Chapter One: Haunted
Eragon was awakened by a sharp rap on his door, which drew him out of his dream-like state of resting and caused him to sit up straight. Saphira lifted her head, before a small voice on the other side of the door said,
"Master Eragon?" In a quiet murmur. Eragon recognized the voice of Kharnine–the urgal girl who had begun training at Mt. Argnor the previous spring. Eragon frowned and rose to answer the door.
He found Kharnine and her dragon Shillith–who had grown to stand just above her height in the intervening months of their training–waiting in the wide hallway, looking nervous.
"Yes, Kharnine, is everything alright?"
Saphira swiveled her head behind him and blinked at Shillith.
"Um, well… it's…" Kharning looked down the hall, which was peppered by the lights of a few dwarven lanterns.
"...it's Master Murtagh, sir. I think you might need to come."
Eragon donned his heavy jacket against the cold winter air, and pulled his boots on, hesitating a moment, before strapping Brisingr to his waist and rising.
I can accompany you, Saphira murmured tiredly.
No, it's fine. I don't want to catch Blodgharm and other guard's attention if I can avoid it.
Perhaps his attention needs to be caught. This is not the first time.
I know, Saphira, Eragon sighed, giving her a kiss on her scaly brow, I'll be back as soon as I can.
Hmmm.
He closed the door quietly and felt Saphira drift back into her dreaming, as he followed Kharnine and Shillith down the hallway of the keep, past the chambers of the other riders, elves, dwarves and urgals who called it home.
He carried a dwarven lantern to guide the way–more for Kharnine's sake than his own, as he could see well enough on a moonlit night like tonight.
They slipped out through a side door in the kitchens, rather than go straight out of the main doors, which would be guarded from above by the night watchmen–or watch-dwarves, in this case–and Blodgharm.
Kharnine's arms swung as she waded through the freshly-fallen snow that had accumulated during the previous day, soft flakes still drifting down through the black night, dissolving as they came in contact with Eragon's flameless lantern.
"Shill wanted to go for a night fly," Kharnine explained, her rough voice dampened by the snow as they walked, "So I came out to keep him company, and I–I heard…"
Kharnine gestured uneasily past a gathering of trees, and Eragon opened his ears, picking up on an uneven whistling sound and the murmurs of a one-sided conversation. He gripped the lantern tightly, his mouth turning down.
When they reached the trees they followed a small path that Eragon knew led to a clearing, one where they often did exercises and practiced meditation. There was no light except the clouded moon, but through the trees Eragon could see the shape of his brother's dragon Thorn, sitting on the cold ground, hunched.
The voice grew clearer as Eragon and Kharnine approached, and Eragon recognized it to be Murtagh, though whether he was talking to himself or to Thorn, Eragon couldn't tell.
Thorn noticed the light of the lantern before they had passed the last of the trees, but Murtagh's back was turned when Eragon and Kharnine stepped out into the clearing.
Murtagh was swinging his sword Zar'roc in one hand, making jabs and blocks as though fighting an invisible enemy, and in the other hand hung a jug which Eragon knew contained liquor.
Thorn made a little whining noise in his throat when he saw Eragon, as though pleading for help. This caused Murtagh to finally notice the lantern-light, and he turned, his eyes misty with drink and his movements uneven.
"Eragon!" He took a deep, smiling breath and raised the jug in greeting, Zar'roc's tip sinking into the snow beside him.
"Wha-you–did–what are you doing?" He asked, blinking in the sudden light.
Eragon's lips were pressed, his shoulders tense. This was not the first time he had found his brother drunk and oblivious in the middle of the night, behaving in a way that was ill-fitting of a rider instructor.
Eragon had previously scolded him for waking up some of the dwarves with his noise, but instead of quitting his carousing, he had evidently decided to take it from his chambers to the wooded clearing, where the temperature was enough to make Eragon's bones chill.
"Was… going to ask you the same thing," Eragon said curtly.
"I'm pr–I'm just practicing," Murtagh said blearily, swinging Zar'roc in a few lazy loops, as if to show his improvement. Eragon glanced at Thorn, who looked distressed.
"Well… I think it's… probably time to go to sleep," He said, his eyes flicking towards Kharnine, who seemed embarrassed.
He hated that a student had been the one to find Murtagh this time. Though Murtagh's penchant for imbibing too much drink was by no means a secret around the keep, he at least hadn't shamed himself in front of any of the young riders up to this point. Now Eragon knew Kharnine would have a hard time respecting her instructor, after seeing him in this state.
"I'm not–I'm alright, you can go to sleep, you go, if you want," Murtagh shook his head and rubbed his eye with the back of the hand that held Zar'roc, swinging the sword up unceremoniously. He took another drink.
"I think Thorn wants to go to sleep too," Eragon suggested, gesturing to the dragon, whose head hung low. He blinked in Eragon's direction thankfully.
"Thorn's not–he's–he can't sleep inside. He doesn't like to be inside."
"He's got his balcony, right? Outside your chambers?" Eragon suggested. This had been his effort to stop Murtagh camping down the slope from the keep after he'd decided to stay permanently at Mt. Argnor.
Thorn was uncomfortable indoors, and avoided it as much as possible, so his sleeping cushion was set up on a small balcony with doors that opened to Murtagh's bedroom. Thorn seemed pleased enough with the arrangement, but Murtagh had not quite settled in at Mt. Argnor yet.
Eragon is right, Thorn rumbled to all of them, It is time to put down the drink and sword, Murtagh, and to rest.
"I'm not–I've got energy! I don't need to rest."
As if to demonstrate his energy, Murtagh took a swig from the liquor jug, then spun Zar'roc around one-handed–swooping and slashing, the jug raised in his other grasp. In his drunken state, however, his limbs were clumsy, and he didn't notice a rock hidden under a pile of new snow.
His foot caught the rock and he tripped, and as he stumbled forward, Zar'roc swung upwards in an arc, and caught the edge of Thorn's front leg.
Eragon heard Kharnine gasp as the dragon let out an angered growl and jumped back, blood suddenly dripping on the white snow around him.
Eragon cursed and hurried forward, as Murtagh caught his momentum and tried to straighten, leaning on the tip of Zar'roc, and blinking blearily.
Are you alright? Eragon asked, coming to Thorn's side. Only the tip of the blade had sliced into Thorn's scales, and the cut was not deep, but Eragon winced as the dragon held his foreleg up like a wounded werecat.
It is not bad, He rumbled, but his eyes were flicking to Murtagh, whose expression was still glazed, confused more than distressed at the damage he'd caused.
"Oh, I'm–I can fix that, let me fix that," Murtagh stumbled forward, his sword still dangerously attached to his unsteady limb.
"I've got it," Eragon snapped, standing over Thorn's leg.
"He's my–I can do it," Murtagh insisted, his speech slurred.
"I said I've got it," Eragon put a hand on Murtagh's chest to keep him and the sword away. Murtagh blinked at him, his expression foggy and annoyed, but he stayed back.
"Waise heill," Eragon spoke over the wound, and he felt energy draining from him as Thorn's skin knit itself back together and the dragon wriggled at the uncomfortable sensation.
Thank you, Thorn said, his large red eyes full of melancholy as he pulled his leg back. Eragon turned to Murtagh then, and said,
"Alright, now give me the sword," He held out his hand tiredly, frustrated and annoyed–and furious at Murtagh for hurting Thorn in his carelessness. Murtagh frowned.
"It's not yours," He said crossly, "That's–it–my father gave it to me. He's not your father."
"I'm not going to take it. You can have it back tomorrow," Eragon sighed heavily.
"It's not yours!" Murtagh insisted, getting angrier. Eragon was worried things were going to escalate in Murtagh's inebriated state, but then Thorn let out a low rumble.
Give him the sword, Murtagh, or I shall have to take it from you.
Murtagh frowned angrily between the two of them, shifting Zar'roc in his hand and pouting like a child, his breath visible in the cold air.
One more growl from Thorn and he huffed and tossed the red blade into the snow between them. Eragon rolled his eyes, before bending to pick it up, safely away from the drunken rider.
"Now the flask," Eragon gestured to the jug in Murtagh's hand. He scowled again, but Thorn stamped his foreleg in the snow, and, with one last swig, Murtagh shoved the thing into Eragon's hand.
"Y-don't–you don't even know anything you think," Murtagh muttered with a scowl, wiping a hand under his mouth, "I–I didn't do this, this wasn't me."
Eragon stopped trying to understand his brother's disjointed thoughts as he emptied the jug into the snow.
"Alright, come on, back to the keep now," Eragon muttered. Murtagh's scowl deepened.
"Thorn doesn't like being inside," He insisted.
"Thorn is fine, you're being the problem," Eragon spat back, his frustration mounting at his feet grew numb from the cold.
"I'm–" Murtagh began, but he had to stop and swallow, holding out a finger as he swayed slightly, "You're–you've got–you have a problem," He grunted, his breaths thick.
"Are you going to come with or do I have to put you to sleep," Eragon said tersely, working his jaw and trying not to punch his brother in the face.
"I can't sleep," Murtagh responded hazily. Then he tapped one finger to his temple, his clouded eyes drifting down to the frosted ground.
Eragon opened his mouth to say something sharp in retort, but at that moment, Murtagh leaned forward and vomited into the snow, falling to his hands and knees as Eragon stepped away.
Shillith let out a little mewl and flapped his wings once as Eragon scowled, the smell assaulting his nostrils.
"Kharnine," He said softly as Murtagh grunted, swaying unsteadily on his hands, "Could you take these, please?"
He handed the girl the unsheathed sword and empty jug, and she took them, before quickly backing away.
"Alright, let's go," Eragon said, stepping around the pile of sick so he could put his arm under Murtagh's and lift him from the ground.
Murtagh hung heavily as Eragon tried to get his feet under him, hoping he would not be sick again.
If you get him on my back, I can carry him, Thorn offered, his mental voice tired and ashamed.
I don't think he could sit up, and you don't have your saddle on, Eragon returned, trying not to be unkind.
Thorn gave a slight grunt, and simply followed Eragon as he hauled Murtagh back through the trees, his shoulder scraping against the trunks as they passed.
It was tough work getting his intoxicated brother up the slope that led down from the keep, and they dug a trench in the snow with their steps, Kharnine and Shillith at the lead, looking back every few seconds.
"I need my sword…" Murtagh murmured as he tripped through the snow, heavy on Eragon's shoulder, his sheath empty on his hip.
"Kharnine has your sword, you'll get it back," Eragon grunted, scanning the walls of the keep for any of the night watchers, hoping they were not noticed.
Blodgharm had already given him stern words regarding Murtagh's erratic behavior; he didn't think it would go well if the elf saw this particular drunken escapade.
"Kharnine… she's… you know she's an Urgal?" Murtagh said, louder than Eragon would have liked.
"Yes, I know."
"She's not–I don't think she'd try to kill me, do you? Do you think–you're not going to kill me are you?" He said this last part loud enough for Kharnine to hear, and Eragon winced. Before the girl could open her mouth he said,
"You don't have to answer that, Kharnine, just keep going."
Her brow creased, but she turned and continued her climb.
"I think I might be dead, Eragon," Murtagh murmured then, his neck craned back as he looked up into the black sky, his feet stumbling forward, "...I can't see the stars."
"That's because it's cloudy," Eragon muttered.
"Are you angry at me?" Murtagh asked, his head rolling back to look at Eragon.
"A little frustrated, at the moment," Eragon grunted as they crested the hill and made for the small side-door.
"Do you hate me? It's okay–if–you can hate me. I won't be mad. You can hit me if you want, do you want to hit me?"
"I don't hate you and I don't want to hit you," Eragon returned as Kharnine reached the door and pulled it open.
"You're my brother, and I love you…" He breathed with exertion. "...I just wish you'd be better to yourself."
Murtagh leaned his head back again, his wandering eyes scanning the black sky, his mouth half-open, dazed,
"...I don't think I know how."
The following morning Eragon tiredly dressed himself and prepared to head down for a bit of breakfast, taking Zar'roc with him to return to Murtagh.
He had taken the sword from Kharnine when they'd reached Murtagh's living quarters and he'd dismissed her, encouraging her to return to her own room and apologizing on Murtagh's behalf,
"I'm sorry you had to see all this."
The girl shrugged, her horns tilting.
"I've seen wilder drinkin' than that," She dismissed, but her yellow eyes looked sad.
"You know he didn't mean it, when he said that thing about you killing somebody."
Kharnine rubbed Shillith's neck, nodding thoughtfully.
"I know."
"He likes you, and he knows you're a friend."
"I get it. I used to be really scared of humans when I was little. Took me a long while to warm up to you all, too."
Kharnine offered a shrug again, before turning down the hallway with Shillith at her side.
Eragon had then gone back to Murtagh, who was sitting slumped in an armchair. He removed Murtagh's boots from his feet, and his sword sheath from his belt, while he tried to help his inebriated brother into bed.
Murtagh had thrown up again before letting Eragon roll him onto the blankets, where he promptly lost consciousness, still clothed except for the boots.
Eragon had cleaned the mess up with magic, which was the more tiring but less disgusting way to go about it, and had turned to Thorn with a sigh.
You going to be alright? He'd asked sympathetically as the dragon lay with his head in the doorway, the cold air drifting in from the balcony.
He will not awaken again tonight, Thorn said in answer, clearly having walked this same path with his partner before. Eragon had nodded, not knowing what else to say.
Saphira was still asleep when he'd returned, and this morning she was much more wide awake than he. He quickly shared his memories of what had happened the previous night, and Saphira rumbled in disapproval.
It is wrong of him, to allow drink to get in the way of his common sense. If you had accidentally cut me, I would have made sure you did not make the same mistake again.
Eragon smiled sadly.
Yes, well… Thorn's doing his best, I think.
He needs help, Saphira's large eye was trained on him, and Eragon ducked his head, knowing she was right. He'd been avoiding dealing with this problem even as it had worsened over the past several weeks.
When Murtagh had first arrived to Mt. Argnor, things had been hectic, with the attack from the witch Bachel and their mother returning to them, and after that he'd been so busy catching up with things and spending what time he could with Arya, that he'd let the ever-increasing problem of his brother's drinking be set in the background.
Once Arya had left things seemed to go well enough for a few months, as Kharnine had begun her training in earnest and Eragon tried to figure out how Murtagh would fit into the rhythm of life on the mountain.
His brother had seemed to handle the change decently, and all three of their students had good things to say about his teaching, but in the past month or so Eragon had begun to notice a steep decline in Murtagh's reliability–he would be late for training, disappear alone for hours at a time, fly off on Thorn without telling anyone, and wake the keep up in the middle of the night while intoxicated.
Eragon knew he'd been putting off a confrontation for far too long, and this last episode was only proof that something had to be done.
Eragon left his room with Zar'roc in one hand and made his way back to Murtagh's sleeping quarters, but his brother did not answer, so he took the sword down to the main hall, sitting by himself at the long table to eat quickly, Zar'roc leaning next to him.
Before he'd finished the eggs and seasoned squash–choosing to forgo meat that morning as he often did–he saw Blodgharm approaching from the other side of the table, clearly on a mission.
"Good morning, Eragon," The elf greeted with a nod of his head–Eragon had finally convinced him and the others to stop calling him "Shadeslayer" all the time, since they worked closely with one another on a daily basis.
"Morning," Eragon greeted, as Blodgharm sat himself on the bench opposite, his eyes flicking to the red sword leaning at Eragon's side.
"I take it your brother has not arisen yet this morning?" Blodgharm said with a knowing look. Eragon chewed slowly, debating whether it was worth playing dumb with the keen elf.
Then he lowered his gaze with a sigh.
"Or he's out with Thorn, not sure," Eragon answered, abashed. Clearly he had not been able to hide Murtagh's episode the previous night from Blodgharm.
"The next time you are in need of assistance, Shadeslayer, I am at your call," He offered, and Eragon noticed the formal tone. He glanced up between bites.
"I… figured I'd handle it myself."
"With the help of Kharnine," Blodgharm corrected coolly.
Eragon paused, inwardly cringing.
"...yes, she… she notified me."
Blodgharm's breath was even but his gaze was unrelenting. The elf did not tend to take a gentle approach to anything.
"You understand, Shadeslayer," He began, "That this matter is no longer solely between him and his dragon. If it is affecting a pupil of the academy, then it is affecting the academy, which means it is a matter for all of us."
Eragon put down his fork and sat back, his stomach souring.
He'd been waiting for this conversation–had known it was only a matter of time–but he supposed he'd been hoping that perhaps Murtagh would've figured out whatever it was that was dragging him towards his reckless drinking, and stop on his own.
"I don't know what to do," Eragon murmured, choosing now to be open with Blodgharm. The elf had earned that, at least, for his faithfulness and bravery during the war, and his commitment to helping Eragon bring Mt. Argnor to life.
"I thought he was doing alright, you know… when he first got here. He was–he was managing, right? Then all of a sudden the past few weeks he can't seem to stay sober for more than a few hours; I don't know why the sudden change."
"A dying leaf may cling to the tree by a single stem for months, and yet one gust of wind will send it spiraling," Blodgharm answered in the cryptic way of the elves.
"So what sent him spiraling?" Eragon asked, after deciphering his meaning.
Blodgharm gave a small shrug, and looked at the fireplace, which this time of year was always alight in the great hall. When he answered, his tone was softer, and less aloof.
"I have found that a single breath of scent can send me back in memory a hundred years, to a particular place and a particular time where I last smelled that scent." He turned his honest gaze back to Eragon,
"It is impossible to know for certain what causes old pains to rise up. Even your brother himself may not know. But if he is to maintain his good standing as rider and teacher, he must learn to manage the gusts, when they come. As we all must."
Eragon breathed heavily, drinking in Blodgharm's words. He was thankful for the elf–who himself had his own pains to carry, his own memories to keep at bay. They all did, and some days Eragon managed them better than others.
Eragon had come to look at Blodgharm as a sort of second-in-command, a person he could go to–besides the Eldunari–when he needed anything.
Of course that meant Blodgharm would also call him out on his failures and bring problems to his attention, and while usually Eragon ended up appreciating the elf's correction and guidance, in this particular instance he'd wished Blodgharm was a little less conscientious.
"If you would receive my advice, Eragon," Blodgharm continued softly, "Take your brother to speak with the Elders. He clearly will not listen to his dragon, and he will not listen to you, but perhaps he will listen to them."
Eragon blinked up at the elf, surprised by the idea.
Of course he went to the Eldunari for many things regarding himself, and often sat thinking in the room with Umaroth and Glaedr, learning whatever they felt like teaching that day. Others, too, sought guidance from the Elder dragons, as they were open to all who worked on the mountain.
It had taken the dwarves and urgals some time to warm up to the idea–sitting and speaking with the old dragons in their minds–but all of the elves spent regular time in the room of globes, especially Blodgharm, and soon the others began to appreciate the practice, and would go every now and then.
Eragon had noticed that Nal and Ithki–the oldest urgal and the oldest dwarf–often liked to go together and speak with the dragons, though the Eldunari never shared what it was they spoke of. They were trusted advisors in that way–a safe place to ponder and speak, and not be worried that others would discover a private thought.
"You think he'd go?" Eragon asked, skeptical.
As far as he knew, Murtagh had not set foot in the vault since receiving his commission to be an instructor almost six months previous. Eragon sensed that he knew approaching the Eldunari would take vulnerability, and Murtagh was not keen on it.
"I think you may command him to go," Blodgharm said, and Eragon's stomach twisted. He couldn't picture himself bossing Murtagh around, commanding him like a general.
"You are the leader of the riders; we answer to you, and he does as well," Blodgharm assured, as though reading Eragon's hesitance.
"And I believe that if you and Thorn both request it of him, he will go. He may not enjoy the idea, but he will go."
Eragon sat with his arms on the table, his plate half-eaten, pondering.
He glanced down at Zar'roc sitting innocently against the table. Murtagh had wounded Thorn with it the previous night, and both of them were lucky that the wound hadn't been worse.
Blodgharm was right–this was no longer just a private matter between Thorn and Murtagh. Kharnine and Shillith were involved, and Eragon was distracted from his duties today because of Murtagh, and if his brother was a danger to Thorn, then he could be a danger to anybody else.
It had to stop.
"Okay," Eragon agreed quietly, nodding. "I'll–I'll talk to him today. Can you take over Thrivka's training for him?"
Blodgharm inclined his head, his expression neutral, as always.
"Of course."
'Thank you," Eragon said, and he meant it.
As it turned out, Murtagh had gone on an early flight with Thorn, and they returned just as the dwarves were getting to work on construction for the day.
Eragon wondered how Murtagh had dragged himself out of his bed so early, after the state he was in the previous night, but there was no sign of his inebriation, except for a heaviness in his shoulders and circles under his eyes that bespoke exhaustion, but he often looked that way these days.
Eragon had hurried up to the Eldunari's chambers to ask if they would see his brother, and help in what way they could, and they had agreed, reading in Eragon's mind the images of the previous night.
You should have brought this to us earlier, Umaroth chided gently, seeing through Eragon several other instances of Murtagh's decline in the previous weeks.
I am sorry, Umaroth-Elder, I had hoped he would fix it.
A broken limb cannot mend itself until properly set, Dila'ah murmured, and Eragon ducked his head.
Now he stood on the slope with Saphira as Thorn landed on the grass before them and Murtagh dismounted, looking darkly in his direction.
"I'll kindly thank you not to take my sword from me," He muttered as he grabbed Zar'roc out of Eragon's outstretched hand and turned back to his dragon. Eragon fought down a sharp retort and felt Saphira grumble beside him.
"Well, when you're hurting people with it, I'm going to take it," Eragon responded coolly, and Murtagh looked back.
"What?"
Then Eragon looked up at Thorn, and back to Murtagh, taken aback.
"You don't rem–Thorn, you didn't tell him?" Eragon asked with a frown. Murtagh looked to his partner, clearly confused. Thorn almost shrugged.
It was no matter, I am well.
"It is a matter, Thorn, he could've really hurt you."
But he did not.
"Did not what?" Murtagh demanded, his fists suddenly clenched.
"You cut open his leg when you were swinging Zar'roc around," Eragon said bluntly.
"No I–" Murtagh started, horrified, but then he looked at Thorn and saw the truth in the way his dragon hunched. The horror only increased.
"Thorn, why didn't you tell me?" He demanded, his voice strained.
I am healed, it is all well, The dragon excused, and Saphira huffed.
"It's not well," Eragon cut in, "And this needs to stop, Murtagh."
His brother grimaced at the cold ground, clenching and unclenching his hands.
"What if I wasn't around to heal him? What if you'd swung and hit Kharnine instead? Or someone else who can't absorb a blow like a dragon?"
Eragon gestured angrily, trying to knock it into his brother's skull, who had apparently been so dismissive of his problem that his partner did not find an issue with getting accidentally stabbed.
"I'll–I'll fix it," Murtagh muttered, "I'm sorry, Thorn, I didn't know. It won't happen again."
"You can't promise that," Eragon reminded, steeling himself, "When you drink you get out of control, so unless you can look me in the eye and make me believe you'll stop drinking entirely–"
"–I can–I'll deal with it," Murtagh said, his shoulders shifting.
"I've given you months to deal with it," Eragon decided firmly, "And it's only gotten worse. So now–we're–we're gonna go talk to the Eldunari together."
Murtagh's gaze flicked to him, both angry and ashamed.
"Y–no, I don't need to–"
"I've already asked them, and they've said they want to speak with you," Eragon said. Murtagh scoffed in disbelief.
"Oh, now you're talking to people about me?"
"This is not just your problem anymore, Murtagh," Eragon gestured, echoing Blodgharm's words.
"Kharnine found you. She and Shillith had to wake me up in the middle of the night, because they were worried about you hurting yourself, wandering around in the cold, in the middle of winter, with no coat or jacket, swinging that sword around like it's a stick. That can't happen."
Murtagh held his tongue, unable to look Eragon in the eyes.
Murtagh, Thorn's voice rumbled gently, Perhaps the Elders have wisdom to help us. It cannot hurt to speak with them.
Eragon felt the tightness in his chest relax just a little. If Thorn was on his side, he stood a better chance. He was worried the dragon would side with his rider, seeing how he was clearly inclined to shelter him from the problem.
"Do I have a choice?" Murtagh muttered, giving Eragon a deadened stare. Eragon took a breath, and glanced at Thorn.
"You can go speak with the Eldunari, or you can swear to me in the ancient language that you will never have another drop of strong drink again."
He met Murtagh's glare–clearly his brother could not manage the second option. It would be a lie coming from his mouth, and the language would not allow it.
"Fine, I'll go in a few days," He turned away.
"Today," Eragon determined, and Murtagh stopped.
"Blodgharm's going to give Thrivka her training today, and the Eldunari are expecting us. So."
For a moment Eragon thought his brother would refuse, but Thorn bent his long neck down and nudged Murtagh's shoulder with his snout, some silent exchange passing between them.
"Fine," Murtagh muttered, working his jaw.
Eragon let out a little breath, and he felt Saphira sit back on her haunches, relaxing just a bit.
When they passed through the keep the main hall was empty, and most of the workers had begun their tasks for the day–training or hunting or tending the gardens, working on the construction or clearing land for new outbuildings.
Eragon tried not to think of all the things he would be behind on, after spending so much time on his brother. This was a task that needed done as well; it was just less pleasant than the other things he'd had in mind for the day.
The room that held the Eldunari was quiet and cool, round and full of coves for each dragon heart to sit in comfortably. The silver guardian Cuaroc nodded to Eragon and Murtagh as they entered, followed by Saphira and Thorn.
Eragon took a deep breath, as the whispering of the hundreds of minds held within the room washed over him like a cool breeze through the leaves.
He always forgot how peaceful it felt when he entered this place, the perspective he gained, as the wisdom of a thousand years greeted him like an old friend. He knew he had to make a point of returning here more often than was his habit.
Murtagh did not seem so at peace. His shoulders were tight and his gaze unsure, on the defensive, ready to bolt. Eragon took a breath, and tried to let the Elder Dragons take over.
"Greetings, Elders," Eragon said for the second time that day.
"I've brought my brother, as you requested."
Hello, Murtagh Selenasson, hello Thorn Redscales, Umaroth hummed, It has been long since you have come to share thought with us.
The old dragon's voice was gentle but chiding, and Murtagh looked at the ground, not bothering to offer an excuse.
"Yes, Umaroth-Elder," He admitted.
Hmmm, I sense unrest in your heart, Dila'ah murmured, You are heavy with care, though you are surrounded by friends and given worthy work.
Again, Murtagh didn't seem to have a response for this.
The dragons had a way of saying exactly what they saw, and it could be pretty exposing. Eragon empathized with his brother; he knew what it felt like to be so seen. It could be freeing, but also terribly uncomfortable.
Do you know why we have sought audience with you? Umaroth asked, Murtagh was quiet for a moment, his hands clasped behind his back
"M–my brother wanted me to see you."
And you understand why?
"He thinks I am a problem."
He thinks you have a problem, Glaedr corrected, And he is right. But he did not bring you here because of that. He brought you here because he loves you, and he sees you suffering.
Murtagh's grip tightened and his lips thinned. His walls were still up, and he did not want to hear what the dragons had to say.
You are accountable, Selenasson, not only for yourself, but for the pupils you teach, the order you represent, and, most especially, for the partner of your heart and mind, whom you have been mistreating terribly.
"I apologized for last night; it won't happen again," Murtagh defended sharply.
I do not speak of your wounding him last night–though that was a terrible deed, Glaedr said sternly,
I speak of the position you put him in when you choose to drown your pain in drink. You lose yourself, youngling, and you force your partner to choose between being overwhelmed by your intoxication through the connection you share, and severing himself from you entirely, leaving him alone. Tell me, is it your purpose, to force this choice upon him?
Murtagh's voice was very small when he answered.
"No."
Thorn, do you have something you'd like to say on this? Umaroth asked. Thorn shifted uneasily, but Murtagh looked his way, distressed, both wanting and dreading to hear the truth.
I wish to shelter you, when your pain feels like the whole sky hanging over you, Thorn said, melancholy in his tone, but you refuse to share the weight with me. You bury it deep in yourself, but you do not realize that you are burying it deep in me as well.
Your partner knows your hurts, even if you do not speak of them, Dila'ah put in, as Thorn hung his head, giving Murtagh a sad stare,
When you push them away, you force him to feel your pain without knowing its cause, and so he suffers alone.
Murtagh's chin trembled and he looked away, abashed.
"I didn't mean to do that," He whispered.
Eragon stared down at his hands, feeling intrusive, being here, watching this.
I know, Thorn answered, nudging him softly.
If you wish to stop hurting your partner, Umaroth said, you must face your past and your pain, and stop burying them.
Eragon saw the hunch in Murtagh's shoulders tighten.
The path to healing… The rolling tone of another Eldunari came in, ancient and overwhelming, …is not found in running away.
Murtagh swallowed through his hurt.
"I don't… I don't know how," He murmured, his voice cracking.
Then let us guide you, Umaroth encouraged, I, Umaroth, know the path of pain. I have had a hundred years to dwell on mine–to sit with my loss, and walk through the mire of my hurt. It is not until you face the shadows which plague you, that you will be able to find the light.
Eragon felt a wash of agreement from the other Eldunari–they, who had lost everything, from their dearest partners to their very bodies. They knew what it was to face a dark past.
Will you trust us to guide you where you cannot see? Glaedr asked, his voice low and solemn.
Eragon knew what it meant, that Glaedr was here helping his brother, helping the rider who had been used to kill his own rider, the dragon who'd ended his bodily life.
Murtagh sniffed, but Eragon saw a pleading look from Thorn, whose red eyes were misty.
"I–I'll try," Murtagh managed weakly.
If Umaroth had had a head, he might've nodded.
Eragon, Saphira, His voice filled their minds, This is a matter between Murtagh and his partner. You may return to your duties.
Eragon nodded, bowing, and feeling a little relieved. He hated to see Murtagh's struggling, and did not love the thought of wading through a sea of pain alongside his brother. He had his own pains that he tended to bury.
He wondered if Saphira had ever felt what Thorn did–that he was inadvertently shoving pain away from himself and onto her, burdening her with feelings that were not her own, with hurts that she had no explanation for.
He put a hand on her shoulder and felt her mental nudge as they turned from the Eldunari chamber, and he gave Murtagh one encouraging nod, before leaving him behind to face whatever it was the dragons had for him.