Content Warning: Violence, sexual assault, self-harm; just a generally distressing chapter, use your discretion 3

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: PUNISHMENTS

Murtagh stood stiffly in the throne room, sweat and dirt caked on his skin, his clothes coarse with dried blood and smoke residue, still standing only because he had stolen so much energy from the Eldunari.

He tried to control his breathing and the shaking in his legs, as Galbatorix ran a smooth hand along the blade of the red sword–his father's sword–Zar'roc. The king had swept into the room without words and said,

"Well?" Coldly waiting for Murtagh to explain the disappointing result of the battle on the Burning Plains, and the reason why he had not brought Eragon back with him. Murtagh had kept his voice flat and even, relaying the events as close to the truth as he could get them, without implicating himself.

The horror of it all was still so close: the noise and sweat, the screams, Eragon's terror and their deadly battle in the sky, when Thorn was almost killed. Murtagh hadn't counted on that affecting him so–he'd endured so much pain to himself and to Thorn that he thought he would be immune to it, but when Eragon had wounded Thorn with his insane sky-falling maneuver, Murtagh had almost gone to pieces.

Then, when Eragon had removed his helm it had almost happened again. Murtagh had armored himself against all feeling, trying to hack and kill his way through to nothingness–to a place where he could have no emotion. But the look on Eragon's face–the horrified, heartbroken look–that had almost ended his resolve, too.

When he told Eragon the truth–about their father, about the blood they shared–he had been sickened to see Eragon's own revulsion. Of course it was well and good to say one's parentage didn't matter when it wasn't your father who was one of the most hated men in all of history. But now Eragon had to hold that burden too, now Murtagh was not the only one.

His breaking point, he realized, had been Eragon's suggestion that he and Thorn allow themselves to be killed. It seemed cruel, at first, and Murtagh had recoiled from the thought. He was disgusted that, even after the revelation that they were brothers, Eragon would still suggest such a thing.

Of course Murtagh couldn't agree to it. Of course he would let no one harm Thorn. But as his anger at the idea washed past him, he'd arrived at an understanding: Eragon hadn't meant cruelty when he'd suggested it. He hadn't been trying to hurt Murtagh. It was just so obvious to him. It was the obvious choice, the only path.

In that moment Murtagh had come to understand that–had their places been reversed–Eragon and Saphira would have done just as they suggested–sacrificed themselves nobly in the name of the greater good. They would've given up their lives without a second thought. If it was Murtagh who was fighting for the Varden and they for the Empire, they would've laid down and accepted death at his hand, rather than be used by Galbatorix. The realization had forced back into Murtagh the feelings that he had tried so hard to push away and tamp down.

After that he had stood by, and he had watched a dirt-streaked, unarmored soldier crawl his way up an embankment towards the Twins, who were wreaking havoc on their former allies, and he had done exactly nothing. As he watched their killer approach, he'd thought with a grim satisfaction of the advice Galbatorix had given him after defeating Freckle Twin in the courtyard:

Never forget–your enemy may be before you and behind you.

The man had landed a hammer blow on both the Twin's skulls, and Murtagh had smiled.

That, he later realized, had been the last straw. Firstly, because Eragon clearly knew the hammer-wielding soldier. Murtagh wondered from where, and he wondered why Eragon had been willing to use the last of his strength to save the man, before Murtagh promised not to harm him.

Secondly, as Murtagh watched the Twins crumple in bloody heaps, he realized that he was free of them for good, and that when he went back to face the King's wrath–they would not be there to enjoy his punishment.

In the end, Thorn had been the one to suggest it. To suggest that they could just… walk away. They had fulfilled their oath, after all; they had certainly tried… they were not bound to take Eragon and Saphira back to the King. The oath fell short.

Murtagh had spent hours forcing himself not to feel, trying to convince himself that it didn't matter–that Eragon's blood on his hands wouldn't matter any more than Hrothgar's blood, any more than the blood of any nameless soldier, than the servants he had drained of life in the throne room, than the spy and his wife, than Aberfell. And so it had taken him a moment to even realize that the binding, restricting feeling of the oaths was not there. He could walk away. He was free, just this once… to choose.

They had made the decision together.

Murtagh had taken his father's sword from the frozen hands of his younger brother, and stood back, a dread in his stomach even then, knowing what he was about to bring down on himself.

Him and Thorn, that's what he'd said. All that mattered was him and Thorn. Nobody else.

But then he was actually looking Eragon in the face, and he was hearing the desperate pleas in his voice, and despite what the Elves had done to alter his appearance, he started to see himself. It had almost been too much, seeing the arch of his nose and the shape of his eyes and the way his lips turned down. It was all there. How could he have missed it? Eragon was his brother. His family. His blood. And to have that blood on his hands… that he couldn't bear.

So they left.

As they'd flown away from the fire-scorched earth, the eerie quiet after the battle had felt loud in Murtagh's ears, and the memories of the dying men echoed in his skull–the angry wails of the dwarves.

There will be consequences, Thorn said, as the plumes of smoke from the burning plains faded behind them.

Yeah, Murtagh breathed, heavy with exhaustion despite the power of the Eldunari, his whole body aching–covered in dirt and blood and sweat. He peered over the horizon line as the sun rose above the cloudbank and the yellow light of morning warmed his face.

You and me, Thorn had said, and this time it was a promise: Whatever was coming, they would face it together.

But they had misjudged the cruelty of the King.

Galbatorix now sat examining Zar'roc, the blade that had formerly belonged to his most faithful servant, and Murtagh could tell that under his calm demeanor was a volcano of rage ready to burst. He hoped to navigate the explosion, when it came.

"Tell me, Murtagh," The king said, his voice filling the empty room, but still somehow close and quiet, "How is it you have managed to retrieve the sword of our enemy… but not our enemy himself?"

Murtagh swallowed, feeling Thorn shift next to him.

"He was… able to maneuver himself out of capture," Murtagh answered. The words Murtagh spoke were true, technically.

"He is… more powerful than we anticipated, your majesty." This also was true–whatever the elves had done to him had made him stronger beyond what the king had estimated. Even with the Eldunari the fight had not been easy, as expected.

"More powerful…" The King mused, and he carefully sheathed Zar'roc, setting the sword upright by the arm of his throne.

Then he took a deep breath, and the room itself seemed to hold its breath as well.

"I trusted your father," Galbatorix said, and Murtagh swallowed, "And I gave him his freedom. He did as he wished, when he wished, because I knew that when I called… he would answer."

The King's dead stare pierced Murtagh, who tried to keep his trembling still. He felt Thorn's own unease.

"He earned his freedom through loyalty. Do you know what that is?"

Murtagh remained silent.

"I asked you a question, Murtagh."

"Yes, your majesty."

Galbatorix let silence stretch between them, and Murtagh could feel his own heart pounding, and Thorn's tendrils of nervous thought next to him.

"That… boy… is not powerful," Galbatorix said, his tone growing dark as he stood. "I am powerful. And because of me, you are powerful…"

Galbatorix's heavy steps came down towards the floor, and Murtagh fought the urge to turn and flee. What would come would come. They had accepted this. They'd known there would be punishment, when they'd chosen to let Eragon go.

"He is NOTHING!"

Murtagh flinched at the sudden shout, the voice echoing off the walls and taking the air from Murtagh's lungs.

Galbatorix was now close to him, standing mere feet away, his hands clasped behind his back.

"You're lying to me," Galbatorix said quietly. "And I take that as a show of disloyalty."

Murtagh's breath trembled, his eyes averted.

"I wish to give you freedom. Do you want freedom?"

Silence.

"I said, 'do you want freedom, Murtagh?'"

"Yes, your majesty," He whispered.

"Mmm."

The King turned back to his throne, and Murtagh let out his pent-up breath.

"Then we will have to learn our lesson again."

Murtagh felt his head snap back as a lance of energy shot between his eyes. He was on the ground and writhing, as tendrils of pain crawled their way down the base of his skull into every vein in his body.

He was vaguely aware of Thorn's impotent growls, and of the scream that tore from his throat, but his vision had turned a hazy red and his body seized, shaking on the floor of the throne room as hot pain took over his senses.

It seemed to last for hours, and he heard the king's voice, both over him and inside his head, rumbling like thunder. He tried to retreat to a hollow in his mind where he had found refuge before, but even that was filled with fire, and he found no safe place.

He sat in the agony, and waited for it to end.

When the world finally came back to him, he was lying on the floor of a dark cell, shackled, as in the early days of his imprisonment. He tasted blood in his mouth, and felt hot prickles of pain along his skin.

He took ragged breaths and tried to still the hammering of his heart, feeling a tiny piece of relief as the knife to his mind retreated, and he was left alone in the cold darkness.

"Thorn?" He managed, his voice hoarse from the screaming. He looked around, and reached out tentatively with his mind, trying to find Thorn.

"Thorn?" He said again, a bit louder. Then he heard a shifting in the darkness of the cell, and his eyes snapped to the corner.

"Th… Thorn?" He whispered now, as a massive shape moved its weight in the darkness. Murtagh swallowed, trying to scoot forward with his shackled ankles, wondering how the king had harmed Thorn, and terrified to see.

"Th–"

Suddenly there was a low growl that shook Murtagh's teeth, and he saw Thorn's red snout emerge from the darkness. Murtagh froze, his hand halfway-lifted, when he saw Thorn's eyes, which were dark and full of rage. Rage at him.

"Thorn?" He murmured, feeling a clench of fear in his gut as the dragon's head crept towards him. Murtagh tried to reach out with his mind, but he came against a swirl of nothing–a blockade, against him. Thorn had shut him out.

Murtagh shifted onto his hands as Thorn continued to creep forward.

"Wh–what are you doing?" He muttered, shuffling back towards the corner.

"Thorn, stop it. Stop it."

The low growl shook Murtagh's bones.

"Stop. It's me. It's me, Thorn, it's Murtagh."

His voice rose in pitch as the head of the furious dragon came closer and Murtagh saw the glint of fire in his throat.

"Wait–wait–Thorn–"

Then the dragon lunged, and Murtagh screamed as he felt the icy puncture of teeth digging into his side. He scrabbled for the bars of the cell as Thorn's massive jaws closed around him and hot blood began to spill down his ribcage.

"Help!" He screamed as the dragon pulled him towards the darkness of the cage. The pain was unbearable, each beat of his heart sending blood pulsing towards the gaping wounds in his side.

"Help!"

Then Thorn lifted his body in his great jaws and threw him across the cell, sending him flying into the wall where he crumpled, breathless and shaking.

The dragon gave an ear-splitting roar as Murtagh wheezed, feeling the life drain from him. He raised one trembling hand to try and ward off the dragon's attack, and when he looked up into the eyes of his partner and friend, he saw only a wild hatred.

"Please…" Murtagh choked through the blood in his mouth.

You are the cause of my suffering, Thorn's voice rumbled in his head, scorching like a blast of fire. Die now.

Murtagh saw Thorn's jaw open, and the swirl of red fire rushed towards him, and he felt the searing pain of burning flesh…

…Then he was in the woods, and he was running. Something was following him, the branches smacked his face and he tripped over the roots. A great roar shook the ground beneath him, and suddenly he felt heat on his back, and the world was alight with fire.

He ran into a clearing and found the conflagration growing; he spun in all directions, trying to find a path through the flames, but he was surrounded. Then there was a great blast of air, and a red dragon landed in front of him, his shoulders hunched and his jaw parted, a roar rippling from his chest.

Murtagh stumbled back and fell, crawling back on his hands as the dragon stomped closer, his red eyes empty of anything but hate.

"Please, please…" Murtagh begged, gasping for breath amidst the heat and flames. "Thorn! I'm sorry! Please!"

I know you not, The dragon said, and he pounced.

Again and again, Murtagh fled from the fury of the red dragon, and again it was hopeless. Thorn's claws tore at his flesh, his jaw broke bones, his fire seared Murtagh's skin, his roar shook Murtagh's skull. No matter the pleading or desperation, Thorn's hatred was complete. Murtagh had been the cause of his pain, and he would see that pain returned.

Once, he found himself back on the Burning Plains, and Thorn turned against him, dropping him from the sky while Eragon laughed. Then he was in the dark tunnels under Farthen Dur, and Thorn came out of the shadows, crushing Murtagh's chest with his feet until he felt his sternum crack. Then he was a child in the garden of his father's estate, and a great red dragon dropped from the sky, setting the plants ablaze and burning Murtagh alive.

Time seemed to stop, and all thought of reason left him. Somewhere in the deep recesses of his mind he knew this was not real–he knew the King was weaving his webs, punishing him for his betrayal–but the pain was all too real, and the terror, and the sight of the one person in the world whom he loved, full of only hatred for him.

After what might have been years of agony, cycling through every one of Murtagh's deepest nightmares, he finally, and suddenly, gasped awake on the floor of his chambers, shaking and crawling away from the most recent vision–which had Thorn pinning him underwater until he drowned.

Murtagh moaned as he crawled towards the bedpost, every limb trembling, his skin feeling raw, his breath coming in uneven gasps. Then he felt a soft mental nudge.

Murtagh?

He twisted over and saw a red dragon's head, feet from him.

Murtagh screamed and scrambled back, falling to his elbows and curling up, waiting for the killing blow to come again.

It is me, Murtagh. I am myself.

Murtagh shook and trembled, wincing as he waited to feel the sharp puncture of teeth.

Murtagh… The voice repeated, and Murtagh tried to breathe. He risked a glance up, and saw the dragon's head–Thorn's head–still hovering by the bed post. His eyes blinked; the eyes; they were not full of hate, but of concern and sadness.

…you are not in a dream, Thorn assured, And you need fear no harm from me, my partner.

Murtagh blinked, trying to clear the cacophony of horrors from his head. He felt the ground beneath him. Was this real? The dirt-caked clothes that hung from him. Real? The sweat on his face and the pounding of his heart. Real? And Thorn's gentle gaze. Real?

"Th-Thorn?" He managed, shakily.

Mmmm, Thorn agreed, lowering his head to the floor and keeping his distance. It is me.

Murtagh's chin trembled, his heart only now slowing as he ran a hand through his dirt-caked hair and tried to blink the confusion from his mind.

Galbatorix's punishment had been perfectly cruel, as always, his torture reaching into every crack and hollow in Murtagh's mind. Murtagh sat against the bed, shaking and trying to sit up straight, while Thorn waited, ever-patient, for him to come back to himself.

"I'm s–I'm sorry," Murtagh managed, holding his arms tight around his stomach like his body might dissolve if he didn't keep it together.

I do not accept your apology, for you have nothing you need to be sorry for, Thorn said firmly, scooting a little closer.

I am sorry; that I could not shelter you.

Murtagh sensed his meaning–Thorn had been punished as well.

Finally, after a few trembling moments, Murtagh allowed Thorn to bring his head close, and he held on tightly, feeling the scales under his hands and the familiar ridges over his eyes.

This was his partner and friend, the bond of his heart. This was whom he knew. Not the monster in the dark with hate in his eyes.

Murtagh felt the weight of Thorn's head on his shoulder as a comfort, keeping him anchored in the horror of the world. He took shaking, uneven breaths, until his heart was able to slow and he stopped flinching at Thorn's every breath.

They had done it. They had let Eragon go.

But Galbatorix's punishment did not end there. The loss had been too great, the betrayal too much for the proud king to let it go that easily. Murtagh sensed this, and he squared himself for more suffering, more cruelty, clinging to Thorn's consciousness like the only scrap of driftwood on a stormy sea. They would endure. What was done was done. They'd made their choice and had to live with the consequences.

When he was called to the king's dining hall two days later, after cleaning the grime of war from his skin and healing his wounds, he knew it would not be for any commendation.

I am with you, Thorn assured as Murtagh left their chambers, Zar'roc strapped on his belt, after Galbatorix had seen it returned to him. It seemed the King had consented to allow him to carry his father's sword, though it now felt bitter to hold.

"Ah, Murtagh," Galbatorix said, beckoning to him from the head of a well-set table for two. The current concubine he was favoring–a woman of middling age with a proud brow–sat at his side in fine jewels and a flowing dress, looking as though she considered herself equal to a queen in that moment.

"I trust you've recovered from the battle?" The King questioned, as though he hadn't caused Murtagh suffering and torment worse than any battle.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good. I have an assignment for you."

Murtagh breathed deeply, waiting to learn whom he would have to kill, what city he would be called upon to terrorize, what soldiers to execute. Now that the Varden had learned of Thorn's existence, Galbatorix would be free to unleash him on whoever he wished.

"Deputy Governor Falcry from Dras Leona has just moved to the city to act as liaison on behalf of the Head Governor. I need him to send half the soldiers in his city to Belatona, to add to its defenses before the Varden reach it."

Murtagh nodded, shifting his grip on Zar'roc.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"I'd like you to go to him tonight and… strike a deal with him."

Murtagh felt his mouth grow dry.

"Y-yes your majesty, what… can I offer the Lord Deputy Governor in exchange?"

Galbatorix met his gaze with a cold, empty humor.

"I'm sure you'll think of something."

Murtagh shifted, his heart pounding, his palms hot.

A terrible silence followed.

"M–my lord–"

"I think I've made myself quite clear, Murtagh," Galbatorix said lazily, "Simply swear… that you will give the Deputy Governor whatever he wants."

Murtagh was silent, breathing through his nose tightly.

No. No, no, no. Not again. Please.

"Murtagh…" Galbatorix said again, his voice darkening.

"Y-your majesty. I'm sure I can convince–"
"I've asked you to make me an oath, Murtagh."

"Please, Your Majesty," Murtagh blurted out, his voice cracking, bile rising in his throat, "Please. If you would just–just allow me to–"

"Oh, don't beg, Murtagh, it's unbecoming," Galbatorix said with a lazy flick of his wrist. "Give me your oath, and you are dismissed. Go on."

Murtagh swallowed down sickness, his whole body shaking. He met the eyes of the concubine woman who sat at Galbatorix's side, her cool gaze seeming to say,

Think you're better than me, do you?

Murtagh's chest rose shakily, his mind fighting against him, unable to think, unable to speak. He knew Galbatorix would invoke his Name, he knew it was inevitable, he knew it would hurt more if he fought it, but he was too terrified. He had thought this was over. It had been so long since…

The King's hand rested on the table, a silent threat, ready to strike. Murtagh's gut clenched and he felt like if he opened his mouth he might vomit, but he took a shuddering breath and spoke in the Ancient Language,

"I swear… I will give Deputy Governor Falcry… whatever he wants," He managed, and Galbatorix leaned back.

"Good. Report to me in the morning," He said, turning back to his food. "You are dismissed."

Murtagh spun and hurried out of the room, struggling to breath and feeling the panic clench around his throat. His mind raced as he stormed past the King's guards and back down the twisting passageways.

He was frantic, trying to think of a way out. There was a chance the governor would ask for something else, something he could give. There was a chance he would accept land, or gold, or influence, or a favor in the future… but Galbatorix knew his nobles, and if he was sending Murtagh to this man as punishment then a punishment it would be.

Murtagh stopped short in a dark stone hallway, his hand on the wall for support, holding his chest and gasping for air.

He couldn't, he couldn't, he couldn't… but he had to.

He shivered, remembering the cold touches of Lady Calthwaite, her malicious smile, the sickness in his chest. He had to get out. Had to disappear. But he couldn't.

He was trapped, and the King knew it.

He woke from a daze in the middle of a narrow street, his right hand holding the reins of a horse, his feet unsteady on the paving stones. Murtagh squinted into the bright light of a nearby lantern, which reflected its flame in the rain-soaked street. How had he gotten here? Where was he? What time was it?

He looked down at the reins in his hands, and the horse nudged its wet nose against his shoulder. He frowned. Then he felt sick, and he stumbled over to the gutter and vomited on his knees, the horse following dutifully behind.

Murtagh dry heaved several times, and tried to blink away the memory of the last few hours–of his mission for the King.

It was over now, but his body wouldn't stop shaking, and he hurt.

He had arrived at the mansion of Deputy Governor Falcry as evening fell, after dropping Zar'roc in his chambers and changing clothes, refusing to answer Thorn's concerned questioning. He'd shut his partner out of his mind completely, unable to bear the thought of subjecting him to what he was about to go through.

He had been half-drunk already, by the time the Deputy Governor had poured wine and begun the meal. The man was of middle age, fit, with fine gray hair and a dazzling smile, clearly used to power and luxury.

He spoke loudly and easily, carrying the conversation throughout the meal while Murtagh had tried to find a way out of his obligation, desperately hoping the man could be convinced to accept some bribe.

But when Murtagh had finally broached the subject of the King's demand, it quickly became clear that he was not really there to strike a deal with the man. The deal had already been struck–between Falcry and the King.

Murtagh was not the negotiator; he was the payment.

When the pain had started, Murtagh lashed out with his mind, reaching for Thorn in a desperate attempt to escape his body, which was pressed against the table where they had dined. But he had already shut Thorn out, and his dragon was now too far away to help.

Every instinct had told him to pick up one of the knives on the table and stab the man, to utter a single word that would end his life, to summon all the magic at his disposal and destroy him utterly. But his oath was a chain around his neck:

I swear to give Governor Falcry whatever he wants.

The side of his face had been pressed against the table cloth, and he'd stared vacantly at the curved reflection of a gold candlestick, wishing more than anything in that moment that he could snuff himself out and cease existing.

And then it was over.

He'd felt the man's hot breath on the back of his neck, inhaling as if he could drink in Murtagh's fear, and then a voice floated coldly over him saying,

"Tell the King he'll have his troops."

And it was quiet.

After that everything was a hazy blur, until he'd blinked awake suddenly in the wet street, disheveled, holding the reins of a horse he wasn't riding.

Now Murtagh knelt hunched over the gutter, heaving, still feeling the man's cold hand running under his tunic, passing over his scar, gripping vice-like onto the back of his neck.

Eventually Murtagh stumbled the rest of the way towards the citadel, still dazed, every step painful, and he let go of the horse's reins when he'd reached the stable yard, not even waiting to see that an attendant came to receive the animal.

He'd pushed into the darkness of his chambers, ignoring Thorn's nudges and worryings. Then he'd curled up on the bed with his clothes and boots still on, closing off his mind, shivering, and trying to forget.

When morning came he forced himself to rise before the sun–having slept not even a little–and he refused to say a word to Thorn, unable to stomach the thought of opening his mind to his partner.

He'd belted Zar'roc on and changed his clothes, throwing his old pair to the floor, pointing at them with his palm and saying,

"Brisingr," And watching until they burned themselves away.

Thorn whined in the corner, but he ignored him, and went to find the King.

He was admitted into the treasury, where Galbatorix leaned over a map with one of his lieutenants.

Murtagh stood at attention.

"Yes, Murtagh? What is it?"

"Deputy Governor Falcry will recommend that the troops be sent to Belatona."

He was surprised his voice worked, surprised it came out so calm, so normal. Inside he was still spinning.

The King looked at him distantly for a moment, frowning.

"Oh! Oh yes. Well, we've actually decided to use Dras Leona as our holding point, and let Belatona make its own defense, so. We won't need the Deputy Governor's help after all."

Murtagh met the King's gaze, which was dancing with malicious amusement. He felt the room spinning.

"Well done, though. I knew I could rely on you. That'll be all for today."

The man leaning over the map with Galbatorix was looking at Murtagh expectantly, waiting for a response.

Murtagh's ears were ringing. He had no breath. He said nothing.

He turned, and stormed out of the room silently, passing a pair of surprised guards.

Murtagh marched to the kitchens, then, and demanded three bottles of ale, and that more be brought to his chambers. He couldn't shake the ringing in his ears the whole time, and he might've been shouting at the kitchen servants, he wasn't sure.

He burst into his chambers with two bottles already finished, and stumbled over to the night stand, angrily pulling off his gloves and undoing Zar'roc from his belt. Thorn's head lifted.

Murtagh?

"Leave me alone," Murtagh muttered, splashing his face with cool water from the wash basin, his mind addled with drink, but not addled enough.

You are hurt, Thorn thought with a growl, shifting, What has happened?

"I don't want to talk to you," Murtagh slurred, keeping his thoughts from Thorn as he desperately scrubbed at his hands, as if cleaning them could rid him of the sick, twisting feeling in his gut.

Let me help you, Thorn's voice echoed deeply, Murtagh, please, do not shut me out.

Murtagh said nothing, and Thorn pressed his consciousness in, full of concern.

Murtagh whirled and grabbed the washbasin pitcher.

"I said leave me alone!" He shrieked, throwing the vase, which hit Thorn in the side of the face and shattered.

Thorn recoiled with a whine, and Murtagh heaved for breath, feeling a wave of panic flush his skin as he stood swaying. He immediately felt sorry, sensing Thorn's hurt, though the vase itself had done no real damage.

He struggled for air.

"I'm sorry…" He groaned, backing away, stumbling over his feet, sinking to the floor between the bed and the nightstand, unable to control his shaking.

He heard a soft knock on the door, but it didn't register in his mind, as he held to the edge of the nightstand and tried to find breath.

A groan escaped him, and his whole body clenched, and he felt like he might retch again, and he heard Thorn whimper in the background, and then he smacked himself in the head, once, hard. And that jolted him out of it. So he did it again.

First one had, then the other, pounding against his forehead, with the heel of his palm, trying to beat himself into unconsciousness to stop this horrible, sick feeling. A whine grew in his throat like a tea kettle rising in pitch, and over and over he hit himself, hoping to drown out the feeling of the hot breath on the back of his neck, the hand running up his shirt.

Suddenly someone was grabbing his wrists,

"My lord, no," A woman's voice said, "My lord, please stop, please,"

He was still trying to hit himself, but she was holding him back, kneeling over him, her thin hands gripping his wrists tightly.

Murtagh gasped for breath, his vision blurring with tears, but through it he saw Demelza's worried face, framed by her red curls, sitting before him.

"My lord…"

"I ca—I ca–I can't breathe," He gasped, feeling like he was having a seizing fit, but fully conscious.

"Through your nose," Her voice came through foggily, "Slowly now, just through nose, out the mouth."

Murtagh wheezed–an awful, rattling sound.

"It's alright, it's alright, one breath through your nose now."

He forced air into his nostrils.

"And out again, count to four, come on… one… two…three…four…"

Murtagh shuddered, but the breath came..

"In again, one…two…three…"

He followed the gentle path of Demelza's lilting voice, her hands still holding his wrists away from his face. In and out he breathed, his cheeks stained with tears, each breath shuddering, until finally he was back to himself and the room no longer swam around him.

He swallowed, still feeling sick.

"Shall I fetch a healer, sir?" Demelza asked urgently.

"No, no," He groaned, "Please don't–can't–please–"

"Alright, alright, I won't. Let's just sit. It's alright. Thorn's here, aren't you Thorn?" She looked over her shoulder at the dragon, who shifted on his front paws, agitated and unsure.

"Right, see? We're alright."

Murtagh caught his breath, drenched in sweat, his clothes disheveled, Demelza kneeling before him calmly, anchoring him to the world.

He looked at her kind, calm face, her eyes full of understanding, a flickering light at the center of his darkness. He wanted to reach out to the light, to get closer, to touch it, to feel its warmth, to feel anything but what he was feeling now.

He leaned forward on the floor, and he kissed her, pressing her back with the force of his need, feeling her stiffen beneath him. He pushed her until she was on her back and his hands were on either side of her head, and still he was kissing her and it felt so good to be in control, and to want her, and to just be filled with something besides pain.

He breathed her in and leaned in closer, trying to lose himself in her, even as she lay beneath him utterly still, frozen.

But barely a second had gone by when a great growl rang in his skull, and Thorn's voice said,

NO.

And the force of his command pushed Murtagh off Demelza and he fell back against the bedside, once again gasping for air.

You made her a PROMISE, Murtagh, Thorn shouted in his head, fury giving power to his words, You know she does not want this. You know she has a betrothed. You gave her your word.

Murtagh held onto the bed, shivering, blinking away his delirium, immediately ashamed of what he had almost done.

"I'm–I'm s–I'm sorry," He gasped, as Demelza shuffled away from him on the floor.

For a moment their eyes met, both terrified and unsure, and Murtagh wanted to beg her forgiveness, but in that instant, the drink overwhelmed him, and he threw up.

Then they sat for a long minute, as Murtagh caught his breath, drool and sick dribbling down the front of his tunic, his head fallen against the bed, unable to rise from where he'd collapsed. Demelza sat, holding onto the end bedpost, calming her own breaths, her eyes closed.

"Y–you can go," Murtagh murmured, "Go–go on, you're dismissed…" He waved a weak hand towards the door. But Demelza sat there collecting herself for a moment more, holding onto the wooden post for support, a determined look settling on her features.

"That won't be necessary," She said evenly, and she pulled herself to standing.

"Come now, sir, let's get you back to bed," She said, and she walked over to Murtagh and pulled him up by the arms, sitting him on the bed as she pulled up the fabric of his tunic.

He allowed her to remove the soiled shirt over his head, and to fetch him a clean one and put it on, dressing him like a child. He didn't know what to say–he was afraid of speaking in case he threw up again, but Demelza worked quickly and silently. She removed his boots and moved Zar'roc out of the way and rolled down the blankets, and she helped him lift his weak legs and slide them onto the bed.

Then she pulled the blanket over him as he felt his vision growing hazy and gray.

"Alright, then," She said, "Thorn, you'll look after him 'til he wakes?" She asked, turning to the dragon, who nodded and hung his head close.

Murtagh's breaths were getting heavier, his stupor sliding into sleep only because his body couldn't stay awake any longer. Demelza dabbed his forehead with cool water from the basin, and said,

"I'll be back to check on you, just get some rest."

He was too weak to murmur another apology, and he fell into oblivion.