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Chapter 36

Murtagh's heart was racing when he woke up, and he was positively giddy. He frowned at the dark ceiling, for he had never woken up giddy before. A smile spread across his face, and he breathed deep and sank into the mattress. A warm stirring crossed the intimate connection from Thorn into Murtagh, and wherever he was, Thorn was in high spirits.

It was dark, so Murtagh lit the space with a tiny light that flitted around his head. It was a typical spare bedroom in Ilirea's castle, and his things were set on a table near the bed. The light glinted off Zar'roc's blade that was propped against the wall.

Despite the wave of tremors that struck when he crawled out from under the blanket, Murtagh stood, shaking all the way, and dressed in his clothing that had been cleaned and fixed. Along with his effects was a thick, wool cloak that he put on immediately, tugging it tight at the edges so it covered every part of him. Exhaustion or not, he used magic to warm himself. He slipped into his boots and stepped outside.

It was dark and quiet in the hall, vacant save a few knights that guarded the area. No one questioned where he was going or offered to take him anywhere, which was well enough since he knew exactly where to go. He had grown up here, after all. He now had free rein in his childhood home that had for most of his life been a prison.

Entering a tower and climbing its winding staircase, he stepped out onto a high wall overlooking much of the castle and its enormous courtyard. A fresh layer of snow crunched under his feet as he strolled across it, and he pulled up his hood for warmth and exhaled on his shaky hands. Then he stopped in the middle and turned all around.

Below, Ilirea was lit with countless warm, blinking lights. Roofs were blanketed in white, and the city glowed under the light of the moon. It was quiet, peaceful, and for that he was glad.

High above and far away rang the proud cry of a dragon. Weaving through the stars were two dark bodies, touching sides, tumbling through the air and then rising again. Thorn roared, and Saphira echoed him. Murtagh smiled, and then he laughed to himself as the two dragons whirled around each other.

Every bit of stress melted out of Murtagh—rather, out of Thorn. Finally, after a life of enslavement, of misunderstandings and hatred, Thorn was understood and accepted. He could not help but cry out and dance across the sky, for he was no longer alone.

Snow crunched behind him, drawing Murtagh's attention back to the ground. Brom stood beside him and leaned over the edge of the wall, and he too watched the dragons as they frolicked across the sky.

"They have been like this for the past several days," Brom informed him.

"Several days," choked Murtagh, and he dropped his face into his hands. "Why did no one wake me?"

"We did." Brom smoothed his beard and smiled, his eyes gleaming. "Long enough to give you water and medicine, and then you were put back to bed."

Murtagh scowled at him and then put his forehead in the snow on the ledge. It was a mistake. A violent shiver nearly took him off his feet, and he stood abruptly and wiped the snow away.

Brom continued smiling, wrinkles framing his eyes, as he gazed at the heavens. "You seem to forget that though you have the aid of a spirit, your body is still human. If you push yourself too hard, you will wear yourself out."

"Like father, like son," Murtagh muttered, rubbing the back of his head. Eragon was not here to bother him, so why not Brom? If Brom materialized a vial of medicine, he was going to be impressed. Melting the snow away out of spite, Murtagh leaned over the ledge. "You and Eragon are a lot alike."

"Oh?" Brom's eyes brightened at the statement as he watched the dragons dipping low before leaping high.

Murtagh frowned at his own words, and he turned them over several times in his mind. If a son could not defy his father's nature by distance and separation, how much less could one who grew up in his father's shadow? Exhaling slowly, he unleashed a stream of fog into the crisp night air. "It would seem true that a son inherits his father's nature and will carry on his legacy with each new generation."

Silence answered him. Then, somewhere high above, Thorn and Saphira roared in perfect harmony. It was beautiful. Murtagh pulled his hood tight for warmth.

Then Brom spoke the words Murtagh had heard all his life. "You are like your father as well."

A heavy weight pressed upon Murtagh and made it difficult to breathe, and a dull ache grew in his chest.

Without wavering, Brom said, "You are smart, clever." After a moment, he continued, "You learn quickly and are astonishingly resourceful and creative. You are strong—and ever growing stronger." Then, Brom smiled at him, and Murtagh immediately looked away. "It is for these reasons that I loved your father."

Murtagh released a puff of air but could not make a sound. His eyes stung.

"If you inherited anything from Morzan, it is your intelligence and your strength," Brom told him. "But in you there is also compassion and unbreakable resolve. I can assure you that you, young though you are, have already surpassed your father."

A gentle quiet passed over them. Murtagh's breath hitched in his throat.

Only Tornac had ever dared to speak such things to him, long ago, and Murtagh had never heard it before or since. Everywhere he went, Murtagh met only distrust or outright hate. He was his father's son and nothing more. Even Galbatorix had believed as much and went to great lengths to enlist him, and Eragon had doubted his loyalty as soon as he learned the truth. Murtagh did not realize how much he needed someone else—anyone else—to tell him otherwise.

Yet he hastily dismissed the idea. He took the hope he felt and snuffed it out before it could grow. It was a lie, and he would not accept it.

Murtagh had submitted to Galbatorix and committed horrific atrocities while in his service. He had killed countless people, tortured Nasuada, and harmed Eragon. One of his greatest offenses was being present for Thorn to hatch and assigning the dragon a cruel fate. If Thorn had been given the opportunity to hatch in a different time, to someone else less flawed, the dragon's life would have been better.

Without knowing what else to say, Murtagh responded, "I am like my father in many ways."

Brom inhaled deep, his shoulders rising, and then he exhaled as he pulled a pipe out from beneath his cloak. Stuffing it and lighting it with whatever he had on his person, he puffed and sent colorful rings of smoke into the air. His wise and knowing gaze lingered on the city below. "Repentance, like most things, is good in moderation. One needs to know when it is wise to release the past."

"If only I could," Murtagh snapped, and instantly he chided himself for it. Shaking his head, he pressed his face into his hand. Even if he wanted to, the world never would. He was as broken as everyone believed. "If you read my memories, you would understand."

"I do not need to," said Brom without hesitation. He faced Murtagh and stood tall, his expression kind. "I have seen the man you are, and I need no other convincing." Brom smiled again with such warmth that Murtagh wanted to believe everything he said. "It is time to stop punishing yourself, for the world has done it enough already."

"You, least of all, should say these things to me. I am the son of your enemy, the son of the man who betrayed the Riders and wrought destruction on Alagaësia." Murtagh's body was numb, and no matter how much he commanded it to do so, he could not turn away. He simply stared at Brom and shivered.

Brom continued to smile under his thick beard. "What a contradiction you are." Then he laughed and smoked his pipe. Exhaling, he asked, "Tell me plainly what you think. Are you your father or are you not?"

Murtagh shuddered and made a few pathetic noises, and then he blinked down at the snow. Honestly, he no longer knew what he believed about himself. There was no escaping his past, and he had to accept it and make do with it without placing blame. It was his, and he would own it.

But accepting the past was a difficult thing. He had served Galbatorix, he had slaughtered innocent people, he had tortured Nasuada, he had harmed Eragon, he had killed Oromis and Glaedr… The list of transgressions was irrefutable. No amount of grumbling about his lack of choice would undo the harm he had done. As Nasuada had once said to him, he could not be forgiven, only understood.

He could never be forgiven—like his father.

It was painful for him, but he would carry that burden as best he could for the rest of his life.

"I am like my father, but I want to be better," he answered.

Brom reached out and clasped his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. His smile disappeared, but the warmth in his eyes did not. "That is wisdom," Brom told him. He held him for a long moment, and Murtagh frowned at the foreign gesture, and then the elder Rider stepped back and sighed. "It is late, and we should rest." He tapped the pipe against his palm and retraced his footsteps towards the door.

Murtagh frowned at the city below. Perhaps redemption was not even an option for him now. Perhaps Morzan and even Galbatorix became who they were because there was no hope for them. After going past a certain point, they could never return. Had he already crossed that line? Everyone else in Alagaësia seemed to believe so.

Yet he clung to a single thought. There was one clear distinction between him and his father, between him and Galbatorix. A strange sense of peace settled over him even as tears stung his eyes. Morzan and Galbatorix were haughty, and they thought the entire world should submit to their will. They truly believed that Alagaësia would cease to function without their rule. But Murtagh did not think that way.

No, Murtagh did not matter, and the world would not notice at all if he was gone. He did not need to be erased to be forgotten.

"Murtagh," said Brom. He had stopped at the door, and when he had Murtagh's attention, he tipped his head in suggestion.

It was instinctual. Murtagh glanced behind him, expecting someone else to be there that Brom summoned. Yet there was no one else, and Brom was still waiting. Wiping his eyes before any tears could fall, he dragged his feet through the snow and joined him.

Brom patted his back and ushered him inside. "Let us get some medicine in you, shall we?"

Murtagh laughed, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand. "You two…" Like father, like son.

Brom kept his hand on Murtagh's back, warm and strong, and guided him through the castle and back to his room. A fireless lamp shone on the table. Once inside, Brom fetched a vial of medicine and had Murtagh drink it. Murtagh unraveled his cloak and removed any unnecessary articles of clothing. Before he had the opportunity to climb back into bed, warm and snug, Brom flapped a hand at him.

"Trousers," he demanded.

Murtagh frowned but complied, undressing down to his undergarments and shivering all the while. As he handed the rest to Brom, he asked, "Why?"

"Because I do not think you will run around without them." Brom folded the garments, tucked them under his arm, turned out the light, and left the room.

That was a new one. Murtagh rubbed the back of his aching head, and then he buried himself under the blanket and fell immediately to sleep.

Two more days passed before Brom returned his clothing and allowed Murtagh to leave his room. Murtagh slept most of the time and only realized two days had passed when Thorn told him so, but he feigned irritation at Brom anyway simply on principle.

After getting cleaned up, having a decent meal, and preparing everything he would need, Murtagh snuck out of the castle and met with Thorn outside the city. Unfortunately, Saphira was there, too.

You should tell Eragon you are leaving, she growled, and she sat and stared hard at them while Murtagh fastened a makeshift saddle onto Thorn.

"No one asked you," Murtagh said, tying a rope into place after ensuring it would not cut into Thorn's leg.

Saphira snorted fire and then plopped into the snow. She folded one paw over the other, stretching out her claws. It was probably supposed to be intimidating, but Murtagh ignored her.

You should tell him, said Thorn, and he prodded Murtagh with his snout. A growl had hardly escaped Murtagh's throat before a shout arose from behind him.

"Yes, you should," declared Eragon while heading in their direction.

Murtagh's head snapped around, and he cast a nasty glare upon Saphira. You told him. His mental voice dropped to a dangerous low.

I did no such thing. Saphira folded her wings and dug into the snow with one claw. It was the first time Murtagh noticed she still wore a saddle—though this one intended for one person rather than two.

A wave of shame rolled over Murtagh that was not his, and then he turned on Thorn. "Thorn!"

Thorn's tail swished in the snow. Despite his initial wave of guilt, the dragon honestly said, I have no regrets.

"There you go again," Eragon grumbled as he reached Murtagh, and he scowled and set his hands on his sides. "When will you accept the fact that if you leave, I will follow you?"

Murtagh ignored him and secured the ropes around Thorn. Meanwhile, he shot Thorn a look. Thorn's head sank a little, but Saphira hummed, her tail wagging behind her.

"Murtagh!" snapped Eragon, and Murtagh paused and turned at an angle to meet his gaze. Shadows loomed in Eragon's eyes.

"If you are angry, you should go back," Murtagh said without much thought. His eyes fell to the snow just the same.

"I'm not angry." Yet all of Eragon's body language suggested otherwise. He crossed his arms over his chest and his brow wrinkled in a frown. "I'm frustrated that you think you need to keep doing this. I know why. You're wrong, but I understand."

"I'm sorry I was going to leave you behind when going to Mount Arngor." Murtagh meant it. Keeping Eragon and Saphira apart for any longer would have been a terrible thing on his part. He understood that now. However, this was different, and Murtagh firmly believed it when he said, "I'm going after the other spirits now, though. You should stay where it's safe."

"I'm going with you." Eragon started towards Saphira.

"No, you're not." Murtagh followed him with his eyes. He stood tall and folded his arms over his chest.

"Yes, I am."

"Eragon!"

"Why?" Eragon spun on his heels and straightened, mirroring Murtagh by folding his arms across his chest. Both stood with shoulders squared. Murtagh was taller, and he stuck up his nose. "Why don't you want me to go with you?"

Murtagh had several reasons. The spirits had been hunting Eragon. They wanted him enough to revive Brom and Selena to use against him. They targeted him, took control of him, and nearly had him. Morzan nearly had him. Even the thought of it made Murtagh's stomach churn, and he gritted his teeth. Not to mention that, beyond the barrier, the spirits would sap Eragon and Saphira's power as they had done to the elves and Fírnen, and Murtagh barely trusted himself enough to keep Thorn safe.

And Thorn knew all of this, and that was what made his little betrayal that much worse.

Of course, Murtagh would tell Eragon none of that. Instead, he said, "You're annoying."

"You're a liar," snapped Eragon, standing with his feet apart as if ready for a fight.

"See?" Murtagh jutted a finger at him. "That is annoying."

Eragon shook his head, but before he could say more, Brom and Selena trudged through the snow towards them. Brom carried a large bundle of dark leather in his hands, but it was wrapped tightly and appeared nothing more than a lump. Selena set her hands on her sides and pinched her eyebrows together, pressing her lips tight. It was meant for Murtagh, and he abruptly turned away.

Serves you right, said Eragon to him, privately.

Brom brought the leather bundle to Murtagh and unraveled it, revealing a fine and high-quality saddle. "It would have been a pity if you left before I could give this to you."

The leather was so dark that it was just shy of being black, and the edges were bound by silver and crimson threading. Even Galbatorix had never offered him something so ornate or grand. Murtagh accepted it with shaky hands.

"Thank you." Murtagh stared at the gift, and then he sighed and glanced between Eragon's parents. "Please tell your son to stay here where it is safe."

Eragon started to shake his head—and Selena did too. Her hands remained firmly planted on her hips. She said, "I was under the impression he was safest with you." Heat climbed up Murtagh's cheeks, and Eragon gawked at her, but Selena moved past them both and smiled at Thorn. "To think you were that adorable little boy crying on my shoulder."

Now Thorn slumped forward, hanging his head in shame. He snorted a tiny blast of fire into the snow. Regrettably, it is difficult to be human.

"Please look after them," said Selena, and she spoke to both dragons, and both hummed in response. After looking Thorn over, she turned back around and scowled at Murtagh. "Did you remember your medicine?"

Murtagh dropped the saddle and threw up his hands. Both Eragon and Brom smiled, but Selena cocked her head. "All of you," he grumbled, and then he snatched up the saddle and went to put it on Thorn. He muttered as he moved supplies into the bags attached to it.

Brom went to Eragon and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. "Stay safe and return to us. We will be here waiting for you."

"I know." Eragon closed his eyes, clasping him tightly. "And I will."

Short and brief, Brom stepped back.

Selena stood before Eragon next, and she straightened his hair—and seemed not to notice she was doing it—and adjusted his cloak around his neck. Eragon was trying not to smile, and his cheeks turned pink. Then she patted his arms. "You will absolutely stay safe and stay out of trouble." Her hand held his face, and she met his eyes. "You will eat well and sleep well, understood?" When he nodded, she scowled. "And you will eat all of your vegetables."

Murtagh bit his tongue. He was trying really, really hard not to laugh, and finally he had to hide his face against the saddle to drown out a chuckle. Eragon's face turned redder and redder.

Selena smiled. "It has been a long many years, but I always wanted to be able to say that." Then she wrapped her arms around him, and he her, and they held each other for a long while. Kissing his forehead, she stepped back. "My love, come back to me when you finish your task. I will always wait for you."

Rubbing his arm and squirming, Eragon whispered, "I love you, Mother."

This earned him another hug and another kiss, and Selena clasped his face in both of her hands. "I love you, my child."

Finished with his project, Murtagh returned to the ground. He scowled at Eragon as his sibling went to Saphira, and then he offered Brom a nod. Before he could acknowledge Selena, she stepped abruptly in front of him, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. Murtagh took a single step back—and she followed.

"Shame on you for trying to leave without saying goodbye," she said. When Murtagh sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, her entire countenance changed. Her face and eyes softened, and she dropped her arms. Then she placed one hand on his arm. "Do keep an eye on that fever, and take care of yourself. And if you have need of anything, we are always here."

Murtagh gave only a tiny nod. Then she raised her hand—probably by instinct only—and brushed his hair out of his eyes. Selena stared at him then, searching deep in his eyes, and her fingers settled on his cheek. Her touch was soft and warm, both familiar and unfamiliar. He should step back or move. He did nothing.

"Murtagh…" Her voice was faint but gentle, full of affection, and her eyes shone. She smiled so slight.

Lost in herself, lost wherever she was in her memories, she smoothed back his hair. Then she kissed his forehead, lingering for only a second. Snapping back into herself, Selena stumbled backwards, eyes wide open. Her mouth gaped until she slapped both hands over it. Her neck, her face, and her ears turned bright red.

Murtagh was not much better. Heat shot up his neck all the way to the top of his head. He shivered, but not from cold, and his heart was thumping so fast he was getting lightheaded. Several times he tried to speak and only made a few pathetic noises with his useless tongue and unhinged jaw.

Off to the side, Eragon and Brom stared with equally bulging eyes.

"I am so sorry," Selena said into her hand. She reached once for Murtagh and abruptly yanked her hand back to her chest before initiating contact. "I am so sorry. I do not—I did not—I am sorry!" Words poured off her tongue in breathless spurts. She turned a half circle and looked to Brom for support—he was still frozen—and then she flapped her hand at Murtagh, her face contorting into a strange sort of frown. "I am so sorry."

Then she approached Murtagh again and vainly tried to wipe the kiss off his forehead. Immediately after, she hit him on the arm. "It is because you are so close to Eragon's age—I got confused. I am sorry." Turning two circles, she stormed away from him and waved her hands in the air as she went. "I am sorry. Be safe. Look after each other." She faced them one last time and then immediately turned away. "Goodbye."

And then she was gone. Murtagh had to remind himself to breathe.

Brom finally crossed his arms, his eyebrows lifting. Eloquently, he said, "Hm." Then he followed after her.

Both Selena and Brom reached the city gate before Murtagh could move. He managed to turn. Eragon had an arm on Saphira and was resting his forehead upon it, concealing his face, and his shoulders shook. Then their eyes met.

Despite biting his lip, an enormous grin was plastered on Eragon's face. "Seems you may not be as forgettable as you thought." With that, he climbed into Saphira's saddle and buckled his legs in place.

Murtagh blinked back at the city and tried to wipe the heat out of his cheeks, and then he climbed into Thorn's saddle and fastened himself into his seat.

Leave them behind, he commanded Thorn, but he made sure Eragon and Saphira could hear. Thorn snorted and then leapt off the ground.

I think we are racing, Saphira chimed, and she burst into the air.

All the while, Eragon laughed.