Every day the dragon–who had proudly taken to the moniker Thorn–grew exponentially larger.
Murtagh and Thorn were taken from the cell to the garden and back, like clockwork, every evening, and within a week of his hatching, the dragon could no longer sit on Murtagh's head, and he struggled trying to hold the creature up on his arm.
By the second week, Thorn had grown to reach Murtagh's thigh when standing, and he took to walking at Murtagh's side, rather than being carried. He ate voraciously, and the plates of meat continued to be provided, much to Murtagh's relief. He couldn't stand the thought of the creature starving in the cell with him.
Murtagh, also, noted a distinct difference in the way he was being treated. His food was warm and his water was clean; a long cushion was brought down for him to sleep on, and a large pillow for the dragon–who soon outgrew it–and no one grabbed him or dragged him or forced him anywhere. All he and Thorn did for nearly two weeks was sit in the cell talking, sharing thoughts and feelings, and walk in the garden for a few hours a day, soaking in the sunlight.
Sometimes the King would visit them in their cell, or show up while they were in the garden, and he would watch from the doorway, a satisfied expression on his face. Murtagh tried not to look, but he could feel the King's eyes on him as he tried to stroll through the rows of flowers with Thorn.
"He's not your friend," Murtagh told the dragon when they sat in the cell eating together. Galbatorix had stopped them before they left the gardens, and spoken soothingly to Thorn, as if they were old friends meeting in an inn, and not the King's prisoners.
Not friend? Thorn asked as he slurped water from the bowl of water.
"No. He's… he's the one keeping us here. He's evil, and mad."
You are friend.
"Yes, I'm your friend," Murtagh confirmed, rubbing his hand along Thorn's scales. Already the dragon's head was bigger than Murtagh's hand, and his claws had grown sharp and fierce.
Other friend? The dragon asked. Murtagh sighed.
"...not anymore."
Friend before?
Murtagh sorted through the dragon's thoughts, trying to understand his meaning.
"Yes, there… there were some friends. Eragon; he was my friend, I think."
Eragon?
Murtagh sniffled.
"Yeah." He sent the dragon an image of Eragon in his mind.
"He's… he has a friend too–Saphira. She's a dragon, like you."
Thorn tilted his head, and Murtagh felt a vein of curiosity in his thought.
Saphira? Thorn said, and Murtagh got an image of the color blue.
"Yeah, she's blue, yeah. Saphira." Murtagh smiled; maybe Thorn recognized Saphira from their time as eggs together. He wasn't entirely sure how that worked–how much the little red dragon had been aware of during his years in the treasury room.
Murtagh sent to Thorn a mental image of Saphira, curled up by a campfire, her scales sparkling in the flames.
Thorn hummed happily and closed his eyes.
Saphira friend.
"Yeah…" Murtagh said sadly, not that it mattered. Saphira was nowhere near them; she didn't know they existed; she couldn't help.
"Thorn…" Murtagh said, setting his food on the ground. The dragon turned its bright eyes to him.
"You need to understand something," He breathed, his shackles clinking, "The King… he's going to ask you to pledge yourself to him. He wants us… he wants us to belong to him." Murtagh sniffed, trying to send his words to Thorn through feelings as well, hoping the dragon understood.
"But if he has us… he's going to make us do bad things. He's going to make us hurt our friends, hurt other people. You understand?" Murtagh winced, thinking of what the King would try to turn them into.
"We have to say no. We can't–we can't let him have us. If we make a promise to him, in the–in the ancient language… then we'd his slaves."
Murtagh stared at the dragon, a manacle around its neck, weighing it down, keeping it trapped here in the darkness. He couldn't let that be Thorn's fate. He had to find a way to free him.
Thorn blinked widely up at him, then he snaked his head close and touched his snout to Murtagh's shackled wrist.
Slaves, Thorn thought mournfully.
"Yeah."
There was a stretch of silence, and the torches nearby sputtered in their sockets.
"He's gonna hurt me, Thorn," Murtagh sighed, cradling Thorn's head on his lap as he leaned against the wall. "I need you to promise me you won't do what he wants. Even if he hurts me."
Hurt? Thorn thought, and Murtagh's mind was unwittingly taken back to the darkness of the torture room, the wooden slab coarse on his back, the pain shooting up from his hands, the drowning feeling of the bag over his head, his screams as the metal burned his skin.
Thorn whimpered, and Murtagh sat up.
"I'm sorry," He gasped, realizing that he had shared the thoughts in his mind, the feelings of terror and agony spreading across their mental link. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do that–"
He threw up the barriers to his mind, keeping his fear from spreading to Thorn, and taking his hands off the dragon.
Thorn whimpered again, and nudged Murtagh with his snout.
"I can't."
He felt a light mental touch, and Thorn tilted its head.
"Just hold on…" Murtagh tried to bury down the memories that were swirling to the surface of his thought. He fought to get them under control, so they wouldn't slip over into Thorn's mind.
Thorn mentally nudged him again.
Help.
Thorn pushed the thought at him determinedly.
"I don't want to hurt you," Murtagh tried to explain.
Help.
Thorn placed a foreleg on Murtagh's thigh, and Murtagh felt strength and resolve coming to him from the dragon's mind.
He sighed, and placed a hand on Thorn's head.
"No matter what happens, please don't let him have you," Murtagh pleaded, "Don't swear any oaths to him, don't give in. You're more important than me, so whatever he does… you just keep yourself free. And when you have a chance to break out, you go. Okay? Find Saphira, and Eragon, and let them help you."
Help you, Thorn thought angrily, stamping his foot indignantly.
"I don't think you can," Murtagh murmured.
They had a few weeks of blessed reprieve. Thorn continued to grow, and began to use his wings, floating off the ground a few feet. Murtagh would hold the large iron ball that weighed him down, and he would flutter in the air above Murtagh's head, clumsily trying to figure out flight, while hampered by the chain around his neck.
The manacle had to be replaced as Thorn began to outgrow his first shackles, and the pair of them were not allowed anywhere without shackles and the careful watch of one of the Twins.
Murtagh tried to rack his brain, thinking of a way to escape. He tried to figure out the use of his magic, to break the cell door, or enchant one of the black-clad men, or snap the chain around Thorn's neck, but his vocabulary was painfully limited.
He remembered the words for healing, and tried to fix the aching in his right hand, which had been clamped in a vice and stuck in hot coals, but he couldn't figure out how to make it work. He set fire to the cell once and only afterwards realized he didn't know how to put it out. He had to call for the help of the black-clad men, who doused the cell with water.
The King had visited soon after, and admonished him saying,
"You risk your life and the life of your partner, being so reckless. Magic is not to be undertaken lightly. You will be trained, but until then it would be wise for you not to attempt something about which you know very little."
Murtagh felt afraid at the King's words–he waited with dread for his "training" to begin, whatever that meant. He didn't know exactly Galbatorix's plans, but he knew that the King would seek to use him and Thorn as a weapon. He knew they would be pitted against Eragon and Saphira, if they couldn't escape their prison, and that if the King could get his hands on both new riders, the Varden would stand no chance.
Murtagh tried scrying several more times, and not just on Eragon. He attempted to scry Ajihad, to confirm his fears that the Varden leader was, indeed dead. He saw only blackness, as before. The same was true for the elf Arya and for Nasuada. He hoped this didn't mean that they, too, had been killed. He couldn't bear the thought.
At first, he figured he must be doing the magic wrong, until Thorn suggested that all these people might be protecting themselves against magic. Murtagh wasn't totally sure if you could shield yourself from someone watching you, but he imagined it was possible, or else the Varden probably would have scryed Galbatorix to figure out his plans and movements, and vice versa.
Thorn suggested he ought to try someone he knew would not be guarding themselves, so, in a desperate grasp, he scryed his old horse–Tornac. To his surprised, the bowl of water did not remain swirling with blackness, but sparked to life, and he was looking at the gray warhorse, saddled and bridled, with a man riding him somewhere that Murtagh could not see. He gasped.
There were other horses around Tornac, and other people, too–they were marching somewhere, they were all walking or riding in a line. Murtagh could see nothing of the landscape they rode through, but many of the people were visible to him. He thought this must be because he had seen them before, during his brief few days at Farthen Dur. Wherever they were, though, it was not Farthen Dur, or else he thought he should have been able to see the landscape. He wondered what this meant–all these Varden members, on the road to somewhere. Were they marching to war? Marching on Uru'baen even at this moment?
It was too much to hope.
Murtagh watched with fascination as Tornac trundled along easily. He felt a twinge of annoyance at the Varden officer for having taken his horse–but he figured it was better for Tornac to have someone taking care of him than to be left in the stables alone all day. He just hoped the Varden officer didn't get him killed.
Thorn sat by his side and watched the image of the moving group, sniffing the bowl curiously. When Murtagh noticed himself getting shaky with exhaustion, he knew he had to end the spell, so he let the vision fade away, feeling conflicted.
On the one hand, he was cheered to know that he had done the spell right, that he was able to figure out the use of magic. On the other, he felt heavy, knowing that the Varden were out there, carrying on the rebellion, executing their missions, with no knowledge that he was trapped here in Uru'baen with a newly-hatched dragon.
Friends? Thorn asked of him when the water had gone still again. Murtagh sighed, and sat back.
"They could've been."
Their reprieve ended three days after Thorn had learned to fly.
Murtagh had tried to help him in the garden, holding up the metal ball and running down the rows of fruit trees, while Thorn flapped his wings furiously, gaining air. But Murtagh couldn't keep up, and Thorn would always get too high, and be yanked down by the force of the shackle around his neck. The chain got in the way of his movements and the ball weighed him down, and Murtagh told one of the Twins angrily that he couldn't grow like this–he needed to fly; he was a dragon.
The day after his complaint, Murtagh and Thorn had been taken to the empty throne room, rather than the garden, and under the large, vaulted ceiling, the Freckle Twin had said,
"Go on then," And used magic to release the shackle from Thorn's neck.
Thorn wriggled with pleasure, happy to have the chafing metal gone, and he pattered across the floor into the echoing room while Murtagh followed. A few times Murtagh tried to help him lift into the air, giving the dragon a boost off the ground and running alongside him.
Thorn coasted, but he couldn't gain much altitude. However, after a few days of practicing in the throne room, Murtagh helped to lift him off the ground once more, and found that Thorn continued to lift, climbing higher and higher towards the ceiling, his wings sending a blast of air downwards.
Murtagh cheered in amazement as the dragon took off, swirling about the room in happy circles, tilting this way and that, learning to dive and swoop. Murtagh's heart pounded with exhilaration and a wild smile was on his lips.
The dragon was flying. Thorn–his dragon–it was magnificent to watch. Thorn's red scales danced in the light from the dwarven lanterns and he let out a joyous bugle, his thoughts nudging Murtagh as he swooped overhead.
Well done, Murtagh commended, You look amazing.
Thorn gave a happy wriggle, and bugled again, flapping his crimson wings to rise ever higher.
Three days later, they were brought to the throne room again, only this time it wasn't empty.
Galbatorix sat on his dais at the head of the room, the wall behind him black, and the Twins led Murtagh and Thorn down the long stretch of empty floor, until they stood directly in front of the throne.
The King was smiling down at them.
"Hello, Murtagh…"
He nodded at Thorn,
"And you, redscales, I am told you've chosen a name for yourself. I would be glad to hear it."
There was silence, Murtagh kept his gaze down, his breathing shallow. He was tensed for what was coming. Thorn looked to him, concerned.
"I do not wish to disrespect your bond by speaking with your dragon directly," The King said coolly, "But I will be answered."
Murtagh swallowed.
Alright, Thorn said in his mind, nudging his shoulder softly.
"His name is Thorn," Murtagh muttered quietly. The King smiled.
"Ah. Thorn. Well-met, Thorn," The King tapped his fingers on the arm of his throne. "A good name," He decided, standing to his feet and stepping down the stairs of the dais. Murtagh swallowed down bile.
"Inelegant. Simple. But strong."
The King paced around the back of the throne, his long cape swishing along the polished floor.
"This is my friend and partner, Shruikan."
Murtagh felt his heart drop and the air left his lungs, as the King placed a hand on the great black wall behind the throne, and the wall moved.
Murtagh stumbled back, the floor vibrating under him with the movement of the great dragon. Thorn let out a little squeak and scampered back, as a giant head came into view, two massive blue-white eyes the size of Murtagh's head blinking open.
"Say hello, Shruikan."
The massive dragon turned its gaze upon Murtagh and Thorn, and Murtagh felt like crawling under a rock to hide. A deep rumble shook his bones, and the dragon blinked twice, slowly.
Murtagh felt his knees about to give out, fear flooding every inch of him, but Thorn huddled close to his side and kept him upright, as the King turned back to them with a smile.
"Shruikan says your scales are the color of the fresh-spilt blood, Thorn, a fearsome warning to your enemies." Galbatorix said this as though it were a compliment, but Murtagh felt no pleasure coming from Thorn.
"I am told you've learned to fly," The King said as he climbed back to his throne and sat, Shruikan bringing his great head forward to rest beside the chair, which was miniscule by comparison.
Murtagh's mouth was dry and his heart was hammering in his chest.
"Give us a demonstration."
The king sat with a flare, leaning back comfortably and crossing his legs.
Neither Murtagh nor Thorn moved.
"Go on, Thorn, let's see you fly."
The King waved a hand and Thorn's neck shackle fell off, startling him.
Murtagh met his eyes, and the dragon tilted his head, unsure. Murtagh nodded once, knowing it would be better for them if they didn't fight it. They would have to fight soon. They would have to draw a line in the stand and refuse to cross it, but for now…
Thorn took off easily, climbing into the air with several strong flaps and swirling around near the ceiling. It wasn't the same joyful soaring as before, when it was just Thorn and Murtagh together, but Murtagh still felt a small surge of love as he stared up at Thorn's sparkling shape.
"Ah, lovely," Galbatorix said, his voice echoing through the room. "Beautiful, isn't it Murtagh? That connection? You feel as if you're the one soaring."
Murtagh scowled, and lowered his eyes, hating the King's familiar affect.
Thorn landed behind him and loped to a stop.
"Good," The King said with a satisfied sigh. "Very good."
He cleared his throat, and his voice came out more firm.
"Now, I've given you both time to be with each other–to bond, as dragon and rider ought to. I've been more than generous, I think, in allowing you your freedoms and comforts."
Murtagh kept his shackled hands clenched tightly.
"But the time has come for your training to begin. And in order to do that, I will need your oaths of loyalty, so that I can pass on my knowledge to you, knowing that you will not use it… incorrectly."
Murtagh breathed in slowly, feeling Thorn's steadying connection, knowing that the time had come now.
"So. Swear to me, in the ancient tongue, that you will obey my command, recognize my authority, and refrain from any attack–magical or mundane–against me or my open your minds to me–that I may teach you your true names."
Silence stretched.
"Well? Will you swear?" The King asked coldly, and Shruikan's great eyes blinked at them. Murtagh thought he might get lost in the swirl of madness. But he felt determination from Thorn, a stern anger that kept him anchored to the floor.
Not friend, The dragon thought at him.
"We will not swear to you, and become your slaves," Murtagh answered, keeping his voice level as best he could. "We demand that you let us go free, so we may choose our own path."
The King gazed thoughtfully at a ring on his hand, as it tapped on the arm of his throne.
"You realize, Murtagh, that I can–at any time–force my way into your minds, find your true name, and compel you to swear fealty to me. I do not wish to do this."
"Then don't," Murtagh spat back, sounding braver than he felt, "Let us go. If you care so much about the bond of rider and dragon, then let us choose our own way."
The King tutted.
"Your way is here. There is no other. The rider Eragon and his dragon shall join you soon. Then you will both be under my tutelage, and the riders shall be born anew."
"We will not submit willingly," Murtagh determined, and Thorn raised his chin proudly. "If you would force your way into our minds like a worm, then do it. By our free will we will not submit."
Galbatorix sighed, and his hand gestured for the guards at the back of the room and the Twins.
"I had hoped to avoid this unpleasantness," He said, "Hoped my generosity and patience would be enough for you to see sense."
Murtagh's heart pounded as he heard the footsteps behind him.
"But I see you've poisoned your partner's mind with the lies you've believed."
The King's eyes were cold and inexorable.
"Just remember…"
Rough hands grabbed Murtagh on either side, and one of the Twins magically clapped the iron collar back around Thorn's neck.
"...whatever pain he faces now, is on your head."
Murtagh glared at the King, his anger boiling, as Thorn let out a low growl, and Freckle Twin put a black cloth over Murtagh's head.
He was dragged again from the throne room, and he heard Thorn struggling beside him. One of the Twins was using magic to restrain him, as two guards pulled him along by the collar around his neck.
Murtagh felt his partner's fear through their mental link, and he tried not to be overwhelmed with his own. The brief weeks of respite seemed all too short, and suddenly he remembered the choking darkness of the dungeon and the pain of fire on his side.
He wasn't, however, taken back down to the dungeons.
When the black bag was finally removed from Murtagh's head, he had been laid down on a stone slab in an octagonal room with tiled ceilings. He felt the black-clad men restraining his wrists and ankles again, and someone strapped a piece of leather over his forehead so he could not even turn his neck.
Thorn? He sought out the dragon's mind desperately, fear threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't.
Murtagh, The dragon's voice responded in his mind. You where?
Thorn was not in the room with him, but he was close by, and Murtagh felt the dragon's fear as much as his own.
I don't know. I'm in… it's a room, it's a roundish room…
"Welcome, Murtagh," Galbatorix's voice echoed as he stepped down a short flight of stairs into the octagonal room, "To the Hall of the Soothsayer."
The King told a story, then, one that Murtagh hardly heard, about an oracle, and the elves, and a tower they built here in the days before Ilerea had been abandoned. He tried to ignore the king, and focus on Thorn, but he was torn between his own dread and his dread for the dragon.
"This room is a place of truth," Galbatorix assured, standing over Murtagh as the black-clad men bustled around, preparing something he could not see. "I will tolerate no lies here, and I myself will give none. You have my word on that."
"You can hang your word," Murtagh spat, "Let me go."
Galbatorix sighed.
"That is all I wish to do, Murtagh. I wish for you and Thorn to be at ease, to have a place at my table, servants at your call, all the comforts you could desire… but you must first submit."
Murtagh spat at the King, though his spittle didn't go far, since he could not move his head. The juvenile attack did not hit the king, but he did notice Galbatorix's upper lip twitch with a scowl. He'd touched a nerve.
Murtagh expected a blow to come, but the King only stepped back.
"Very well. Know that you can end this any time, by swearing fealty."
Murtagh clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to feed Thorn his courage and not his fear. He prepared for the torture to begin, but after a brief, silent moment, Galbatorix turned, and disappeared from the room.
Murtagh frowned, his breath shaking, his eyes tracing the red, blue and gold patterns of the vaulted ceiling above.
Thorn? He asked, and the dragon touched his mind reassuringly.
Whatever happens, don't give in to him. It doesn't matter what he does to me. You have to be strong, please.
Strong, Thorn assured. I will be strong.
Murtagh prepared himself for pain, but then he felt a spark of surprise through his mental link with Thorn, and the dragon sent him an image of the King, walking into the other torchlit room.
What?
Murtagh felt a spike of panic, his eyes shooting to the black-clad men in the room with him, who stood against the wall with their eyes blank and their hands folded. The Freckle Twin was there as well, quiet and looking away. They were not making any move against him.
The King was with Thorn.
The King was going to hurt Thorn.
"No!" Murtagh grunted and he tried to pull on the leather restraints that held him fast. They didn't budge. He felt Thorn's fear increase, and then a terrible rush of pain.
Murtagh shouted as he felt the pain slam into his consciousness, hearing in his mind the dragon's pitiful howls. He got flashes of sight and sound and smell, an acrid smoke, a burning of flesh, an acid eating away at scales, a flaring, shivering pain that trembled up and down his arms.
He wasn't sure if he was a man or a dragon, he wasn't sure if he had fingers or talons, arms or wings, all he knew was that he was in pain.
Your fault, your fault, your fault, A voice rang in his ears, but then a louder, more determined voice,
STRONG, It was Thorn's consciousness, pushing through his wails of agony, telling Murtagh to be strong. Murtagh opened his eyes to the octagonal room, bending and thrashing, trying to escape, to come to Thorn's rescue, to murder the men who were hurting him.
He tried using magic, the only spell he knew, to burn away the cuffs around his hands and free himself, but the moment the word was on his lips, the Freckle Twin snapped to attention, and had a counterspell out of his mouth before Murtagh could even blink.
The weasely man had been right–he knew more about the magic arts than Murtagh did.
Murtagh shuddered at the pain that radiated through his connection. He wanted to turn it off–wanted to disconnect himself from Thorn so badly, but he couldn't. He couldn't leave his partner to suffer alone. He had to be strong.
It felt like hours, until they stopped their torture, and Murtagh was able to breathe, feeling Thorn's tenuous thoughts, faint and weak, grasping for him in the darkness.
But there was no rest.
Minutes later the King swept back into the octagonal room with Murtagh, and said,
"I despise this foolishness. Swear fealty now."
Murtagh was sweating, and he felt like he couldn't breathe, but through the thready connection of his mind he heard Thorn say weakly,
No, Murtagh. Strong.
Murtagh gritted his teeth and clenched his fist.
"No."
The King sighed, and he gestured for the black-clad men in the corner.
"Have your way, then."
One of the black-clad men approached with a thin, clear tube the length of a sword.
"These will not kill you, so long as I extract them with magic before it's too late," Galbatorix said, and Murtagh saw tiny red things crawling inside the tube, dozens of them, indistinguishable bugs of some kind.
"...but I want you to know that the pain you are about to feel is them feeding on the lining of your organs. They would eat you alive from the inside out, if I permitted it."
Murtagh grunted and jerked away as one of the men grabbed his chin and forced his mouth open with a pair of metal pliers, panic spiked in his throat, as the clear tube was brought closer, and he could hear the tiny crawling things chittering among themselves.
"Submit to me, and you will not have to endure this."
Murtagh pulled his eyes away from the tube and forced them to the tiled ceiling.
Strong. Be strong. Do not submit.
He felt Thorn's thoughts connected to him, but he tried to shut the dragon out, knowing that it would only cause him pain if their consciousnesses touched now.
Murtagh gagged as the black-clad man forced the clear tube down his throat. He writhed and strained and groaned in disgust, feeling sick but unable to even vomit.
Then the pain began, tiny pinpricks of pain starting in his throat and clambering down into his core. He screamed through the choking tube, the pain exacerbated by the knowledge that these things were inside him, feeding and crawling.
After a few seconds the black-clad man removed the tube, and Murtagh coughed and wheezed. The tube was now empty.
He shrieked in pain as the fire spread down to his stomach, and his whole body shook. Vaguely he felt the press of Thorn's mind, trying to get through to him, and he was too weak to shut off the connection, to hold the wave of anguish at bay. He knew he was hurting Thorn, allowing him to touch his mind, but he couldn't think clearly amidst the agony.
He wanted to take a knife and carve into himself and dig out the creatures one by one. He wanted to set himself on fire just to burn them away. His voice stopped sounding human as he screamed for release, feeling them crawl up into his throat.
It was an agonizing stretch of minutes, and Murtagh lost hold of his own existence, before the King stood with a sigh, and held a hand over Murtagh's shivering body, and began murmuring words in the ancient language.
Murtagh groaned deliriously as he felt an itching, tugging sensation rising up through him. He began to choke as he felt a mass moving through his chest and throat.
Just when he thought he would pass out from lack of air, the King lifted a clump of dead red bugs from his mouth with magic, and Murtagh wheezed and coughed.
He vomited then, and began to choke on the vomit because he could not turn his head to the left or right. The King gestured and one of the servants unclasped the head restraint. Murtagh turned his neck and felt his stomach clenching, dryly heaving up its meager contents.
"Swear fealty to me. Or the pain continues."
Galbatorix's voice was disconnected from Murtagh's reality, a floating aura above his head, not a real person.
Murtagh, strong, Thorn said to him, though Murtagh could feel the dragon's own torment and fury.
Murtagh shook his head, whimpering and closing his eyes, unable to look at the King, unable to speak.
He felt the King's displeasure. But Galbatorix rose quietly, and left the room.
It went back and forth like this for days.
First Thorn would be tortured, and Murtagh endure his partner's pain; then the King would turn to Murtagh, and Thorn would be forced to feel it.
The tortures were varied and horrible; both magical and mundane methods were used. Galbatorix began to trick Murtagh's mind, make him see things that weren't real, make him relive moments in his life. He once thought it was his father torturing him, he once thought it was Eragon. He once saw himself standing on the battlefield under Farthen Dur, dead Varden scattered before him, and a bloody sword in his hands. It was him. He was their killer.
The only thing he knew for certain was Thorn's mind. Galbatorix could not fake that. He tried–he created a phony version of Thorn who came into the room and tried to convince Murtagh to give up, told him the suffering was too much.
But Murtagh had been intimately acquainted with Thorn's thoughts since the moment of his hatching, and this imposter was not musical and full of a deep warmth; it was cold and dark, and false.
Murtagh cried out for his mother, having seen her in the visions that the King cast, knowing she was long gone but wishing to be held by her, to just feel a tender touch, a kind voice. He murmured the scraps of verse that she'd sung to him, trying to maintain a hold on his sanity.
In one of the brief respites, Galbatorix sat just out of Murtagh's view and said,
"I must tell you something that I have known for some time now. A fact which may change the way you see me, see yourself."
Murtagh's head lay limp, his eyelids half-closed; he could feel the tender touch of Thorn's thought, but it was foggy and far away. They were both at the end of themselves.
"Your mother…" Galbatorix said, and this sparked Murtagh's attention. "Her name was Selena, and she came from a little village in the west–a lush green valley full of simple people who carved out a simple life for themselves."
Murtagh watched the flame of a torch in the corner, disconnected from reality, his whole body once again a mass of pain.
"She had a brother there, whom she left behind, when she joined your father and became his faithful servant."
What did the king want with him? What torment could this offer?
"But your father, as you know… was an unsteady man. And she saw how he hurt you, how his anger was a danger to anyone around him."
The King took a deep, purposeful breath.
"So when she became pregnant again…"
Murtagh frowned, confusion muddying his thoughts.
"...she knew she could not let the child be born into Morzan's house. And she fled. Disappeared, as you know, for many months. And she made her way back to the little village, and the little valley where she came from, and she gave birth to a boy… and she named him, Eragon."
Murtagh felt tingles on his fingertips. The world was blurry. These words didn't make sense. What was the king saying?
"And Eragon was raised by his Uncle Garrow, brother to Selena. And he lived a happy, and full life, with a loving family. And your mother returned to your father's estate… and she died."
Murtagh was shaking. What was this? What strange lie was the King weaving?
"The rider Eragon–who, by some working of fate, you fell in with amidst your wanderings–is your brother, Murtagh. He was born in Carvahall exactly during the time when your mother was gone from Morzan's estate. His mother's name–as the Twins learned–was Selena. Strange coincidence, no? His father's name, of course… was Morzan. But Selena cared enough for her second son to spirit him away from the monster that she knew would give him scars as he gave to you."
No. This was a lie. Of course, it was ridiculous.
"She cared enough about your brother to protect him. But she didn't care about you. She left you. For all she knew, she left you to be tormented by him for the rest of your life."
"No," Murtagh blurted out, "No-n–she came back. She came back for me."
"Ah. Only to leave you again. Permanently. You see she risked her life to save Eragon, but for you… well. Clearly she considered you a lost cause."
"You're lying," Murtagh insisted through gritted teeth, feeling Thorn's questioning confusion, a hot dread in his heart.
"I told you I would not lie in this room, Murtagh," The King assured, "But if it makes you more certain, I will swear it in the ancient tongue. You are not the only child of the Forsworn. Eragon Shadeslayer is your brother."
The King then said a phrase, which Murtagh recognized as the ancient language, and he felt a power in the room, a truth settling over him like a heavy blanket.
"So you see," The King continued, "I do you a favor, by bringing you into my service now. No one in this whole world cares for you. Your mother left you in favor of your brother. Your brother failed to go looking for you when you disappeared. The Varden whom you fought for could not care less about your fate. The girl who leads them now–Ajihad's daughter, who feigned friendship with you–you are nothing to her."
Murtagh shuddered, knowing that the King had his secrets, held his innermost thoughts in his hands.
"No one in your whole miserable life has ever truly loved you. Except for Thorn."
Murtagh's chin trembled, his heart hurting and his mind reeling. A brother? Eragon? How? His brother? His family? What?
But it all made sense. His mother's disappearance, the way the healers had acted the night she returned, Eragon's lack of a father, the story he'd shared of his mother's mysterious life… it all fit. Like horrible puzzle pieces, the facts all came together. Selena. A. The Twins had seen the connection there. They had searched Eragon's mind first, and they had heard that name before. A coincidence? No.
"...and you would sit here, and you would allow Thorn to be tortured. You would put him through agony, just to appeal to your pride. When he's the only one who's ever cared about you."
Murtagh felt a whine building in his chest, a wail of despair, a visceral scream of helplessness. He couldn't. He couldn't.
Tornac.
The word came from Thorn, across their link.
Tornac loved you. Tornac friend. Not alone. Strong, Murtagh. Strong. He wants despair. He lies even when he tells truth. Think of Tornac. Say no.
Murtagh clenched his fists.
"No!" Murtagh roared at the ceiling, "YOU WILL NOT HAVE ME!"
His throat was parched and aching, and his body hurt, but Thorn's resolve was enough for both of them.
Suddenly Galbatorix smacked him across the face, then the king grabbed his chin with one iron hand, and leaned in close, the heat from his breath suffocating.
"I already have you," The King growled, "You are mine. I can rip you apart from the inside. I can enter every crevice in your consciousness until you can't remember who you are. I can take your name and use your body like a puppet."
Murtagh flinched at the King's touch, shaking as the cold fingers dug into his chin.
"But you will submit to me of your own will. This I will not be denied."
After that, there was no respite.
When the King tired of overseeing the torture himself, he left the black-clad men to continue the business. Murtagh was denied water and food. He was stripped down to his underclothes, doused with ice water, and left to shiver. He screamed at them to let him see Thorn, but that, too, was denied.
He could only feel Thorn's increasingly-weak connection through the dark walls. Thorn was hurting, in pain, suffering, and it was his fault. Every torture they performed on him they performed on Thorn, and he could feel it wearing on the dragon's strength. He was so small, so young–weeks in this world and already forced to live through this.
Murtagh started to have seizing fits. The back clad men had just removed razor-thin rods that they had pierced him with, when he tasted metal in his mouth and his vision began to blur. At first he thought it was some new torture or poison that they had concocted, but when he started shaking uncontrollably, Freckle Twin straightened with alarm.
Murtagh was half-conscious and felt his body seizing, pulling against the leather shackles as his head thrashed and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He felt alarm from Thorn, and he vaguely heard the Twin shouting something above him, and for a long moment he couldn't breath and he feared he would choke to death right there, leaving Thorn to suffer at the King's hands alone.
But he awoke several minutes later, drenched in sweat and wheezing, tasting blood in his mouth.
Murtagh? Thorn's worry broke through, Murtagh? You are awake? You hear me?
"Thorn…" Murtagh murmured blearily, trying to get his thoughts to straighten out.
"Thorn!" He cried out.
Murtagh? Say to me. Please. You are awake?
The Freckle Twin was muttering a spell over him.
"I want to see him! Thorn! Let me see him!" Murtagh wailed. "Thorn!" He was trying to respond to Thorn with his mind, but he couldn't.
"Shut up," The Freckle Twin hissed.
Murtagh? Thorn asked in his mind, fear and worry spilling through his thought. Please Murtagh?
Murtagh tried to catch his breath, squeezed his eyes shut and reached his mind out shakily.
I'm…I'm here… Murtagh managed to think, and he felt a flood of relief and warmth from Thorn.
You are hurt?
I'm… Murtagh tried thinking something. His mind was so frayed he couldn't form words together. He sent Thorn an image of a rope, threads splitting, barely holding on.
Murtagh's breaking point came three days later.
He experienced five more seizing fits, and had been given some potion from the castle healer, as though the torture and pain they were inflicting upon him wasn't the obvious cause. They wanted him conscious to feel their torment.
When the King returned, all sign of his furious outburst was gone. He was cold and in control. He entered Murtagh's mind with the ease that one would blow the petals from a dandelion, and he sent fire shooting through Murtagh's skull for what felt like hours, made his skin feel like it was crawling with biting ants, like there was acid in every pore.
When that didn't work, he had a large crate dragged into the room by five of the black-clad men, and Murtagh panicked, wondering what horror was inside there that would come crawling out to torment him. A moment later, though, he felt Thorn's frightened mental touch, and he realized with a sickening clench that Thorn was in the crate.
"Let him–out–let him out!" Murtagh cried, as the box was dragged past him and dropped to the floor. He could feel Thorn's panic, trapped in the darkness, bent and folded and unable to move.
"Please…" Murtagh grunted, weakly tugging at his shackles. "Please…"
"Murtagh…" Galbatorix's voice came, calm and anchoring. Like a soothing balm in a swirl of fire. Murtagh's gaze was on the crate, his breath shaking.
It's okay, Thorn, it's okay, I'm here.
"...enough," Galbatorix said softly.
The room was quiet, except for Murtagh's ragged breathing and the sputtering of the torches.
"...you're hurting him, Murtagh," Galbatorix said, and Murgah knew it was true. Thorn was in agony, and it was all his fault. "Is that what you want? You want him to suffer?"
"No," Murtagh whimpered. Then he felt the King's hand softly stroking his sweat-drenched hair, he didn't have the strength to pull away.
"It's alright. You've been very brave," The King's soothing voice said, "Tornac would be proud of you. Hm?"
Murtagh had no tears left in him, or he might've cried. His eyes were on the box, and he felt Thorn's weak tendril of thought, cramped and scared and alone.
"Let us be done with this now. You've put up a good fight. And no one can blame you." The King's gentle touch felt good, after so many days of hurt, and Murtagh hated himself for it.
"Eragon will understand. He would not hurt his partner like this."
"J…just let him go free," Murtagh whispered, "Let him… go free, and y-y-you can have me," He breathed, trembling.
The King's hand held Murtagh's head tenderly.
"You know I cannot do that, Murtagh. You and he are together. Always."
Murtagh sniffled, and he felt a faint thought from Thorn,
Strong, Murtagh.
But the thought was so twisted with pain and sorrow that Murtagh felt it in his bones. He cried out, trying with the last of his strength to push away from the inevitable. But Galbatorix's demand was like a giant cloud, climbing over the sun and blocking out all else, blackening the sky of his mind.
"Swear fealty to me, Murtagh, and his pain will end," The King's hand went still, resting on Murtagh's head.
"He doesn't deserve this hurt. Submit."
Murtagh's breath caught with a sob.
When the word came out it was a whisper:
"...okay."