"Is it true that he can control you with his mind?"

"No."

"Is he very frightening?"

"Not particularly."

"Has he used any more magic?"

"Not in his current state, especially after the stunt he pulled with his dragon."

"Captain, permission to be honest."

"Permission granted."

"This is all very disappointing."

Hal snorted, looking over at the very dejected Layla with a bemused expression. "That's what you get for gossiping with the other children — you know better than that."

"I suppose so. If the rider has had to put up with you for a few days and you're not dead, I suppose he can't be all bad."

"When I'm not elbow-deep in suds, remind me to throttle you later." Layla shrieked in delight as Hal splashed her.

"All right you two, knock it off," Tena scolded.

"We're just having fun, mama," Layla huffed, splashing around in the cool, shallow water of the river where the women on this side of the village congregated to do laundry. "Right Hal?"

But Hal kept her mouth shut, ignoring Tena's stare that dared Hal talk back. Hal had somewhat lied when she told Denu that Amon and Tena had understood the events that led to their hut being destroyed. Amon understood. Tena had been beside herself with fury. Hal did not take it personally — they had six children and were now cramped together with Amon's parents in a hut big enough for three. It wasn't an ideal situation for anyone, so Hal did not need any other reason for Tena to be upset with her.

"I am curious though," said Ophelia. She was a young mother and wife, only married a year to Hal's close friend, Eli, with a six-month-old strapped to her back, sleeping soundly. Her hair was wrapped up in a scarf to keep it out of her face while she worked. "He has been awake for several days now. What is his temperament like, Hal?"

The few women in close proximity to hear the conversation briefly stopped what they were doing to gaze at Hal. Even Tena's harsh scrubbing on the washboard had softened so that the noise didn't overpower whatever Hal would say next. Hating the sudden attention, Hal forced her gaze down. She was washing the blankets and rags she had been using for the rider, soiled in blood, sweat, and dirt.

She thought of his cold and distant gaze, the sorrow in his voice, and the tears in his eyes when he thought he was alone. She recalled with a shiver his subtle threat against the village. Hal did not truly believe he would harm them, yet the fact that the threat had still rolled so easily off his tongue unnerved her. Hal didn't know what to think of him, and she didn't know what to say. She didn't trust him — a feeling she knew was mutual — and that was enough for her. But they didn't need to know any of that; they didn't need any reason to think they weren't safe in their homes.

"He is…difficult to describe," she said at last. "But he has made no indication that he means us any harm," she added, avoiding their gazes. "He just wants to regain his strength so that he may leave as soon as he is able."

"Boooriiiing," Layla chanted.

"He ought to fix my house!" Tena snapped, wagging a sopping wet finger at Hal. "His bloody dragon destroyed the whole damn thing. Even the frame — we have to rebuild completely from scratch. It will take us months!"

"She keeps telling anyone who would listen," Sarah whispered, brown eyes twinkling as she leaned over to Hal so that she would not be overheard. She was an older woman, her own children already married and starting their own families. "If she nagged the rider as much as she did us, she probably could make him rebuild the hut just to shut her up."

Hal choked on her laughter, clamming up quickly when Tena shot her a venomous glare, as though having heard Sarah's remark, and busied herself with her linens. When she was finished, Hal bade her goodbyes, her laundry basket in hand. She felt her shoulders relax and her breathing loosen as she reached the peace and quiet of her hut. She nodded amicably at Thorn, who watched her with a lazy eye like always when she appeared around him. And like always, he moved from his spot on the side of the hut to the back as she did the laundry. It had been like this since he had shown up at the village. And although Hal could not tell if it was to keep an eye on her or simple curiosity, she had not felt a drop of malice from him like she had that first day, pinned under his terrifying gaze. But it still sent shivers down her spine to pretend to ignore being watched by a bloody dragon.

She hung her wet laundry and pulled down what was already dry, humming to herself a lullaby with long-forgotten words. It almost felt normal — the clear, blue sky under the warm, yellow sun. The breeze was perfect, the clothes and sheets swaying in it like a gentle dance. She could almost forget about the dragon and his rider if she really concentrated. She could occasionally hear laughter rise up from the women back down river and smiled, sure they were now gossiping about Hal. But she didn't mind. So long as they were in good spirits.

He was sitting up again when she entered, his face turned towards the small window, only a piece of the sky visible beyond. He didn't acknowledge her presence, and she was fine with that. Conversation did not flow naturally between them. The time she spent in the room when she was not catering to him was often spent reading or sleeping. If they did talk, it was about his injuries.

She watched him out of the corner of her eyes as she set the laundry basket down on the low table that had been pushed up against the wall, lately housing whatever Hal was using to occupy her time or medicine for the rider instead of actual meals. She kneeled down and began to fold the linens in silence, observing his contemplative expression. Since waking, he had not let Hal come near him to keep him clean, embarrassed most likely. He seemed obnoxiously proud, yet cared little for the state of his appearance. His hair was unkempt and greasy, his beard knotted. With each passing day, he looked more and more like a wild man, but Hal didn't feel comfortable telling him so, and she forced her face into a mask to avoid reacting as his smells grew worse.

His dark, grey eyes finally turned to her but he didn't speak. Sometimes he did that too, just like his dragon. Just watched her quietly. But unlike the creature, he did not seem to do it out of curiosity or even any sort of profound mistrust. It was like he was searching her face for someone else, and that was almost more unnerving. His very presence was unnerving and almost impossible to ignore.

"You seem to be the talk of the village," Hal blurted. She wasn't sure why she was speaking to him. He made it quite clear he wanted to be left alone. But if she didn't get him to talk, if he continued to sit there in a stirring silence, her hesitation around him would turn to fear, and she didn't want to give him that power over her. Despite his crimes, Murtagh Morzansson was still just a man. She would show him she was unafraid. She would heal his broken body and get him out as soon as possible. "Everyone keeps asking me about you."

"And what do you tell them?" His voice was deep enough to vibrate the air around him, putting her on edge. She could hear his caution, his weariness, and his sadness. But there was resolve there too, as though he were trying to keep as much emotion out of his tone as possible. However, Hal had spent just over half of her life around Denu, a man who had spent his entire life listening to the emotional tones and cues he couldn't see. While she was no expert like he, she could pick up even minor things people wished to keep hidden.

She cleared her throat, throwing up her shoulders in a casual shrug while she tried to find an appropriate response. "Not much, honestly. I've never been one for gossip."

"Then why tell me at all?"

He didn't seem angry, just genuinely puzzled as to what her objective had been. She didn't respond, unsure herself. "Just trying to make conversation, I suppose."

"Is that really necessary?"

"Don't be petulant," Hal snapped, forgetting herself for a moment. "If I can attempt to be cordial with the man who made threats against my people — empty or not — then you can attempt to hold a conversation with the woman who saved your life."

"You presume my threats are empty?"

"I said 'empty or not,'" she clarified in a haughty voice.

"Why make the distinction if you thought it was an actual threat?"

"So, you want me to believe you're more of an ass than I already think you are?"

To her surprise, he didn't have a quick whip for that. There was no point in getting herself worked up. Yet he kept finding his way under her skin and because they were strangers, Hal had no idea how to deal with the disruption to her life.

After regaining her composure and finishing with the laundry, she figured she may as well go about the rest of her duties, she stepped forward and gave him a tight, insincere smile, gesturing to him politely. "May I?"

He nodded stiffly, avoiding her gaze like he always did as she moved to kneel down beside him. Hal was no longer bothered by the fact that he stiffened when she touched him. Checking his injuries preoccupied her hands and her thoughts for a couple of minutes a few times each day. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead — she had soon realized that her proximity to him when she used her forehead made him uncomfortable — taking in his flushed cheeks and neck. His fever was constantly waxing and waning as of late — nothing, according to Mennes, that was cause for concern considering his condition. But Hal still sighed with frustration when he felt unnaturally warm to the touch, even in their hot climate.

"I may talk with Mennes about switching up the herbs we give you," she told him. "I really want you to break this fever. Perhaps something to help you sleep longer, giving your body more time to rest."

Murtagh didn't respond, but she didn't expect nor want him to. She was really talking to hear her thoughts out loud. However, when she undid some of his bandages, her face fell and she looked up, speaking to him directly. "You've been using magic," she said, her voice pinched with irritation. One of the cuts, thin but deep across his chest, was already beginning to turn pinkish, the skin pulling together in a feat that should have taken several more weeks. Even some of his bruising appeared fainter. How long? How had she not noticed? "Dammit, rider, no wonder you haven't been recovering properly."

"I've been doing a little bit at time so I don't overexert myself. I'm being cautious, and Thorn is helping me."

"Your body doesn't care about how careful you're being," she argued. "The magic you used to heal Thorn put you out for two weeks. Two! The fever is a sign that your body is still not ready for you to use so much magic. I know you're not stupid yet you're being intentionally reckless."

"Bold statement coming from a woman who threw herself off a cliff to save a stranger and nearly got herself eaten in the process."

Hal opened her mouth to argue and found herself choking on her words. Dammit. He was right. He appeared smug as she struggled to speak. "How did you —?"

"Thorn has shared what he could remember from that day. He saw your miraculous cliff-dive for himself."

Hal looked up from his healing wounds. "I had few options and even less time. You're simply being impatient."

"Why do you care so much?" he hissed through gritted teeth.

"Why are you fighting me on this?" Hal countered with irritable disbelief.

"I asked you first."

It was such a childish response, but Hal, flustered, stumbled over her indignity and responded in kind. "I don't!"

He raised a brow, now challenging her answer. "You don't care about my well-being?"

She stared as if seeing him for the first time. "This is ridiculous," she breathed in disbelief that the conversation had so quickly spiraled into madness. "You're being ridiculous," she added with an exasperated look in the rider's direction. She shook her head. Murtagh was watching her intently, his eyes steely and composed. "I don't want to see you overexert yourself like you did healing Thorn. That's all."

He sighed, looking away for a moment. "How very noble."

She bristled at the mocking sarcasm in his tone. "Call it what you will, but you know I'm right."

"Do I?"

"If not then I suppose you will continue to heal yourself regardless of my opinion," Hal said, leaning forward. She pressed her fingers lightly to his ribs, making note of what he had healed fully, healed some, and not been able to heal at all. She watched for how he flinched, listened to his sharp inhales of breath, and took her mental notes. Like it or not, everything he had started to heal seemed to be in order. At least, she figured, most of the immediate threats to his health, like risk of infection, or internal damage, were all but gone now, that she could see.

"Do I pass your test?" he asked.

"For now. But check your arrogance, rider. I've invested too much time in you; I'll not have you backsliding because of impatience and overconfidence."

She hadn't meant for her tone to come off so harsh. His gaze was almost defiant, a shadow passing across his face. But he must have read her no-nonsense as sincere because instead of arguing, he just gritted his teeth in silence.

She redressed the wounds that were still open and needing to heal. When she was done, she began gathering her supplies in her arms, setting them down on the table once more. She tried to focus on cleaning up the space, her back to him. But a headache was forming behind her eyes and her muscles were tightening up from stress. She told herself to hold her tongue. She was always getting in trouble for speaking out of turn. However, her anger and inability to repress it at the moment, won out and she spun on her heel with an accusatory finger already raised.

"Why can't you just say 'thank you' like a normal person?!" The rider stared, baffled by her sudden outburst. Now that she had started, Hal could feel the words spilling out of her mouth, an unstoppable force of pent up frustration. "I risked my life to save you and what have I got to show for it? A destroyed hut that could've killed a family that I deeply care about, little to no sleep for nearly three weeks, and a patient who argues with me about the semantics of threatening a village. Do you have any idea the backlash I had to endure because of this? Mennes wouldn't even touch you when he realized who you were and people talked to me like I was a fool and a traitor for saving you of all people. Not to mention I'm lying to the villagers, telling them you mean us no harm and terrified that I am wrong about you and that you might make true on your word. I can't imagine the pain you must be in, but I am not the cause of it. You do not have to treat me like an idiot or leper!"

He could barely look at her, his jaw clenched so tightly that Hal thought he would break it. Once her rant was over, she didn't feel much better, just more frustrated. Even though he was staring at the wall to his left, Hal too turned her head, unable to look at him. She almost apologized then shook her head. She had nothing to be sorry for. Instead, she turned and picked up her laundry basket.

"I'll be back to bring you your lunch," she said in a low voice, still avoiding looking at him. Then she quickly left before she lost her resolve.

…

Do not say — Murtagh began.

I told you so, Thorn interrupted with a self-satisfied huff. You're lucky she only gave you a verbal lashing. You deserve worse for your behavior. We both do.

They already think we're murderers and traitors, why should it matter if I hurt her feelings?

We can keep our distance and still be cordial. The two are not mutually exclusive. Not to mention she was right. She has gone above and beyond to care for you, and we have yet to reciprocate in kind. Or even thank her. That does not sit well with me, and I know it does not sit well with you.

I owe her a debt and I will make sure it gets paid, Murtagh snapped defensively.

This is about more than settling a debt, Thorn chastised. And I know you know better. Why are you so upset anyway?

Because we shouldn't even be here, he responded with exasperation. Honestly, Thorn, what are we even doing here?

We were called here.

No, no, he told us to come here as if we didn't have a choice.

Of course we had a choice. He needed our help, who were we to turn him down?

And look what it has gotten us!

Thorn sighed, his irritation obvious. You act as if Eragon intended for this to happen.

It wouldn't've happened if we were still up north.

We were miserable up north, and you know it. Besides, he insisted that this was urgent. I would like to do some good in this life while I am still able. You may be able to pretend complacency with the way things are, but I am growing restless.

Murtagh shook his head even though Thorn could not see him. You're so bloody noble.

Thorn's voice was somber. I'd rather be noble than a traitor.

Unable to come up with a response, Murtagh allowed himself to wallow in his dragon's profound sadness. It had been like this ever since Galbatorix was killed. Once Thorn was able to move past his transgressions and anger, he became annoyingly fixated on righting his wrongs. He and Murtagh went around and around on the topic. Murtagh wanted to stay clear of any major populations, and had been considering flying east, past the Hadarac Desert where the kingdom could not reach. Start anew and without having to look over their shoulders for the rest of their lives, however long that may be.

Thorn, for some reason, had the opposite idea. He kept going on about duty and honor. He wanted to right their wrongs and forge a new life for them in Alagaësia. He wanted people to know that their actions had not been done of their own free will and hoped it would allow them, in due time, to find their own place here. He could feel it in the way his dragon's eyes lingered on the woman when she moved about, his warmth at her silent nods of respect. She was always doing such benign tasks, and yet Thorn was enthralled with the simplicity and innocence behind them. This village was a world that, in another life — if Galbatorix had gotten his way — Thorn would have never known. One of peace, with children laughing, and families jesting with one another.

But Murtagh knew better, and had spent the better part of the last five years stalling and finding ways to change the topic of conversation when Thorn brought it up. Murtagh knew a life before he was Galbatorix's right hand. And that life labeled him as nothing more than Morzan's son. They were damned either way, Thorn just didn't know it yet. And Murtagh didn't have the heart to dissuade such innocent hope in his only companion. Didn't want Thorn to mistakenly think they were welcomed here by any means.

Maybe someday, Murtagh finally said. But even then, he felt guilty for lying.