Content Warning: Sexual assault (not graphic)

An afternoon came when Murtagh was finally able to overwhelm Freckle-Twin's mental defenses.

They had been sparring for the better part of an hour, and Murtagh hadn't once come close to losing his concentration. He felt in control, powerful, at ease–if that was even possible for him anymore. More than anything, he felt angry, and he wanted to humiliate the Twin, and crush him.

The King was watching, and Murtagh wouldn't admit it to himself, but this also had to do with his fervor to overpower the other magician in their match.

He refused to acknowledge it, but as the weeks of his instruction had dragged on, he had grown more and more eager to please Galbatorix. When the King was happy with his progress, he was afforded more freedoms, given the chance to fly with Thorn, allowed time in the library for the pleasure of reading, excused from dull meetings with nobles.

When the King was angry with him… there was a sort of icy stillness in the room, and though he had not yet been harmed since the day he'd taken his oath, Murtagh always felt on edge when he failed to accomplish a task or memorize a spell or complete an exercise that the King asked of him. He worried when the hammer blow would fall, when his true punishment would come.

Today he was dueling with the Twin under the King's cool eye, and he wanted more than anything to see the sneering little git dismantled, taken apart. He wondered briefly if Galbatorix would let him kill the man, once he had gotten into his mind. He hoped so.

It was Thorn, in the end, who helped Murtagh finally defeat Freckle Twin. The dragon was sitting in the courtyard behind Murtagh, having finished his own training with Shruikan, and a large black crow had flown in on one of the bare branches of the courtyard trees. Without Murtagh noticing, Thorn looked up at the branch, and let out a single jet of flame, cooking the bird instantly.

The movement and fire startled Freckle Twin, and Murtagh felt a wavering in the slippery wall of his mind. He attacked viciously. In seconds he felt the Twin's panic as he realized what had happened, but Murtagh would not be deterred now. Piece by piece he demolished the Twin's defenses and forced his way into the man's dark mind like a bug burrowing underground.

There was a dark swirling sensation, a strange emptiness and also a heavy blanket of evil in the man's mind, and Murtagh had to fight not to be overwhelmed. But he was too elated by his success to back down now. As the Twin crumpled to the stones Murtagh marched forward, fists clenched, a wicked smile playing on his lips, tearing through the man's mind as his own mind had been torn so many times.

A word danced on his lips. One of several words. A killing word. In an instant the man would be dead.

Kill him kill him kill him, A voice told Murtagh. He wanted to, so badly he wanted to. But there was a clamp on his throat, a blockage. His oath. The Twin was a servant of the King, he had been granted permission to duel with his mind, not to kill. The ancient language would not allow it.

Instead, Murtagh made the man hurt.

"Verkr," Murtagh spat, and the Twin screamed, pain rushing through every vein. Murtagh's heart was beating loudly, his skin hot and his eyes wild; he was elated, watching the weasely man squirm on the pavement beneath him. Served him right.

Then suddenly Murtagh felt a great pull on his navel, a painful lurch like someone had stuck a hook through him and dragged him backwards. Murtagh's attack was broken as he was flung back through the air, landing hard and rolling to a stop, his elbows and face scraping against the rough stones as he skidded.

Murtagh grunted in pain and tried to catch his breath, quickly throwing up his mental defenses again, as he felt the King standing over him.

"Very good, Murtagh. But never let your emotions get the best of you," The King chided. "And never forget–your enemy may be before you and behind you."

Murtagh looked up, panting. He understood–the King had attacked him. He ought've been paying attention.

Freckle Twin rose shakily, his robes rumpled and his face contorted in a mix of rage and pain. His brother was not there, and he looked pathetic, standing there in the dying afternoon light, shoulders hunched, fingers bent like claws.

Murtagh himself stood more steadily, a derisive smirk on his face, and he jerked his chin towards the Twin in challenge, daring the man to come at him again. He did not.

Murtagh quickly healed the scrapes on his face and arms–a feat which would have amazed him only weeks earlier–and he made his way back to his chambers with Thorn, who congratulated him on his success, but who seemed perturbed underneath the surface. Murtagh was too tired to ask why.

"What was with that bird?" He asked instead, and he got a mental shrug in return.

Was hungry.

He could tell Thorn felt kind of bad about that. The dragon, Murtagh was learning, was sensitive–definitely more sensitive than Saphira had been about hunting and killing animals.

It had taken Thorn a minute to understand that the meat they brought him every morning and night was from a dead animal, though he did have an innate sense of what it meant to hunt for food. The actual act of killing he hadn't quite taken to, despite the fact that he was given permission to hunt at night as it pleased him. This thing with the bird was out of character, and it seemed to confuse Thorn as much as it did Murtagh.

"Don't be bothered by it," Murtagh encouraged with a pat on the dragon's shoulder, "Just a bird. Nothing wrong with eating a bird."

Thorn hummed in his chest.

The next day, Murtagh received a summons from the King–which didn't alarm him so much as it had at first–but this one told him to dress well and come alone, which was slightly unusual.

He reluctantly said goodbye to Thorn and made his way to the treasure room, where the note said the King would be.

"Your Majesty," Murtagh said with a bow, his eyes fixed in the distance, as they always were when addressing the King. It made him shiver to look at the man; he preferred to keep him as a vague shape on the edge of his vision.

"Ah, Murtagh. Excellent. I have a task for you, after your success yesterday," The King said this warmly, but Murtagh felt a chill down his spine.

He had been waiting for this–dreading it, really. He knew he was to be used as Galbatorix's "hammer to strike down the rebellion", and he hated to think of the day he would be sent out to face his old allies, or to kill some innocent family, or slaughter a village. He closed his eyes and tried not to think of this.

Nothing you can do.

The King surprised him, then, by saying,

"There's a nobleman in the city, Lord Calthwaite, you may have known him–he's the overseer of many of the fine goods that are traded between here, Teirm and Dras Leona."

Murtagh didn't see what wine and jewels had to do with the war effort, but he remained silent. The King was scribbling notes on a piece of parchment, half paying attention.

"I need him to give one of his regular trade contracts over to Lord Tellenwille of Teirm. I'd like you to go negotiate for me."

Murtagh blinked, expecting more. The King looked up.

"Your Majesty…" Was all Murtagh could say. He was confused. Negotiate how? Did the King want him to threaten the man?

"I wish no violence or threats against Lord Calthwaite," Galbatorix clarified, as if reading Murtagh's mind, "Of course I could force him to do as I please, and if the situation demanded it, I would. But, as you'll learn, Murtagh, oftentimes diplomacy is the easier route. Rebellions can be… tedious. And the happier my nobles are, the less likely their cities will turn against me."

Murtagh nodded, trying to rearrange his thoughts to understand what the King wanted.

"As my Chief Lieutenant, you speak for me, and I want you to go and convince Lord Calthwaite–with words, mind you, not threats–to cede his trade contract to Lord Tellenwille." The King gave a smile. "It'll be a good challenge for that sharp mind of yours."

Murtagh cleared his throat, his fear subsiding somewhat. So he wasn't being sent to kill or torture anyone. That was good. Better than he expected.

"What, um… am I permitted to offer him any compensation?" Murtagh asked, "In exchange for his cooperation?"

"Of course. My treasury is open, within reason. And I don't mind giving the Calthwaite's a favor for a favor. But you should know, Murtagh, it really isn't Lord Calthwaite you'll need to convince."

Murtagh frowned.

"It's his wife. Word around the court is that he falls to her every whim; you convince her that it's worthwhile to trade with Tellenwille, and you'll have him in your hand."

The King smiled congenially, an expression Murtagh was still trying to get used to. Galbatorix could be quite charming, when it suited him. Murtagh nodded, his heart a little calmer than when their conversation had first started. Diplomacy. He could do that.

"Very well."

"I'd like you to give me an oath," The King said casually as he made a quick mark on a piece of parchment.

Murtagh felt an uneasy clench. He hated oaths.

He'd been forced to make several additional oaths as the weeks had passed–swearing to return to the castle when he went out flying with Thorn, swearing to keep silent about the things discussed in the map room, swearing not to make copies of any of the ancient texts he'd been given access to–all mundane things, but all sitting like a weight on his shoulder, additional links in the great chain that bound him. Still, he could not refuse the King's demand.

"Yes, your majesty."

"Swear that…" The King thought, "You'll do whatever it takes to get the Calthwaites to agree–barring violence, of course.."

Galbatorix gave him the phrase to say in the ancient language, and Murtagh repeated it, annoyed but knowing he had no choice. Then Galbatorix sent him on his way with instructions to head to the Calthwaite's manor–which sat only a short walk from the castle walls–and report back in the morning.

Murtagh stopped by his chambers only to tell Thorn that he would not be back until late that evening.

I can come with? Thorn asked, and Murtagh smiled.

"No, I'm afraid you might frighten Lord Calthwaite off."

Thorn chuffed unhappily, but Murtagh patted his snout.

"I'll be back as soon as I can."

He hurried into the streets of Uru'baen on foot, having received directions to the Calthwaite's manor, and knowing it wasn't too far. He wore a cloak over his head and hoped not to run into anyone who might recognize him, as the last of the evening light passed into the sky, and the lamplighters began their nightly rounds.

When Murtagh was ushered into the Calthwaite's manor by a gray-clad butler, he stood for a moment in the entryway, his eyes roaming over the grand display of wealth. He'd seen these lavish homes before, of course–he'd lived in one, until recently–but after having been throughout much of Alagaesia, seeing how the common folk lived, seeing how most people eked a living off the land and struggled to put a roof over their heads, the lavishness hit him differently.

"What an honor, my lord," A high voice said, and Murtagh turned to see a noblewoman–older than him by a good measure, but not aged, wearing an elegant dress that fell to her shoulders, and fine jewels around her neck.

"I am Lady Calthwaite, welcome to my home."

"My lady," Murtagh responded, tapping into his upbringing, trying to remember the rules of decorum around a noblewoman.

Lady Calthwaite strode smoothly up to him, her skirts swishing, and held out her hand delicately for Murtagh to kiss. He did so dutifully.

"I had hoped to have an audience with your husband this evening," He continued, when she had turned away again.

"Yes, of course, I was expecting you," She said, walking further into the manor and spurring Murtagh to follow her.

"But I believe you are mistaken; my husband has been away in Teirm for business this past week, so your audience will be with me, I hope that is acceptable."

Murtagh followed her through a set of finely polished dark wood doors and into a dining room with a sparkling table already set for two.

"Of course, madam," He responded, remembering Galbatorix's words–Lady Calthwaite was the true decision maker in the family. It was her he would have to convince.

"Please, sit," She gestured with a smile, "The servants shall have the first course set shortly. May I offer you a drink?"

"S–certainly," Murtagh stuttered, feeling it would be impolite to refuse. Lady Calthwaite gestured languidly to a butler, who at once stepped away to fetch the wine.

"I often handle my husband's affairs while he is away," Lady Calthwaite said, as Murtagh remembered to pull her chair out for her, before sitting himself in the finely upholstered dining chair.

"But I am flattered, that the King would send his most handsome servant to beseech me on his behalf."

Murtagh's mouth twitched, not sure what he was supposed to say to this.

The butler returned briskly and poured wine, and Murtagh downed a glass, trying to figure out how to quickly steer the conversation towards the business at hand. He didn't want to sit here for a whole meal, listening to Lady Calthwaite chatter on about life in the city.

The noblewoman was an accomplished orator, however, and she managed to steer the conversation exactly where she wanted while still making it appear that she was allowing Murtagh to have his say.

She asked him what it was like to be a dragon rider, what his education had been like growing up, what he thought about the various cities and towns he had visited in Alagaesia, if he was betrothed to anyone, if he had ambitions beyond being the lieutenant of the King, and a number of other inquiries, all without allowing him to actually say anything of significance.

Of course most of what he told her were lies and half-truths–he had no interest in actually getting to know this woman, and he refused to share anything about Thorn, knowing that she was probably just looking for some juicy piece of information to spread among her circle–but she somehow managed to drag the conversation out through three courses and a desert without allowing him to get to his point.

He'd finally managed to mention Teirm, and the trade routes, when Lady Calthwaite tapped her hand against his and said,

"Oh, Teirm, you must see what my husband has brought back with him this time, simply gorgeous–"

And with that she was rising, and leading Murtagh obligatorily through a swinging set of doors into another, narrow hallway–the private portion of the house.

"This is a replica of a fairth made by an elf–can you believe it?" She said, gesturing her bejeweled fingers to a picture in a gilded frame that hung on the wall. It was a depiction of a great forest–likely Du Weldenvarden–and clearly from the viewpoint of a dragon.

It was a lovely image, but nothing quite so impressive, Murtagh thought, if it was just a replica of an elf-made fairth, and not elf-made itself. Who knew how many copies there were.

"I understand your husband is in charge of much of the trade between Teirm and Uru'baen, when it comes to fine goods such as these," Murtagh managed to say, and Lady Calthwaite gave him a wry smile.

"You are persistent, Lord Murtagh, an admirable quality."

Murtagh tried to keep from scowling at her mocking tone, as she sighed and returned her gaze to the fairth.

"Yes, my husband is quite the important figure amongst those of us who appreciate the finer things."

Her delicate fingers traced along the frame of the picture.

"And I understand the King may have need of a favor from him?" She raised an eyebrow in Murtagh's direction.

Finally, Murtagh thought, annoyed that it had taken so long.

"Yes, ma'am. It would… please the King very much, if a certain Lord Tellenwille of Teirm were to be given one of your husband's trade contracts, to open up a route between here and Teirm."

Lady Calthwaite's high brows never fell.

"I see. Well, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that's a high request. Even one trade contract can be vital for my husband's yearly profits," She turned to him, her blue eyes dancing in the nearby lantern light.

"What might I be able to expect in exchange?"

The woman was bold, Murtagh thought, demanding something of the King, but clearly Galbatorix had expected it to be a hard bargain.

"The King is happy to offer a favor in exchange for a favor," Murtagh echoed his earlier words.

"Ah. And what kind of favor might that be?" Lady Calthwaite asked, taking a step closer.

"His… Majesty is prepared to offer gold, in–in recompense for Lord Calthwaite's loss," Murtagh said, "Jewels from his treasury are also a–an option."

"Oh, I've plenty of jewels, as you can see," The woman said airily, brushing a light finger across her chest, where a magnificent necklace lay.

Suddenly Murtagh realized she was very close to him.

"What if I don't want any of that?" She whispered, and she touched him near the waist.

Murtagh jerked backwards, taken aback, his brain suddenly going in three different directions at once.

"M–my lady–" He stammered. Lady Calthwaite's teeth glinted, amusement sparkling in her eyes.

"I'm sure you and I can come to… an agreement," She continued, her skirts close enough to touch his legs, keeping him pressed against the wall where the fairth hung.

Murtagh's heart was pounding suddenly, his mind racing, and a few things started to fall into place in his mind.

I swear to do whatever it takes to get the Calthwaites to agree… whatever it takes… whatever it takes…

Murtagh's skin was flushed, his breaths coming rapidly. Idiot. Idiot. Dumb. Stupid. He'd been so stupid, how could he not see? Galbatorix had been almost chuckling with amusement. How had he missed this?

"Now, my lord, you seem alarmed," The older woman said with a smirk, and her fingers were tracing their way up Murtagh's arm. He was frozen. He didn't know what to do.

"I–I'm sure… there–there is something else the lady would like in exchange f–for a favor to the King," Murtagh managed to stammer, pressed so tightly against the wall he could feel the frame of the fairth digging into his back.

Lady Calthwaite gave a little shrug, her jewels glinting in the lantern light, her exposed shoulders rising.

"I think I know what I want," She said, and Murtagh swallowed, feeling like he might throw up.

Whatever it takes.

He felt the oath ringing in his ears, and he was kicking himself for being so stupid, so blind.

Whatever it takes.

When she touched him, he instinctively grabbed her wrist, holding it back, his whole body shaking. Only her eyes moved, and the humor left them for a moment.

"I can always tell the King… that you failed to convince me," She said, her tone still soft, but cold.

Murtagh's mouth was dry; he wanted to run; he didn't want to be here; he didn't want to do this… but he was shackled, the words of his oath keeping him rooted to the floor.

Whatever it takes.

He released his hold on her wrist, and her hand began to wander, her lips pressing against his.

When it was over, Murtagh lay in the dark for a long while alone.

Lady Calthwaite had pushed him into a nearby bed chamber and lay on top of him, smothering him with her touch, suffocating him with her lips.

Clearly the trip to observe the fairth had been part of the ruse, clearly the dinner had been a sham, clearly she had known that this would be her demand all along. Murtagh was an idiot.

She'd left him with one last smile and a touch on his lips, and had pattered into the next room, closing the door behind her. He lay then, frozen as he had been during the whole thing, feeling like he might be sick.

Finally the urge to get out of the room overwhelmed his confusion and shock, and he swung his legs over the bed, pulling up his trousers and hunting through the covers for his tunic and vest.

He dressed hurriedly with shaking hands, wanting to just be gone from that place as soon as possible, strapping on his sword belt and pushing out into the hall, past the fairth and back through the dining room and entryway.

He didn't stop moving until he'd reached the door to his own chambers in the castle, the cool night air of Uru'baen having worked to calm the flush of his skin and the pounding of his heart.

He stood at the door for a long moment, sensing Thorn sleeping on the other side and trying to get his breathing back to normal. He didn't want Thorn to feel this–this–whatever it was.

He was angry, and he felt stupid, and he felt embarrassed and he felt a twinge of desire, and he felt ashamed, because after all, she'd gotten what she was after, and if he really hadn't wanted her to, then it wouldn't have worked, right? If he really hadn't wanted her to do what she did, then his body wouldn't have allowed it, so really it was probably his own fault; really he had probably wanted it, deep down.

But he felt sick, too, and shaken, and like he never wanted to see her again ever.

He squeezed his eyes shut and took a few deep breaths. It didn't matter. It was over. There was nothing he could do. The task was done, anyway. The King would have what he wanted.

Murtagh pushed into the room quietly, hoping that Thorn would remain asleep, but clearly the dragon had been waiting for him and had only drifted off. His eyes clicked awake, and almost immediately, Murtagh felt a thread of concerned thought.

Thorn raised his head.

Murtagh hurt? He asked, as Murtagh stood in the darkness in front of the door. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to keep his distress from leaking over into Thorn's consciousness.

"No, not hurt," He murmured, stepping over to the water basin and splashing the cool liquid on his face, trying to wash away the feeling of her touches.

Thorn nudged him.

What?

"It's okay, it's fine," Murtagh answered, before anything else could spill into his thoughts. "I'm fine."

He cleared his throat, and sat on the bed taking off his boots quickly and undoing his sword belt, just wanting to go to sleep and forget everything.

But Thorn knew him. The dragon nudged him again with his thoughts, his ruby eyes bright in the darkness.

Murtagh hurt, He said, and this was not a question.

Murtagh sat against the bed for a moment longer, his thumb tracing along the handle of his sword. Useless, now, to defend him against anything.

He set it aside and shuffled across the room towards Thorn, dragging one of the blankets with him, unable to be away from his partner any longer. He sat against Thorn's torso and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, blinking back a sting in his eyes.

He felt a humming from Thorn, and sensed a questionless question, an asking that made no request. An openness.

Tell me.

Murtagh tried to keep the details back–he didn't even know how much Thorn would understand, young as he was. Were creatures born with an innate knowledge of these things? Would he get what was happening?

Thorn was a little confused, and Murtagh felt him treading through the unfamiliar words and sensations, but he couldn't bear to explain it out loud.

Mating? Thorn asked, still perplexed, and Murtagh flinched at the word. But yes, of course that would be a dragon's way of understanding things.

Murtagh nodded, silently, his arms around his knees, the blanket covering him.

"I've never… done that before…" He admitted to Thorn with a whisper, his chin trembling.

Of course he'd had his flings with various merchants' daughters and visiting young ladies of the court. There had been more than a few corners and alleyways where he'd offered kisses and touches to the girls he'd fancied. But Tornac had drilled honor and decorum into him, and he was always too afraid of getting caught by the girl's father for anything really serious to happen. Not to mention Tornac would have beat him silly if he'd been caught frequenting any brothels in the city. And after he'd run away… well, he'd been in constant danger of getting captured or killed; he wasn't quite able to make time for romance.

Murtagh tried to keep his confused swirl of feelings at bay. Gentle moonbeams drifted through the window and made a square of light on the floor amidst the quiet dark of the room.

"...I don't think it's supposed to feel like this," He whispered, eyes smarting, clutching his torso.

Thorn brought his head close and hummed mournfully, understanding, at least, that his partner was in pain, even if he wasn't hurt.

Murtagh leaned against the dragon, and he cried.