When Murtagh awoke, his face was against the cold floor, and his eyes blinked open to a scaly red snout, inches from his nose. He inhaled sharply, before remembering what had happened and where he was.
He grunted as he tried to sit up, his hands still shackled tightly. The little dragon chirped and wobbled backwards, his head swinging this way and that, like he hadn't quite got the hang of his neck muscles.
Murtagh felt the palm of his left hand itching and burning, and he twisted to try and look at it. Sure enough, there was the silver mark etched into his skin–the same one he'd seen on Eragon, and on the old man Brom–the same one he remembered on his father's hand, and the hand of the king.
A gedwey ignasia. The mark of a rider.
Murtagh's shoulders sagged, and he turned back to the dragon, who sat on his haunches, blinking and tilting its head.
"You shouldn't have done that," Murtagh muttered.
He was confused–on the one hand, he felt exhilarated, the pain of the past weeks seemed to have been washed away, his body suffused with energy and vigor; on the other hand, he felt a vice clamping around his neck. This dragon had hatched for him, had bound itself to him, and in doing so, it had bound itself to a life of imprisonment and torture.
"You should fly away while you still can," Murtagh encouraged quietly, not wanting to look at the thing.
The red dragon squeaked and flapped its wings once, as though to demonstrate the fact that it was mere minutes old, and could not, in fact, fly. Murtagh breathed heavily, still trying to believe that this was real–in the king's treasure room, surrounded by the shards of a red egg, with a dragon sitting right in front of him and a gedwey ignasia on his hand.
He felt a presence touch his mind and instinctively recoiled, but the second after he'd done so, he recognized what it was, and he was forced to look again at the tiny creature.
Squeak! The red dragon said, and the presence touched his mind again. Murtagh struggled to lower the walls that he'd fought so long to keep up, tentatively bringing them down, and tensing as though waiting for an attack.
But no attack came.
Instead Murtagh felt a wild, new presence, like a flower bursting into bloom on the first day of spring, like a fire flaring to life from a bed of embers, like a rushing river laden with snowmelt. His breath shuddered and his lungs felt full. The presence was both soft and fierce, both small and vast, both strange and comforting.
He looked at the little dragon, whose wide ruby eyes blinked at him.
"Hello," Murtagh muttered, weakly smiling despite himself.
The dragon chirped, and waddled its way forward, its tail dragging on the ground behind it.
Murtagh stayed still this time–as it came close–as it walked behind him and grabbed at his shackles with its little teeth.
"Sorry," Murtagh said, "Don't think you can break them. Not yet, anyway."
The dragon shook the chain like a dog might shake a dead rabbit, and it grunted in frustration when the metal would not budge.
Murtagh felt a chill run up his back when the dragon touched his hand again–a soft touch, a kind touch, the touch of a friend; he'd not felt any such thing for weeks. He tried not to cry.
The little dragon must have noticed, because Murtagh felt worry emanating from him, and he toddled back around to Murtagh's front, lifting his forelegs up and placing them on Murtagh's thigh as it blinked up at him, concerned.
"I'm sorry," Murtagh sniffled, "You didn't do anything wrong."
The dragon chirped again, and crawled the rest of the way onto Murtagh's lap. Murtagh laughed quietly–both because the dragon's little claws were ticklish, and because the situation was so ludicrous. A dragon on his lap. A fire-breathing, man-killing, fearsome beast crawling over him like a pet squirrel.
The red dragon turned several times like a dog patting down its bed, and then he sat on Murtagh's lap, curled up and comfortable.
"You shouldn't stay here," Murtagh tried again, going against his instincts, which told him to keep the dragon close and hold him tight. The dragon looked up at Murtagh with a deep understanding.
Then he lifted his small head and touched the center of Murtagh's sternum with his snout, as if to say,
But you are here.
Murtagh sighed, trying to set aside his fear for the creature. If it would not be convinced, then there was nothing he could do. It was hatched now, and it had bonded itself to him, and there was no going back. He felt both a deep joy and horrible dread, knowing what doom the dragon had consigned itself to, and that he would be responsible for all the pain this little creature was about to face.
He couldn't reach a hand out to cradle the dragon, but he bent his forehead down as low as he could, and the dragon raised its own scaly brow to meet him, and their heads were touched together, and Murtagh felt like he could've stayed in that moment forever, connected in a way he'd never known before.
He realized for the first time in his life that he was not alone.
And he cried.
The dragon stayed on his lap for hours, and Murtagh fell in and out of sleep, as the shackles continued to pull on his wrists. He was half-awake and half-aware of the dragon's mental touch, when he heard footsteps outside the door, and immediately snapped upright, his skin tingling and his body on alert.
"This is your last chance," He whispered at the dragon, "Go now, get out of here."
But he knew it was a futile request. All he sensed from the dragon's mind was a pressing thought, an image of himself, here on the floor. The message was clear: the dragon would stay with him.
Murtagh steeled himself and took a breath, as the bolts on the metal door unlocked and swung open, and he heard the shuffling of many footsteps and the high sound of one of the Twins' haughty voices,
"Since the King has so graciously decided to spare your miserable life, you'll–"
The man stopped just past Murtagh, facing forward to the dais where the now-singular egg sat. His brother stopped just behind him. Murtagh breathed shallowly.
The Twin's head turned to him as slow as a turtle, his wide eyes following the path of shattered egg shards, to the dragon which sat on Murtagh's lap.
The man's eyes were large and full of cold rage, as realization dawned upon him. His upper lip quivered into a snarl, his hands suddenly clenched into fists.
Murtagh glared back with a fury that would have scared the most hardened warrior, daring the weasel to lay hands on the tiny dragon.
"Go find the King," Freckle Twin hissed to the guards through gritted teeth, not removing his eyes from Murtagh and the dragon. Murtagh heard the shuffle of hurried feet.
The creature squeaked and huddled closer to Murtagh's chest, its head swiveling between the two magicians who stood before it, both seething with impotent anger, clearly irate that the dragon had hatched, not for them, but for Murtagh.
"What have you done?" The other Twin whispered, as though Murtagh was somehow responsible for forcing the dragon out of its egg.
"You touch him… and I'll kill you," Murtagh said, still glaring, all his fear and pain gone, replaced with furious determination.
Freckle Twin's eye twitched, but neither of them moved. It was likely they knew they would face the King's wrath if they made the wrong move now, where the dragon was involved.
A dead silence stretched for several minutes, until Murtagh again heard hurried footsteps. He closed his eyes and pressed his consciousness against the dragon's to try and calm it. The poor thing didn't know what was coming, but he did.
The heavy footsteps slowed as they entered behind Murtagh. The Twins lowered their heads, and backed away, as King Galbatorix stepped into the field of egg shards, and turned to face Murtagh. The dragon shrank closer as the King's wild gaze fell upon it.
Murtagh kept his gaze steady, and Galbatorix stared down at the creature, a strange glee in his expression. His mouth curled upwards with a savage amusement, like he was about to break out into mad laughter.
Murtagh felt his own heartbeats and the heartbeats of the dragon, as the silence stretched.
Then the King murmured,
"Well. This is interesting."
His smile was broad now, and Murtagh felt coldness wash over him. He tried to keep calm, for the dragon's sake, but his body was shaking again.
Without breaking his gaze the King said,
"Take the dragon."
Murtagh lurched forward as a guard stepped into his field of vision and snatched the red creature from his lap.
"No!" He shouted, and the dragon squawked and wriggled. "Don't touch him!" Murtagh screamed, pulling against the shackles even as they dug into his wrists. "Put him down! Put him down!"
The guard struggled to keep the dragon clenched between his gloved hands, as the creature writhed and squeaked, and Murtagh felt its fear and panic mixing with his own.
Galbatorix was laughing while Murtagh struggled, knowing it was useless but feeling a feral, driving urge to get the dragon back. The guard flinched away as the creature lashed out with its tail and scratched at the man's gloved hands with his tiny claws.
Murtagh tried to think, tried to work through his hysteria, tried to figure out how to get the dragon back. He couldn't let them take it, he couldn't let it out of his sight.
You're its rider. Do something. You're its rider. You have to save it. Do something do something do something.
Do what? What could a rider do?
The dragon writhed and Galbatorix watched in gleeful amusement.
What could he do what could he do what could he do?
A rider.
Magic.
Murtagh suddenly remembered the mark on his hand–the silver dragon mark. Magic. He was a rider. Riders could do magic. Right? But he didn't know any magic. Did he? How could he do magic if he didn't know any magic?
His thoughts raced, and the guard tried to wrestle the flailing creature under control and Murtagh pulled at his bonds, and the king laughed, and then suddenly to Murtagh's lips came a word in the magic tongue–a word he'd heard Eragon use before– the only word he could think of in that panicked moment:
"Brisingr!" He shouted at the guard holding his dragon, and he felt heat from the silver mark on his palm, and suddenly at the man's feet a fire flared into existence.
The man screamed in fright and dropped the dragon, which quickly rolled onto the floor and scampered away as the desperate guard tried to put out the magical fire, and Murtagh glared in his direction, willing the flames to engulf him.
But Galbatorix's laugh only grew louder as the guard screamed and stumbled and the flames climbed up his body.
After only a few seconds, Galbatorix lazily flicked his wrist and said,
"Letta," And the fire was suddenly snuffed out. Then the king pointed to the scampering dragon and said,
"Blothr," And the creature froze mid-stride, its ruby eyes blinking wide in fear, trying to make it back to Murtagh.
Murtagh himself now suddenly felt a great weakness flush his limbs. He panted for breath, and sagged on his shackles, the energy from the spell sapping his shallow supply of strength.
Galbatorix's laugh turned to a gentle chuckle, and he stepped towards the dragon, bending himself and picking it up under one arm while the injured guard groaned in pain on the floor behind him.
Galbatorix squatted in front of Murtagh, petting the frozen dragon's head with two fingers.
"Very good, Murtagh," He said with a smile, "I see you've been paying attention."
Murtagh struggled to catch his breath, his heartbeats sluggish from the energy drain.
"Can't have you attacking my men, though," He chided softly. Then he sighed, the dragon tucked under his arm.
"I think you and I are going to work quite well together."
He sat for a moment, and Murtagh managed to raise his eyes to meet the dragon's.
I'm sorry, He said to it, and the paralyzed creature let out a little squeak.
Then Galbatorix straightened back up and turned to the un-injured guard.
"Take him back to the cell."
"No…" Murtagh murmured weakly, as the King strode past him, carrying the dragon under his arm.
"No! Bring–take him back–bring him…" Murtagh felt four rough arms unlocking his shackled wrists and hauling him to his feet. The Twins glared at him furiously as he was dragged from the room, the King disappearing down the hall with the red dragon in his grasp.
"No…" Murtagh muttered, flexing his silver-marked hand, trying to will the magic to come back, to stop the king from taking his dragon away. But he had no strength left; the adrenaline was gone, and he couldn't access whatever power he'd managed to tap into in his blind fury.
He was helpless.
He was alone again.
They dropped him back in the cell and chained him to the floor as before. One of the guards kicked him in the ribs, clearly in repayment for his attack on their fellow man. They threw a piece of bread at him and dropped his cup of water so it spilled into a puddle on the floor. Then they left him alone.
He lay on the floor, reeling, so confused from the events of the past few hours that he thought he might have imagined them. But then he looked at his left hand, and he saw the silver mark. Undeniable. Clear and final.
A rider. He was a rider. He couldn't believe it–knew it must be true only because in his wildest imaginations he wouldn't have thought up something like this. He didn't deserve to be a rider. What had he ever done? Why would the red dragon choose him of all people?
His stomach clenched when he thought of the dragon. What were they doing to it? Was it being hurt, as he had been? How could he save it? How could he get it out? All his thoughts were consumed with the dragon: how to free it, how to protect it, how to find it in his mind, wherever it was in Uru'baen right now.
He was thinking of it as a he, though he wasn't quite sure why. He hadn't checked, but the consciousness that had touched him just felt male, and he began to wonder what its–his–name was. What did it call itself?
He ate the piece of bread to try and regain some of his lost strength, and he thought over and over of the dragon's presence, and his thoughts touching it, and the way it stared at him like it knew him. How could he save it? How could he get a message to Eragon?
He was sitting up again, his energy somewhat restored, and he was getting thirsty enough to think about slurping the water right off the floor from the puddle, when an idea struck him.
Get a message to Eragon.
Could he see Eragon? Could he find him? With magic? He racked his brain, trying to take himself back to the frantic race across the Hadarac, a memory sparking.
Eragon had been using his magic to see their road; he'd summoned water from the ground; he'd spoken words of magic; he'd created an image on its reflective surface.
Murtagh closed his eyes, picturing Eragon in the half-light of a fading day months ago, kneeling over his small pool of water, his hand outstretched. What words had he whispered?
Murtagh grasped at the image in his mind, desperate to remember.
Urgently, he knelt over the puddle on the floor, holding out his silver-marked hand, his brow creased.
"D–dramer chora…" He tried. Nothing. "Dream–dreamer corpa…" His hand did not glow, the silver mark did not grow hot.
He grunted in frustration, clenching his hands and staring at his muddled reflection in the water, the orange light from the torches quivering on the surface.
Come on…
He closed his eyes and took a calm breath, trying to reach into the memory again. Eragon was kneeling over the water. He had held out his hand. He had whispered the words…
"Draumr kopa."
Murtagh felt his palm heat, and glow. He held his breath and tried to concentrate, picturing Eragon's face, hoping he was doing this right, knowing that if he made a miscalculation with this magic stuff, he could kill himself accidentally.
The surface of the water rippled with light, and Murtagh's heart hammered, waiting to see an image form itself.
Come on, come on. Eragon. Show me Eragon, He pleaded, as the light swirled and he felt the energy draining from his hand. Sweat beaded on his brow, and the blackness swirled, and he thought he saw a flicker of movement. But then… not a thing.
The heat from his hand grew, and he felt the power going out from his palm, but the surface of the water showed nothing.
Blackness.
Void.
He finally released the spell when he felt his vision getting fuzzy and his limbs shaking. He sat on his hands and knees for a moment, scowling in frustration as he caught his breath. He smacked the surface of the water and sat back, angry at himself for doing the spell wrong, or saying the wrong words, or losing focus, or whatever had caused the attempt to fail.
So much for magicians, He thought again, miserably, sinking back against the wall of the cell. He panted heavily, then, trying to regain his lost strength and calm the weak pattering of his heart.
As he waited by the sputtering torches, he slipped in and out of consciousness, the image of the red dragon always lingering before his eyes–waking or sleeping. He was grateful for the blessed reprieve–for the pause in his torture and pain–but he feared what was coming, feared what the mad king was doing to the dragon–his dragon.
He clung to the knowledge that the King had valued those two dragon eggs above anything else in his possession. He wanted to see the race of dragons reborn–with him as their master–he would not kill the creature, that was certain. Murtagh could only hope he valued it enough not to hurt it.
A cough racked Murtagh's body as he sat against the cold wall, hugging his ribs where the guard had kicked him. He'd begun to fall asleep again, when he heard the scuffling of feet down the hall, and saw the bright flicker of a new torch glowing as it approached.
Murtagh sat up and pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the cell bars for support as the King swept into view, flanked by a cadre of guards and holding in his arms the small red dragon, a manacle around its neck.
Murtagh's heart jumped when he saw the creature, and he felt a clench of anger at the chain that held it to a heavy iron ball.
"Well. Your friend and I have had some time to get acquainted," Galbatorix said quietly, brushing his hand along the dragon's scaly head. The creature hunched its shoulders and looked distressed, but its eyes were on Murtagh and it did not thrash or fight back.
Murtagh held the bars and resisted the urge to reach out for the little thing. He felt its mental nudge, and he tried to send calm thoughts back in return.
One of the black-clad men unlocked the cell, and Murtagh stepped back, on guard, ready for anything.
The King stepped through the cell opening and lifted the dragon up on his arm like a hunting hawk.
"Beautiful, isn't he?" He smiled. "You know he is a he, yes?"
The King turned his raised brow to Murtagh, who didn't respond. But the king only smiled.
"I have great plans for the both of you," He said, satisfied. "But first you must bond–as dragon and rider. Nothing is more precious than that bond, and it must be respected."
Liar, Murtagh thought, knowing that the King had stolen his dragon Shruikan from his previous rider, after murdering him.
The King bent low, and said,
"Go on," To the dragon, who hopped nervously from his arm onto the straw-covered floor. The King placed the iron ball on the ground next to him and straightened.
"I expect you to appreciate my generosity, Murtagh," The King said as the dragon scurried across the floor towards Murtagh, who knelt before it like a dying man at a spring of water.
"Despite your impressive show of power, I can't have you attacking my men. Do something like that again, and you'll lose this privilege."
The dragon crawled onto Murtagh's arm and nuzzled its head against Murtagh's chest, churring softly. Murtagh glared up at the King as he held a protective arm over the dragon, wanting to retort, but terrified of losing the creature again.
The King gave a small smirk..
"I'll see you two soon."
Then the King turned and left, and a guard behind him placed a water dish and a bowl of meat scraps on the floor, along with food and water for Murtagh. The guard glared in his direction before re-locking the cell gate, and following the heavy footsteps of the King back down the hall, taking the bright torch with him.
When the others were gone, Murtagh felt himself breathe deeply, and the dragon twisted in his grasp, sniffing the air for the bowl of meat.
"You're hungry?" Murtagh asked, leaning forward to grab the bowl and wincing as his sore muscles stretched.
The dragon's head weaved close to the bowl, sniffing and bobbing.
"Go ahead, you can eat it."
The creature turned, and blinked. In Murtagh's mind he saw an image of himself, and the word.
You.
He blinked in surprise, feeling the word as if from the dragon's own voice.
"Oh. N–no not for me. I don't need that."
The dragon sent him a picture of himself again.
You.
Then it picked up a meat scrap in its teeth, and placed it in Murtagh's palm.
"No, I…" Murtagh laughed a little. "That's for you. I'd get sick if I ate that."
Murtagh leaned forward again and grabbed the plate that had been provided for him–bread and cheese, a fresh-sliced apple, and a small, cooked cut of beef. His mouth watered at the smell, and he showed the dragon the plate.
"This is for me," He explained. Then he held out the meat scrap again.
"For you."
The dragon now sniffed the food on Murtagh's plate, and for a moment Murtagh thought it might eat that, but it just pulled its head back and stared at Murtagh.
You, It said.
Murtagh frowned. Then he picked up the bread and cheese, and took a bite out of each.
"See, I'm eating," He explained. He felt satisfaction emanating from the dragon now, and it immediately snapped up the meat scrap and swallowed it down, content to eat now that Murtagh was eating as well.
Murtagh relished the warm food, the juice of the meat and the freshness of the water. His mouth still tasted like ash at first, but gradually his taste began to return, and he ate almost as voraciously as the young dragon, who, once he had begun, did not stop for air until he had swallowed every last scrap of meat in the bowl, and nudged it around looking for more.
"That's it," Murtagh explained, offering the dragon some of his bread, "Sorry, no more meat."
The dragon sniffed the bread, and ate a little, but when Murtagh offered him the last piece, he felt the consciousness press against him again, and the dragon said,
You.
Murtagh smiled, and ate the bread.
"You alright?" He asked then, stroking the dragon's neck as it churred and bobbed, the manacle around its neck clinking against the floor.
You?
The dragon asked, blinking up at him. Murtagh smiled sadly.
"Better now."
The dragon stayed in the cell with Murtagh for hours, and no one came except the black-clad men, bringing more food and water. At first Murtagh had been afraid that they would bringing him back to be tortured, but it seemed that the King had put a pause on that, now that the dragon had hatched.
Murtagh was thankful, but scared of what was coming–like the great quiet before a looming storm. He didn't know what the King's plans were, but he knew they didn't involve letting him or the dragon go free.
He tried scrying Eragon again–he remembered it was called that–and the red dragon watched him curiously while he bent over the water bowl, but once again, the surface only rippled with darkness for a few long moments, showing nothing, and Murtagh had to let the magic go.
"Sorry," He murmured to the dragon, "I'm trying to find help."
Help, The dragon said back to him. It was picking up quickly on thoughts and words. Murtagh wasn't ever sure quite what it meant, but he could sense things from the dragon, feelings or impressions, and it had easily learned "food" and "eat", to add to its vocabulary of "you", and now "help".
Murtagh talked to it, and it climbed all over him, as though looking for the best spot to sit. It settled for a while on Murtagh's head, its tail hanging down by Murtagh's ear as it rumbled softly in its sleep. Murtagh had to laugh at this, imagining he must look ridiculous, but it didn't bother him, and he tried to keep still against the wall so as not to disturb the dragon.
After several meals had been delivered and taken away, and Murtagh and the dragon had slept for a while, one of the Twins returned with a cadre of guards, and demanded Murtagh to stand.
Murtagh rose, and the dragon sat on his shoulder proudly, a soft growling emanating from its chest. Murtagh held the heavy iron ball in his hand, and wondered if he could use it to bash the Twin's head in, but he was too scared of losing the dragon to try something so drastic.
The Twin announced that they would be allowed to take a stroll in one of the palace gardens, and that he was there to watch them, lest they try any sort of attack or escape.
"Rest assured, rider," He sneered disdainfully, "My powers and knowledge are greater than yours, and you will not best me in the magical arts. So for your sake and the creature's, you ought not to try anything."
Murtagh didn't have to respond, because the dragon told the Twin exactly how they felt, with an angry little snap that caused the Twin to look warily on the small creature, perhaps assessing how much damage its tiny teeth could do.
Murtagh allowed himself to be marched up the corridor, the dragon on his shoulder, surrounded by guards and led by the Twin. They didn't drag him this time, but let him walk in his own power. He felt the bolstering presence of the dragon at all times, and it calmed him despite his ever-present cloud of fear.
When they reached a small archway that led into the courtyard garden, Murtagh hesitated. He hadn't seen the sky in who knew how long. It was near twilight, he could tell, and the light in the garden was turning pink and soft, but he worried the sun would hurt his eyes.
Help, The dragon said, nudging its snout against Murtagh's neck.
"Okay."
He stepped into the garden, and the guards filed in after him, but they and the Twin stayed near the doorway, watching Murtagh with careful eyes.
Murtagh walked through neat rows of plants that soaked in the last rays of the evening sun. He found a shaft of light that drifted over the high courtyard walls, and stood in it for a long moment, soaking up the warmth on his starved skin.
Help? The dragon asked, and Murtagh found himself responding in his mind.
Yes, it helps.
When he opened his eyes and looked at the creature, he lost his breath for a moment. The ray of sun had landed on the dragon, and was bouncing off his brilliant scales, casting a thousand shards of red light onto the dirt around them. Murtagh felt tears in his eyes, so struck by the beauty of it, here in this dark place.
The dragon cocked its head at him.
You? It asked, and Murtagh felt concern.
"I'm alright," Murtagh answered softly, brushing his fingers gently along the dragon's neck.
Alright… The dragon responded, You.
"Me."
Me?
"No, me. Murtagh. I'm alright."
Murtagh. Me.
Murtagh laughed.
"No, I'm Murtagh. You're… well I don't know your name. If you have one."
The dragon blinked at him.
"Your name," Murtagh said, trying to explain. He thought of an image of the dragon, and said,
You?
The dragon nodded.
Me.
Murtagh laughed softly. They would have to figure this one out.
He walked through the garden with the dragon on his shoulder, telling him the names of all the plants he recognized.
"This is like a forest, kind of… like a pretend version of a forest," He explained softly, running his fingertips along the wide leaves of green plants. "It's too clean, though, too put-together. You'd like the forest. It's wild and green… and lots of animals and birds and trees of all kinds…"
He sighed heavily, his hand cradling a red rose, wondering if the dragon would ever see a forest, if he would ever taste something so free, if he would ever be able to escape the horrible cage of the King's citadel.
He raised his gaze to the pink sky, wishing he could cut the chain from the dragon's neck and make it fly away. But it couldn't fly, not yet, and it had refused to leave him once–how could he convince it to leave now?
Trees…
The dragon said, nudging the rose that Murtagh held, sniffing it curiously.
"No, that's not a tree," Murtagh explained, "That's a rose. Rose." He sent an image of the flower along with its name.
Rose. The dragon responded.
It scrunched up its snout at the smell that came from the rose, and began poking its head around the stem of the plant, as though searching for the source of the smell.
Murtagh felt a sharp prick of pain through the dragon's thoughts, and the creature pulled back his head with a growl, shaking its snout.
"Oh, careful. That's a thorn," Murtagh gently touched the bottom of the sharp growth. "See? They protect the rose."
Protect. Thorn.
"Yeah. It'll prick you."
Thorn protect.
"Yeah."
Murtagh strolled forward easily, but the dragon crawled up his shoulder, still looking back at the rose bush.
Thorn. You, It thought at him, nudging its snout on Murtagh's ear.
"No," Murtagh smiled, "I'm Murtagh."
The dragon crawled down to Murtagh's forearm and sat there, craning its neck out to the rose bush, its head tilting back and forth. Then it looked back at Murtagh,
You. Murtagh. Me. Thorn.
It looked back at the roses, then back at Murtagh. He frowned.
Thorn protect. Me protect. Thorn.
"You…" Murtagh murmured, feeling a hot glow from the silver mark on his hand. "You… Thorn."
The dragon blinked, and bobbed its head, humming in its chest, pleased.
Murtagh, It said, and Murtagh felt a rush of affection from the red dragon on his arm.
His eyes watered in the dying light of the evening, the scent of flowers opening up their nighttime petals, and the soft chatter of birds dancing among the fruit trees. In that moment no one existed but him and the dragon before him, tied to his mind, an anchor in a sea of fear. He was Murtagh, and the dragon was…
"Hello, Thorn."
