the memories came back, and he absently hummed in the swell of bright emotions from it. Only when he heard Abrhvitr shift her feet in the grass did he remember.

"I'm going to start with the basics of what humans have to learn," he said as he bent his knees and got into stance. Abrhvitr mirrored his action in a flash.

Murtagh stood and walked up to her, using his own stick to touch on various parts of her body that needed to adjust to get a the stance exactly right. When he felt satisfied, he stood back. Any human child would be shaking at the knees from holding this position down for so long, but Abrhvitr was no human and she remained standing.

And so begun a grueling day of fighting (at least for the girl) as Murtagh easily blocked her attacks and caused her tumble down an uncountable amount. Soon Abrhvitr's hair was plastered to her damp temples and her bright white tunic was stained with blotches of green and brown.

It was odd how not nights before he had woken in fear of swordsmanship, and was now teaching it to the next generation. It gave an odd, settled feeling between his ribs that she would (hopefully) never have to use her swordsmanship in the brutal ways he had been forced to. He remembered when he had the childish innocence of swinging the sword, and he hoped that the feeling could continue for her as she grew up. That she would want to continue this deadly dance because she desired it and was challenged by the various forms and methods, not because it would save her from being chopped down.

In the day that had quickly passed to night, Murtagh did not find only displeasure with her fighting. He had seen her with a bow and arrow and thought she had been better with that weapon, but held back his curiousity as to why she wanted to fight with a sword.

Because you do, Thorn rumbled from across the clearing as Murtagh easily paried Abrhvitr.

Murtagh didn't want to believe it was true, but he realized it was when her eyes lit up ever time he moved, and how she could not stop hopping on the balls of her bare feet from excitement.

For the first time in a long, long time, Murtagh let a true cocky, crooked grin spread over his face. It was such a distraction Abrhvitr outright dropped her stick-sword.

Now you have done it, Thorn laughed.


Color theme: 047. Pewter; Word Count: 1,875

Posted on the 26th of November

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On the elven name I made:

Nuanenvindr translates to 'beautiful air' of the ancient language and the explanation for that name will come in time.

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A Lengthy Note: So I finally got around to reading Inheritance, and it got me to finally get around to updating this story! I'm actually really surprised how easily my story fits and coincides with canon. Yet there are still some things that need to be fitted in, and there are obvious changes (like the Queen being alive). I hope you readers don't mind it's not exactly the same, but then why would you? Because this is fanfiction and you read for variability! Anyway, now that everything is revealed, I look forward to continuing with this little story. I hope you stick around as well.