The days of travel inched by. Corrin grew used to the flat horizons and whispering grasses, but the oppressive quiet continued to bother him, as did the sense of emptiness. He could not converse aloud with Murtagh while the dragons flew, and Kiera and Thorn were too focused on the work of flying to hold extended conversations. So they all flew in nearly-unbroken silence, with the blue vault of the sky above and the endless fields of grass to all sides.

The first night, the same day after leaving Arya and Firnen in Hedarth, they had made camp beside the river. Corrin had been unable to summon any conversation, too emotionally drained by the events of the day to chat idly. Murtagh had not offered any attempt at communication, instead starting a small fire around which the two dragons curled. Corrin had helped as much as he was able with dinner, but he ate quickly and soon rolled himself up in a spare cloak, to sleep beside his dragon. In the morning, Murtagh roused him just after day break, for a quick breakfast of cold food before they continued flying.

That second night, however, Kiera and Thorn had to eat, so the two of them deposited their Riders on a little knoll of land within sight of the river, and lifted off again. Even in the numb state that had overtaken Corrin, he smiled to hear Kiera's glee at the chance to learn Thorn's hunting style. When the wind from their wings had ceased to buffet their camp, Murtagh went to work organizing the fire, just as he had the last night. Tonight, however, he did not immediately reach for their cooking supplies. Instead, he checked that the ring of stones around the fire would keep it from burning the plains down, and then walked off into the waist-high grass around the little cleared area where Corrin sat, headed vaguely towards the river.

Corrin watched him go with curiosity and no little unease, but he came back within a few minutes, holding two long pieces of driftwood, sanded smooth by the incessant rush of the water. Corrin's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What are those for?" he asked in confusion.

"Something Rhunön said has been bothering me," Murtagh responded. "It was that comment about sword colors, when she was looking at Kiera. Every Rider in the old days had a Rider's sword, and it got me to wondering whether anyone had trained you in the art of the blade yet."

Corrin perked up immediately. "Well," he said thoughtfully, getting to his feet, "I learned a little bit in Aberon from my uncle, and before Lady Arya decided to send Kiera and I east, I could go to the training fields in the north of the city to learn swordplay if I did particularly well in my lessons."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "Better than I had expected," he commented, and then tossed one driftwood stick across the fire at him with no warning whatsoever. Corrin caught it in his right hand, taking a moment to get used to the balance. Murtagh nodded at him and continued, "Well, the only way to get better at swordwork is practice, and if you want a sparring partner, I was trained by one of the finest swords in the Empire..."

Corrin's face must have practically glowed, because Murtagh looked at him and laughed. "On guard, then!" the dark-haired Rider yelled, pointing his driftwood stick at Corrin with an imperious manner. Corrin grinned and jumped forward.

Murtagh parried his stab and countered with an easy swing; Corrin jumped aside and aimed for Murtagh's shoulder. Their mock swords made a clacking sound as they collided, a pleasant reprieve from the susurration of the grasslands. Murtagh blocked a few more blows, then skillfully slipped Corrin's next blow aside just far enough to land a hit on his shoulder. "Good!" Murtagh exclaimed. "You don't seem to be doing anything horribly wrong; move your feet more," and he attacked again.

This went on for a while. He could tell that Murtagh was going easy on him, but Corrin was holding his own at this level, and the older Rider's advice proved invariably helpful. After a few rounds, Corrin was confident enough to turn some of his attention back to Murtagh's words. "So," he panted, barely blocking a sly cut, "one of the finest swords in the Empire?"

"Aye. His name was Tornac," Murtagh answered readily enough. "He was my mentor and near enough my only friend when I was younger. He died when the two of us tried to escape Uru'baen." His face tightened for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Corrin said hesitantly, jumping away from a swing at his feet. "Did- did the escape fail?"

Murtagh shrugged, his expression clearing. "No, I managed to escape on my own. Then I wandered quite a lot of the Empire, got into untold troubles without Tornac there to point out my idiocy, and ended up naming my warhorse after him." He paused, his brow furrowing. "You know, come to think of it, I'm not sure what happened to that horse," Murtagh mused, leaning away from a clumsy overhand swipe. "Last I saw him was when the Varden took me prisoner, and then I left without him."

"Why would the Varden take you prisoner?" Corrin demanded. "You couldn't have been a Rider yet."

"No," allowed Murtagh, "but I was the son of Morzan, one of their greater enemies, and I refused to let Ajihad's magicians search my mind, so they couldn't be sure that I wasn't a spy for Galbator-ACK!" That last was yelped with more surprise than pain, as one of Corrin's blows slid down the chunk of driftwood in Murtagh's hand and struck his fingers. To Corrin's surprise, Murtagh burst into laughter.

"HAH! I'm too used to Za'roc!" he managed between howls of mirth. "I was expecting the blow to land on a crossguard, HAH!" Murtagh dropped his driftwood sword and doubled over laughing.

Corrin grinned sheepishly. "I'm sorry?" he managed, unsure of what else to say.

"Don't be!" said Murtagh, still smiling as he straightened. "It was a well-placed blow, the kind that wins a fight." He scooped his mock weapon off the ground and pointed it towards Corrin. "Again!" he cried.

They continued in this manner until a familiar mind interrupted. What exactly are you two doing? Thorn inquired dryly, circling down to land.

"Sparring," replied Murtagh innocently.

Why? Thorn landed and examined their camp with a ruby-red eye.

"Because sparring," Murtagh insisted, as though it should have been obvious.

Thorn turned to look back at Kiera and announced in the mental version of a stage whisper, My bets are on your Rider. Corrin could swear he winked, too.

"Augh!" Murtagh cried in mock affront, dropping his driftwood weapon. "Faithless creature!" Thorn responded by blowing a neat smoke ring onto Murtagh's head. The older man stormed out of the camp, calling "Faithless! Faithless, I tell you!," over his shoulder in a tearful falsetto. Even Kiera hummed amusement, and Corrin was by that point lying on the ground, laughing himself into tears.

Even in the empty plains, it was hard for the numbness to reach him after that.