Hal was lying awake in bed, still fighting every urge to fall asleep. Her torch was still lit, casting ominous shadows that were almost as unsightly as whatever her mind would conjure in the dark. So, she was still awake when it happened.

It was almost like an instantaneous shock to the system. Just as it had been behind those wards hiding the Ra'zac, the world seemed to suddenly fall silent. There was no wind, no insects. No trees moved, and even Hal's own breathing stilled as her hair stood on end. She quietly got out of bed, drawing her dagger from under her pillow, ignoring how her hands shook. Was someone here? Had there been more Ra'zac? She shuddered at the thought, wary of leaving her bed but hating, even more, the feeling of being caught off guard.

She ventured slowly outside, stunned to find the rider standing there and staring off into the dark, starry night sky with a look of apprehension on his face. He didn't move as she took up the space beside him, but he spoke. "You feel it too."

She nodded her head — even though he was making a statement not asking a question — licking her lips slowly. "What is it?"

"It's hard to say for certain," he cautioned, his tone full of frustration and regret. She could sense his own unease, and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling very cold standing in just her nightgown. "But it almost feels like raw energy."

She blinked, unsure of what he meant. "Energy?"

"When magic users actually use magic, it takes energy. The effort it would require to complete a task by hand is still required when you use magic to do it instead."

"Truly? Makes magic a bit of a waste then, doesn't it? Why wouldn't you just do it yourself then?"

He seemed amused by her questions, chuckling quietly. "You would think, but there are some advantages to it." Unconsciously, he looked down at her hands, then quickly averted his gaze as he looked back up at the sky. Hal did not have to follow his gaze to know he had glanced down at her hands. The scars that remained from the mangled mess that had once been. He had a point. "But whatever this is," he continued, "that's what it feels like. Like raw energy is filling the air."

Hal closed her eyes. She slowed her breathing, listening, taking in the world around her without the influence of her sight, just as Denu had taught her. It took her a few moments, but she sucked in her breath sharply when she felt it. The buzz in the air, almost cackling. It felt similar to what she had felt when her body drew on the magic within. This was subtler, but it was there.

It was unsettling, and Hal opened her eyes, taking a steadying breath before she lost her composure. "I have this sinking suspicion the Ra'zac were just the beginning," she admitted, keeping her gaze on the sky and stars above. "And that scares me, rider. The not knowing."

"I don't like it either," he admitted, his voice full of understanding. "I wish there was more that I could do. But until I have concrete evidence of what we're dealing with…"

"You've already done so much. Do not push yourself on our account. I already feel guilty that you wasted so much of your energy and magic on me —"

"Don't think for one second it was wasted," he said sharply. "Not for one second, Halen. Because I know, without a doubt, that I would do it again so long as it meant sparing your life."

She couldn't help but meet his gaze then, stunned at the intensity of his declaration. Moved by it. The moonlight heightened the grey in his eyes, the kindness in them. Had such an emotion always been there, or was it simply a trick of the light, perhaps her nerves riled up from the events of the last few days? And yet she felt a sense of calmness wash over her, and Hal looked away as her cheeks grew hot at the passion of his gaze.

"It was still risky," she continued. "You have not healed completely either."

"I knew what I was doing."

His tone was brusque, like it was nothing. But when she dared peek over at him, his face looked troubled. Hal's chest felt tight. This was such unfamiliar territory for her, in almost every capacity. She didn't know what to say or do so that it all felt less uncomfortable. And yet she knew what he probably needed to hear, she was not yet strong enough to say.

However, she was spared from forcing the words when the trees began to sway as they always did. A gust of wind rolled through, bringing with it a return to normalcy so that no one in the village would know about what had happened except for her and the rider. Hal felt her breathing loosen, but she was still uneasy.

"What you told the villagers, about the lovuk's food supply — how did you manage to make that up?"

She raised a brow at him. "I didn't." He looked at her, his face puzzled. "The giant that made the print. The fully-grown Ra'zac..."

Murtagh nodded. "The Lethrblaka."

Lethrblaka. She said it again so that she wouldn't forget. "I don't know it's…dietary habits, but it was eating animals when we found it. If you take that creature plus Thorn, both feeding on the food supply that normally belongs to lovuk…" She shrugged. "Our island can only hold so many giant predators. Thorn may have to also hunt lovuk as well, if he can, or expand his hunting grounds so they do not travel towards any other villages searching for food."

Murtagh blinked, looking dumbfounded. "I will be sure to let him know."

"We should head back inside," Hal said after a few moments. She glanced back out at the woods, then turned to Murtagh. "Get some rest."

"You go ahead. I'll be right behind you."

She was about to ask why when something told her to forget about it. His gaze left little room for argument, and she felt little inclination to wind herself up so late at night. Yet she didn't move, reading his face and watching for a sign that something was wrong. Or did he just want his privacy? But his eyes were steady and sure, so she felt confident enough to bid him a goodnight, finally forcing herself to walk back towards the hut.

…

Murtagh could tell Halen had not gotten any more sleep than he had. Even though her room was finally dark by the time he returned to the space he had been occupying, he felt acutely aware of her movements, heightened by how quiet it was around them. How she tossed and turned. Eventually she fell still, but he could picture her sitting up in her cot, legs hugged to her chest, staring at the wall. He did almost the exact same thing through the rest of the night, unable to sleep after what he had felt earlier.

He had not been entirely truthful with her about the raw energy in the air. For that's what he believed it was. And the only reason he had an inkling of it, was because it was how her magic had felt. But where Halen's faded in and out, uncontrolled with her inexperience and brought forth by her agony, this felt like the opposite. It was like Halen's magic had called to it, and it had answered.

She moved early to start her chores, running in and out of the hut before the sun had even broken through the horizon. He could hear the fire going, hear her chopping wood out back as she greeted Thorn. It wasn't long before the smell of fresh-baked bread permeated the hut, and Murtagh's stomach growled with anticipation.

Halen gently woke Denu so that he could come and eat and, together, the three of them sat in a rather awkward silence. He kept his head down, eating quietly and sipping on the sweet tea that came with his meal. At one point, he met Halen's gaze across the table. He could see in her eyes that she knew just how uncomfortable this was. She quickly looked away, keeping her eyes downcast.

"Murtagh, you will be joining us for tonight's celebrations, right?"

Murtagh regretfully tore his eyes away even though Denu had no way of knowing where he was looking. "I'd rather not intrude —"

"Don't be ridiculous. The men were all singing you and Thorn's praises yesterday. We insist you join us."

Murtagh honestly just didn't want to go. He looked to Halen for a sign of how to get out of it and froze. She was crying quietly. Murtagh stared, confused and surprised, but didn't want to call attention to it.

"Sure," he said absentmindedly. "Of course, I'll be there."

"Denu, are you finished?" Halen asked, her voice steady despite her tears.

When the man nodded, she quickly set about clearing the table, ignoring Murtagh's offers to help. She wouldn't even meet his gaze. When she was gone, Denu opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Murtagh was sure he could sense something was off with Halen, even if he didn't know the specifics. It had to be frustrating, not knowing how to help. Not even knowing what was wrong to begin with.

Halen managed to slip out of the hut undetected, but Murtagh, it would seem, did not possess the same level of covertness. He was surprised when Amon approached him as he stood beside Thorn, his face grim. "Can we talk?"

Murtagh eyed him warily. The man was disheveled and clearly exhausted, likely kept up by his family. But he didn't seem as happy as one would expect after such an ordeal. Murtagh looked away. "You wish to discuss Halen."

"I just…she seems rather fond of you, in her own sort of way. I wasn't sure, if perhaps…"

Murtagh could read well enough between the lines. "No. Not even to me does she talk of her ordeal. Regardless of her 'fondness' of me, if that even is the case, we are still just strangers to one another. I doubt she would unburden her feelings to me."

Amon looked crestfallen. To himself, he mumbled, "We should've never chased after those damn prints. We were too reckless, and only Eli and Halen suffered for it."

"I doubt either of them would see it that way."

"Perhaps not yet. But the human mind is a fickle thing. And I would not fault them if thoughts of resentment crept into their mind at some point. Hal is proud, stubbornly so. She will not openly let it be known that she is frightened. But I know her, more than she probably realizes but not as well as I would like. But I know when she's scared. Those damn creatures shook us all up. Never seen anything like that on the island. Spent most of our time in the cave out there because we were too scared that those things would follow us to the village."

Murtagh hardly heard him. "Why doesn't Halen talk about the war?" he asked outright, looking into Amon's eyes.

"Your guess is as good as mine. No one knows anything about her life before she came to us, and she was ten when that happened."

He blinked in surprise. That was around the same time she had received her scars. "Not even Denu?"

"Especially not Denu. Hal feels so indebted to the man she won't even tell him when she gets a splinter." Amon sighed, running his hand down his face. "That's why I came to you, Dragon Rider. She'll keep all of her feelings locked up, what happened to her. She'll put on a pretty face so as not to worry the villagers — you already saw it for yourself. And then she'll collapse from the strain of it. I don't want it to get that far. She needs help."

"You must truly be desperate if you're coming to me though. Not that I won't help if I can, but still — why me?"

"Like calls to like," Amon said cryptically. "I've never seen Hal quite so comfortable around someone so quickly. I could see it in the way you two spoke to each other. To you it may feel like she's keeping her distance, but take it from me: she's warming up to you."

Murtagh felt so conflicted, not wanting to take this man's word about how Halen was feeling. Yet he was still surprisingly pleased, a bit of warmth spreading through his chest. He thought of Thorn's proposition yesterday and had an idea. "Actually, Amon, there is something Thorn and I wish to discuss with you. And it may give me some time to help Halen as well."

…

By the time Murtagh emerged from the hut, completely and properly bathed and in a clean set of clothes, he felt more human than he had in months. Perhaps even years. Of course, he had to rinse off in the river behind the hut first, getting the fine layer of dirt, sweat, and grim off of him. Then he had stepped into the bath Halen had made for him, thanking her quietly even though her expressionless face left little room for much else. As he sunk down into the warm water, oils smelling of pine and lavender, he felt his muscles relax completely. Honestly, he could've fallen asleep.

He'd dried off, running his hand down his face and beard. He hadn't shaved properly in more than a year. He knew he must've looked mad, mainly because Thorn would seek to remind him every so often. And had done as much earlier when he recommended that Murtagh not appear at the celebration looking like that. Denu had offered him a razor, but Murtagh hadn't been seriously considering it until now.

Now, as he stood outside beside Thorn, continuously running his hand across his now smooth jawline, he felt…lighter, but more exposed. In his own way, the beard had been his own way of giving up. Not caring of his appearance because he had no indication of being seen by anyone. And now he was preparing to attend a party.

He was going to kill Eragon. It wasn't his fault, but Murtagh would blame him anyway.

He had hoped Halen would show up, so he could use her as a buffer. But she didn't appear, and Amon and Denu found him first. People were leaving their huts at the same time, dressed in fresh clothes of varying colors, but white seemed to be the predominate pick. There was an air of joy he had never felt before, and as they reached the village center, he was amazed by the sight before him.

It had been completely put together, long tables that could probably seat fifty or so people were lined up in rows. There were two large bonfires, rotating giant boars over the flames that were close to done. Now that he was close, the smell was magnificent. Tankards of wine were being passed around, along with plates of bread, cheese, and fruit to whet any appetites before the meat was ready. Streamers hung between the wood beams of the hut in the center, more people sitting inside out of the direct line of the sun even though it was evening and the temperatures were easy-going and comfortable at this hour.

In his silent scan of the landscape, he found Halen. How he managed to do so in such a crowd of people was beyond him, but there she was. Without realizing it, he sucked in a small breath. She had gotten someone to even out the ends of her hair after she cut them to escape the Ra'zac, to run to his side. He swallowed at the memory. Now her dark curls fell just past her shoulders instead of down her back. The look suited her just as well as any though. And she wore a fitted dress that hung off her shoulders, white like many of the others. It clung modestly to her hips, but the curves were still noticeable enough that he grew flushed. But he still couldn't make himself look away. Not even when she looked up and caught him staring. She blinked in surprise, and he remembered that the beard was gone.

Something about her drew him in, and he took a step to move towards her when someone else moved in front of her, shoving a cup of wine in her hands and dragging her off, chatting animatedly. Halen gave him a quick, passing glance before he was out of sight completely, and he thought perhaps he saw regret in her eyes. Murtagh froze, feeling very foolish as he stepped back. What on earth had he been thinking?

"I owe you an apology, Dragon Rider."

He turned, surprised to find Sam watching him coolly. The man stepped forward, so that they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder. "For ambushing you the way I did, back in the cave. It was out of line."

Murtagh had to refrain from making a face. Did Sam believe that Murtagh cared for something like that? "You were looking out for Halen. I can't fault you for that."

Sam shook his head. "No, I wasn't. Hal has always been able to look out for herself. And if she thought enough of you to travel with you, that should've been enough for me. She's a good judge of character, our girl. No, I was just being an ass. And I shouldn't have let it get the best of me."

"Think nothing of it," Murtagh mumbled.

Sam sighed. "Come. You look like a lost lamb standing here."

Murtagh wanted to protest that he couldn't leave Thorn, but the dragon insisted. Live freely, young one. Even if only for a night.

But he couldn't — not really, anyway. Sure, the food was delicious and the music hypnotic and loud, but there was something missing. Something off. And he realized it was the fact that the people who were supposed to be honored with this gathering were all seated off the side, out of sight, and having no fun. The men looked almost miserable, drinking cups after cups of wine but apparently feeling none of it by their sober and somber expressions.

Murtagh had no doubt they were seeing Halen's lifeless form on the ground, broken. She came close to not coming home at all. And the happy faces of everyone around them only emphasized the dark truth of what was happening. It was hard to muster up any joyous energy at the moment. Although they quickly transformed their faces if anyone approached, citing exhaustion as the reason for their lack of movement.

Every so often, Murtagh would find Halen in the crowd. It got easier and easier the more he did it. She didn't see him from his spot in the shadows, which he preferred. How she was able to put on a smile, to laugh, only made his chest ache more. Because the pain in her eyes was always there, like she was still screaming on the inside. But he was beginning to think no one else could see it. And he wondered how long it had taken her to perfect such a mask.

He could see the scars on her hand in the firelight, see how tightly her fingers clenched her wine cup. How they shook. And eventually, he couldn't stand it any longer. Couldn't stand watching Hal's obvious suffering while everyone around her was too dense to even notice. How could they not notice? Or worse, if they did, how could they say nothing?

"Rider, where are you going?"

He couldn't quite make sense of the sudden over-protective nature he felt. Perhaps because Amon had said he knew how scared she was. And yet she was exerting herself trying to act like nothing happened. He firmly pushed through the crowd, excusing himself as he tried not to stumble.

She only noticed him when he was right beside her, grabbing her hand and mumbling some pathetic excuse about borrowing her for a moment. The woman she had been talking to looked surprised, but did not stop them as he pulled Halen away from the party, away from the music, and dancing, and conversation, and noise, and joy. Pulled her into the darkness, the quiet, the emptiness, the stillness.

When they finally came to a stop, Murtagh wasn't even able to face her. He was bewildered by his own actions, and unsure of what temperament he would face when he turned around. Her hand was warm in his, and he let it go, clenching his fingers tightly.

Small noises from Halen made him turn. She was crying, her face in her hands as she struggled to maintain her composure. Murtagh looked around them, making sure they were, indeed, alone. He hesitated for a split second before finally caving, unable to stand the thought of how alone she must've felt, even in the sea of people she loved. He gripped the back of her neck firmly, pulling her slowly into his chest, trying to make her feel an ounce of the safety she had lost in that cave.

He was rather relieved she didn't push him away in disgust. Instead, she only cried harder, hiding her face in his chest to muffle her sobs as her arms came around his waist, her fingers gripping the material of his tunic as if fearing he would suddenly leave her. He didn't know how long they stood there. He didn't know how long she cried. But he would stand there for however long she needed him to, even if it was all night.

…

"I can't believe they're still going at it."

Hal looked up as the rider approached, two newly-filled wineskins in hand. "I didn't tell you were a village full of raging drunks? Any reason to eat and drink all night long receives little resistance here."

Her voice still cracked a bit as she spoke, and she sniffed, blinking back the last few remaining tears that tried to make their way down her cheeks, rubbed raw from her handkerchief. Murtagh didn't comment on her state of being as he sat down beside her, handing Hal her wine. "To raging drunks," he toasted.

Hal tipped her container to his. "To raging drunks."

They drank in silence, Hal listening to the humming of the cicadas around them. The night was rather toasty, nary a cool breeze in sight. They sat on the river's edge, their shoes tossed to the side, sitting with the water to their ankles. Murtagh had rolled up his pant legs, but Hal just let her skirt flow with the current.

They had hardly said a word to each other once she stopped crying, which had been a task in and of itself. How he had known when to pull her away, she was too embarrassed to ask. But he had, and she was grateful to him for it. She had felt like she was wound up too tight the entire time, plastering on smile after smile, trying to ignore the sounds of her bones breaking in her hand. Keeping the fire away from her back because the heat reminded her too much of the burn from the poison. She had thought she was strong enough to handle a simple party, but it had mentally exhausted her before it had even begun. But if she had refused to go, if she didn't put on a happy face, they would know something was up. The others had looked so despondent, people had been whispering something was wrong. And she couldn't let them think that. So, she had amped up her efforts in the hope of distracting the villagers from Amon and the others.

She pushed her hair back from her face, her hand running down the back of her head to the back of her neck. She swallowed nervously. She could still feel Murtagh's grip on her neck, his hand holding hers. Even now, his presence was a comfort. She didn't look up at him, already feeling his eyes on her, which only made her face burn hotter.

She finished another container of wine, sighing heavily with irritation that she still felt nothing. What was that, her fourth or her fifth? Seventh? "Should I be concerned?" Murtagh teased, but she could hear the slight apprehension there as well.

"I'm not nearly drunk enough to be of any concern, rider, don't you worry."

He didn't respond, and the silence stretched on. Hal struggled to speak, unsure of what to say or do. She was too mortified to thank him for keeping her company, still hating that she had completely lost her composure like that. Better him than someone from the village, but she'd have preferred it if no one had seen it at all.

Murtagh shoved his wineskin under her nose and she looked up at him in surprise. "You trying to get me drunk, dragon rider?"

He gave her a curt look and she shrugged mirthlessly, taking the wine from his hands. Hal ran her fingers around the rim, nervously glancing at the rider from the corner of her eyes. He seemed content enough, just sitting there watching the water flow through the river. His lack of facial hair continued to surprise her every time she looked at him. It was almost shocking to see him without the beard, despite how wild and untamed it had been. But she had been getting used to it. To see him so suddenly without it was jarring, to say the least. However, the longer she looked at him, the more…himself he seemed. Younger than she had first assumed. Certainly, less mad. More…

"Handsome," she mumbled.

Murtagh's eyes went wide as he looked at her. "What?"

"What?"

"Did you just call me 'handsome'?"

She turned her head. "No."

"You did."

"I did not."

"It's because the beard is gone, isn't it?" He self-consciously ran his hands over his jaw again.

Hal couldn't respond, her lips fastened onto the wineskin as she took deep, long pulls. If she couldn't toss herself into the river and disappear downstream, she might as well continue trying to get drunk and pray she forgot this conversation entirely. Although, if she were thinking clearly, she'd realize drinking more wine is probably what loosened her lips to begin with. She was hardly ever so careless.

"I'm feeling very vulnerable, Halen, can you compliment my eyes next."

She spit out her wine, practically choking on it, always caught off guard when he displayed any sense of humor. He was grinning like mad, watching her beat on her chest as she struggled to breathe. "You ass," she wheezed, slapping his arm.

"Call me what you will. As long as I'm still handsome, I don't even care."

She could not help but laugh, wiping her eyes. When she finally quieted down, she felt relaxed enough, comfortable enough despite her guffaw, to say, "Thank you, Murtagh. It feels good to laugh."

His expression softened. "You're welcome." She could tell there was more he wanted to say, and waited patiently until he finally spoke again. "I can tell how much you love them," he began. She knew he meant the villagers, and didn't interrupt as he pressed forward. "But you do know you don't owe them anything, right?"

She inhaled sharply.

"I'm not trying to say they don't deserve it, or that you shouldn't care," he added quickly. She exhaled. "I've never met someone as kind as you. As selfless. But Halen, it's okay to think about yourself. If you weren't ready to come out, I'm sure Denu would've understood without knowing the specific reason why. And the others, Amon, Sam, Cado, Ayo, even Eli, would've covered for you."

Hal blinked, her jaw tightly clenched as fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. "It's not just for them," she said in a low voice. "I need to do this for me too."

"Why?"

"I just…you wouldn't understand," she said dismissively, too embarrassed by her own thoughts to bother trying to put them into words. She had no inclination to try and fail to explain her rationale. Her desperate need for some semblance of normalcy. When it came to objective observations and conversation, Hal was as articulate as they come. But when she tried to justify her own thoughts and emotions, she got tripped up over how embarrassing it felt to talk about such notions.

"Wouldn't I though?" Murtagh said softly.

Hal looked over at him, eyes questioning, before she realized her mistake. Her crass, arrogant, horrible mistake. Her eyes fell to his chest, where his scars lay hidden underneath his tunic. "Murtagh, I'm so —"

"Don't. Don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"No, I shouldn't have assumed —"

"It's not like you know anything about me," he interrupted, his voice tight with emotion, but she could tell he was trying to keep his feelings to himself.

She didn't dare speak, unsure if he was trying to gather his thoughts or control his emotions. Perhaps both, based on how stressed he looked. She was torn between being concerned and being curious. Something in the way he seemed to strain himself made her wonder…did he want her to ask?

"May I…may I see them?" she asked, gesturing to his torso.

He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. She feared, perhaps, she had read him wrong. But he exhaled slowly before reaching for the hem of his tunic, pulling it up and over his head. She felt her breath catch in her throat as his injuries were revealed to her once again. Just barely, she could make out the faint scars from his attack on the beach by the Nïdhwal that he had not been strong enough to fully heal. His skin was already tanning from his time in the sun, but the scars still seemed luminescent, especially in the moonlight. He kneeled before her, granting her access to view his past injuries.

Too close to not be curious, Hal got on her knees as well, setting down the wineskin as she faced him, close enough to feel his breath on her cheek. She gave him one last look, silently asking permission. He nodded, his gaze boring into hers that she quickly ducked her head again. Her head was buzzing with the wine as her fingers found their first mark. A burn in the shape of a claw.

"Thorn and I were sent to capture Eragon and Saphira not long after we were forced to swear fealty to Galbatorix," he murmured, his chest vibrating under her fingers as he spoke. She frowned. Forced to? "I found a loophole in his instructions, letting them go. He was…displeased."

She swallowed, feeling rather dizzy. Hal bit her lip before running her hands across his peck to a short, but thick scar. "Also the king's handiwork. One of my earlier injuries I received, when I initially refused to join him."

As her fingers roamed across half-decade old wounds made up of blades, magic, poison, and the like, a picture began to form in her mind. A dawning of understanding that finally fell into place. The distance he kept, the bitterness when he spoke. The regret that had stumped her. Now she knew the truth. And she felt ill, but she forced herself to listen to his story, his torment. The pain in his voice, the shame in his eyes. She had moved to his back, avoiding the obvious until there was nothing left. And when her fingertips graced the top of the long, ropey scar down his back, he tensed underneath her.

"My father, when I was three-years-old. Laid open by the sword I still carry."

She knew he couldn't see her tears, so she let them fall. To carry so much weight. So much hurt. She could not help but think of her own father and all he had sacrificed so that she may live. She had been so loved as a child, so cared for. Even now. She couldn't imagine the people of her two villages ever harming her. But the thought of a parent doing this to their child? It made her sick with disgust. How different their upbringings had been. "Can you not heal them with your magic?"

"I've tried, using every combination of the Ancient Language that I could think of. But Galbatorix used dark magic, so that I could never forget who controlled who. Even now, he is laughing at me from the grave."

Her head was spinning with questions. She stared at his back, feeling just as lost as he did. "Why haven't you said anything?" she said in a low voice. "Why didn't you say that you did not serve Galbatorix of your own fruition? Why did you let us all think —?"

"Because it does not change what I did. I still must live with the consequences of my actions."

"But…you were under duress. Perhaps if you sought clemency or a pardon —"

"Only the queen may enact a pardon to someone accused of war crimes and treason, and either I or someone able to speak on my behalf would even be allowed to file the request. I cannot just waltz into the capital and ask for my freedom and it cannot just be handed over. More than likely, I would be killed on sight. I have made many enemies, even if my actions were not my own." His tone was sharp with bitterness.

The alcohol was starting to make her head spin. Or perhaps it was the revelation that there was still more to this man than she had thought. Or maybe a combination of the two. Her hands were still on his back, and without thinking she leaned forward and pressed her forehead to it. Half wanting to comfort him, half just needing to close her eyes until the world became still.

"And Thorn?" she whispered, recalling his words from days past: I do not regret Thorn, and I do not regret my powers. I do regret how I used them, how he was used. "Was he —?"

Murtagh did not answer, which was truly answer enough. They were quiet, Hal breathing slowly, staring at the scars on his back. The images they conjured frightened her. The thought of chains and heated irons being used to break him and Thorn. Her mere hours in that cave with the Ra'zac had been their reality for months. She squeezed her eyes shut, the cracking of a whip loud in her head. The breaking of her bones. All he had endured and she couldn't even speak of what had transpired twelve years ago. She felt cowardly, especially after he had talked her through so much of his own sordid history. Yet now she understood some of the rage she had felt from him when he was in her mind. The anguish that had drawn her to him.

She took a deep breath. "Murtagh, I —"

"I'm going to stop you right there," he said quickly. Hal sat up as he turned to face her. He must've seen the pain on her face, because his own softened in surprise. "I've upset you."

"Yes. I mean no, not you. I just…" She was not in the right frame of mind for this discussion. She forced herself to focus, digging her nails into her palm. She could feel her heartbeat getting faster, making it harder to catch her breath. She tried to speak, but it was hard. So hard. Like her body was rejecting the very words she had never spoken. The memories that she had pushed back deep into the crevices of her mind, hoping they would rot. And just the act of pulling them back to the surface, or recalling the end of her childhood, made her want to throw-up.

"Halen, stop." He took his face in her hands, firmly but gently forcing her head up so that she would look at him.

"But I —"

"I did not tell you these things to make you feel obligated to reveal any of your past," he said gently, understanding finally reaching him. Her heart began to slow. "That would be a trick of the cruelest kind, and I do not wish to deceive you like that."

Her hands began to loosen up, half-moon marks dug into her skin. The tension began to leave her, bit by bit. Her head became clearer, her breathing even. She was relieved. But she still felt wretched.

"I just wanted you to know," he continued. "Partly because…because against my better judgment, I think I needed to tell someone. For my own benefit. To get it off my chest. To be heard. And I'm glad it was you because you seem to understand where as others wouldn't. But I also wanted you to know, so that if you ever did need someone to talk to, someone who would understand —"

"What's the point of all of this if you'll be gone in a matter of days?" If she even had that long.

She could've sworn, could've sworn, she felt his thumb brush her cheek. Why else would her heartrate pick back up so suddenly? But he looked like he was struggling with something, so if he had done it, perhaps it had been unconsciously? She needed to stop drinking on an empty stomach.

"What if I told you I intended to stay for a little while longer?"

"How long is 'a little while'?"

"I spoke with Amon —"

"Amon knows?!"

"It was Thorn's idea. He felt guilty — last time, we left despite the fact that he had destroyed their hut. He figured using the cover of wanting to stay to help rebuild — while actually doing so — would give us an opportunity to do the right thing. We'd also make sure the village was safe before we left. That you were safe."

"You would do that for us?"

"Well you did tell me to take my anger and channel it into something good." His tone was light, teasing, and she flushed at the memory. "You weren't wrong," he continued in her silence. "And Thorn has talked of wanting to right our wrongs for quite some time. Plus, he likes it here. Likes the weather. And the people," he said, looking pointedly at her.

"And you?"

He grinned. "I could get used to it."

He finally lowered his hands, her cheeks feeling cold. Her gaze was level with his chest, with his wounds. "I'm sorry he hurt you. I'm sorry he hurt Thorn. I'm sorry your father was such a bastard instead of a father. And I'm sorry that you have had to bear this burden on your own. It's not fair."

He didn't respond, but it was as though his breathing became easier.

Hal boldly leaned forward, her hands on his shoulders for balance, figuring it was out of character for her but wanting to do it anyway knowing she could use the wine as an excuse. She kissed his cheek, grateful for all he was doing for her and her people. The skin was smooth under her lips, warm. And he smelled of the fire from the celebration and the oils from his bath. She pulled away, giving him a soft smile as she did. "May that kiss be the first of many, softer touches your body receives."

She rose to her feet, only wavering slightly. Still able to hear the continuing celebration and wondering if there would be any food left. She looked down at Murtagh, who looked quite…she smiled. He was touching his cheek, eyes perplexed and surprised. "Do you wish to be alone?"

After a slight pause, he shook his head. Hal held out her hand for him to take. "Come along then, rider. I'm hungry."

"Have you been drinking all this time on an empty stomach?" His hand slid smoothly into hers.

"I know, I know. Now hurry, I may be able to scrounge up some of Tena's dessert while there's still time."

They walked in silence, eyes forward, hands behind their backs. But for the first time in her life, Hal felt more than just at ease. She felt understood. Finally, there was someone out there who, although she wouldn't wish it on anyone, understood how hard life could be. Who did not push her to talk, but allowed her to listen. She was grateful for that. Grateful to him.

Their shoulders brushed as they walked, and when they finally reached the rest of the village, Hal knew her smile was real. Even if it was only for a little while. But it didn't matter, because even if she faltered, for the rest of the night, the rider was right behind her.