CW: Violence, post-trauma response

Murtagh slept through all that day and the next night, barely aware when someone came in and drew the curtains to keep the chambers dark.

When he blinked slowly awake the first thing he saw was Thorn's great snout resting on the bed near his head, warm breath rustling Murtagh's hair. Despite himself, Murtagh smiled softly.

He placed a hand on Thorn's nose, and the dragon blinked awake, but did not move. Thorn gave a little rumble in his throat that was both a greeting and a question.

Alright? Murtagh asked, and he blinked. Murtagh rubbed away sleep, and had to cough. His throat ached with thirst, but as soon as he sat up he found a mug of water waiting on the side table.

Demelza, He thought gratefully, wincing as he downed the water and vague impressions of the previous day came back to him. His whole body ached, and his head felt heavy, but the long sleep had done him good.

Still, though, he stank of vomit and dried sweat, and his hair hung in strings against his forehead. He pushed himself to rise as Thorn watched him, his head resting on the bed while the rest of his body sat on the floor. The dragon had foregone his usual sleeping cushion to be closer to Murtagh, and his talons had scratched the floor in the process, but Murtagh didn't care.

He was just thinking of how much he needed to wash, when he saw that the gilded tub was filled with water, and fresh towels were laid out.

Demelza, He thought again, knowing he owed the woman both a deep apology and a deep thanks.

He re-heated the water with a spell, removed his clothes, and slid into it, breathing in the steam as it rolled off the surface, and trying to get his muscles to unclench.

Reluctantly he asked Thorn to relay to him what he'd said and done the previous morning, as it was still foggy. Thorn gave him the images in his mind, but tried to quickly skirt over the part where Murtagh had thrown a glass pitcher at his eye.

"I'm sorry," Murtagh murmured, leaning against his hands in the warm water.

I am unharmed, Thorn assured him, nudging his snout close. There was a questioning in his thought, though, a curiosity, a need to know.

"I can't talk about it," Murtagh whispered, watching the soap suds swirl, "I'm sorry, I just…"

He trailed off, feeling a heat rising in his throat again. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push the memory away.

He'd shoved Murtagh down on the table, his hand groping…

It is alright, Thorn assured, dragging Murtagh away from the precipice of thought. I am here. You are safe.

It didn't feel like it, but the uncontrollable panic seemed to have passed. Murtagh breathed in the steam of the warm bath. He was here. In his chambers. With Thorn. Safe. It was over.

The problem was, it never really felt over, when he knew the King could send him back at any time… force him to live it again… punish him over and over…

Friend-Demelza is bringing food, Thorn said, interrupting Murtagh's spiral. You must eat.

Now he was cleaned and rested, he realized he was famished. He hadn't eaten anything since–no–he wasn't thinking about that.

"Alright," He reluctantly rose from the water and dried himself off, dressing quickly and wringing out his still-wet hair. He couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted to immediately climb back in and scrub himself until he bled; he'd peel his skin off just to stop the cold shivers down his spine.

But he took a few deep breaths and forced himself to be calm.

When Demelza knocked he was buttoning his vest, and he stood when she entered, carrying a large tray full of food.

"Sir," She said with a curtsy, her eyes down, "Alright if I place it on the table?"

"Y–yes, sure," Murtagh stammered, standing awkwardly by the nightstand.

"How are you feeling this morning?" She asked quietly as she lay the tray down and poured steaming water into a teacup.

Murtagh cleared his throat.'

"Um… b–better, thank you."

Demelza merely nodded, her hands moving quickly as she laid out his food.

"Will you eat?" She asked.

"S–sure, yes. Thank you."

Murtagh started towards the table, but then stopped, thinking he might scare her if he got too close. Demelza seemed to notice his unsure movements. She looked up, and her eyes were steady.

Murtagh knew he had to speak first. She wouldn't bring it up–she would think it wasn't her place.

"Thorn tells me, I… behaved abominably yesterday," He managed, his eyes lowered, shame flushing his neck.

"I apologize. I…I hope you were not hurt."

There was a beat of silence. He'd allowed himself the small deception of letting her think that he did not remember. He wished he did not remember. It was foggy, but he knew well enough what he'd done, and could've kicked himself for it.

"I am well," She answered, "Thank you."

"It won't happen again," He promised, and she gave him a slight nod, as if to say–we'll see.

Murtagh felt a rush of anger at himself; he'd gone and hurt the one person in the whole bloody castle who treated him like a human being. Stupid. Idiot. Selfish coward.

"Food's hot–" Demelza's voice interrupted him as she smiled and stepped away from the little table, beginning to clean around the bathtub and fix up the bedsheets.

Murtagh walked over tentatively and ate, self-conscious with her still in the room but relishing the warm food in his aching stomach.

"Thorn, a tray's bein' brought up for you," Demelza said warmly as Thorn lumbered his way back to his usual cushion. If she noticed the scratch marks on the floor, she didn't say anything.

"They were late gettin' started with the butcherin' this morning, but I told 'em to make sure you got some venison–I know that's your favorite."

Mmmm thank you, Thorn said, it is.

Murtagh relayed his gratitude to Demelza, who smiled and gave Thorn a pat on his head–a habit which she'd gradually become comfortable with.

"Oh, sir, I nearly forgot–" She said suddenly, reaching into her apron pocket, "There's a summons for you, I believe…"

She handed Murtagh a small piece of parchment, and he felt his stomach drop.

A summons. To the King. What for? What else does he have planned? What other punishment?

He couldn't stop his hand shaking when he took the letter from her, and she noticed, her keen eyes watching his movements. He hurried to open the letter, just so he didn't lose his nerve.

Thankfully, it was a summons to the map room for a war council–there would be several lieutenants and generals there. It was unlikely, then, that he was being summoned for another "negotiation".

Murtagh let himself breath a bit, closing his eyes for a moment to reorder his scrambled thoughts.

"Is it the war, sir?" Demelza's soft voice asked, "Some of the other servants are sayin' the battle went ill."

Murtagh looked down at the letter, feeling her eyes on him. He knew what she meant–was it the war that had him so shaken? Was it the war that had him screaming and vomiting and beating himself in the head?

"No," He said in a low voice, "It isn't the war."

He met her gaze, which was inscrutable, but not cruel, and she nodded once. She did not ask more.

She turned away to pull fresh linens on the bed.

"Demelza," He said, before he could talk himself out of it.

"Yes, sir?"

"I… I can have you assigned somewhere else by this afternoon. Wherever you'd like. You'll have my full recommendation; I'll see you get whatever position you want."

He breathed heavily, fidgeting with the letter in his hand.

"I won't ask you to stay working for me after what I did."

When he raised his reluctant gaze to her, he saw in the simple servant girl a stoic beauty–a strength that had an elven quality to it; the set of her jaw and the curve of her brow could've matched the visage of a queen.

"That won't be necessary," She said after a long moment. Her mouth was set and her eyes unflinching, but somehow they were also soft and understanding.

"Besides," She said, her solemn expression breaking into a small smile, "Who else is gonna make sure Thorn gets his venison?"

She winked at the dragon, who hummed in his throat and swayed his head in agreement.

Despite himself, Murtagh smiled.

Murtagh steeled himself before entering the war council, fixing his expression into the deadened glare that was his usual display for anyone working alongside the King.

The reports were not good.

Having been surprisingly pushed back on the Burning Plains–due in no small part to Murtagh's betrayal and the nearly one-thousand soldiers who had been incapacitated by poison before the conflict even began–the bulk of the King's forces were now falling back to reinforce the cities that lay between Surda and Uru'baen.

Galbatorix would not risk another all-out attack on the Varden; he deemed it unnecessary, and chose instead to let the Varden fling themselves against the defenses of every city they passed, until they arrived to Uru'baen worn out and depleted of both resources and men.

Murtagh thought this cowardly, as it meant putting many more civilians' lives at risk, but he said nothing. The King was convinced Eragon would come to him, and he was content to wait. He would not go out himself–which would of course result in an immediate defeat for the Varden–but deemed that the work he was doing in Uru'baen was more important than waging war against Nasuada and her army. Again Murtagh wondered in fear what was so important to the King that he would allow the rebels to wreak havoc on the kingdom.

"—we've received a report from a spy within the Varden that leads us to believe that Shadeslayer is currently absent from the camp."

One of the military liaisons was giving a report–Murtagh recognized him from the Burning Plains, a secretary to General Errinmor or something. The man had given Murtagh a dark look when he'd entered, as though suspicious of the circumstances of his failure.

"Absent?" The King asked crisply, nothing moving but his dark eyes.

"We believe so, sir. There's a man, sir, by the name of Stronghammer–we believe him to be the same Stronghammer that the Ra'zac were sent to pursue up near the spine–he seems to be some relation to Shadeslayer."

Murtagh frowned. Relation? What did that mean? He kept his expression flat but his mind was racing.

"We know for certain that he is gone from the camp, and we have reason to believe Shadeslayer went with him."

"Went with him where?" Galbatorix asked, and Murtagh could sense an explosion just below the surface.

"...after the Ra'zac, sir. Apparently they killed his betrothed, or something of the sort."

The King's fingers rested on the map table, gazing with displeasure over his Kingdom like a man observing crops that wouldn't grow.

"Tell me… this… Stronghammer… is he a dragon rider?"

The secretary frowned.

"No, Your Majesty?"

"An elf?"

The man's eyes shifted to Murtagh, who gave him no hint.

"N–no, Your Majesty, he is human."

"Is he a–a great sorcerer? A shade?"

"No–"

"Then why in the name of bloody cursed Angvard is he STILL ALIVE?!"

The secretary flinched, his eyes blinking quickly as the King's shout rang in the room. Murtagh stayed very still.

"I sent the Ra'zac after this man months ago," The King snarled, "And you are telling me he managed to drag himself from that rat's nest they call village, all the way to the Burning Plains, where he reunited with his cousin and is now traipsing around MY kingdom as if he were mad King Palancar himself?!"

The liaison wisely said nothing, but Murtagh was reeling. Cousin? Eragon's cousin? If he was Eragon's cousin then…

…then he's my cousin too.

Suddenly he remembered the hammer-wielding madman who'd killed both the Twins. Stronghammer. Eragon had been ready to expend all his energy to get the man to safety.

His cousin.

Murtagh blinked, and vaguely heard the man on the other side of the map table speaking, his voice cowed.

"...seems to have brought the entire village with him."

Galbatorix let out a snarling shout and raked his hand through the air, and the poor man's neck snapped.

Muragh winced as the body crumpled to the floor and Galbatorix scowled down at the map table, seething. He had become much more volatile since the defeat on the Burning Plains. Despite the King's unwillingness to go out to battle himself, it seemed that the rebels were causing more trouble than he'd suspected, and his patience was thin.

"Murtagh," He said, and Murtagh straightened, ready for anything. "You and Thorn go to Dras Leona, see that the Ra'zac are still stationed in Helgrind and that nothing has befallen them. Intercept Eragon and his cousin and the dragon if you can. Bring them all here alive."

Murtagh swallowed, sick at the prospect of seeing those chittering, crawling things.

"Yes, sir."

The King scribbled a note on a piece of parchment and used his signet ring to seal it.

"Give this to the priests at Dras Leona so they will know I've sent you. The Ra'zac will meet with you. If they've had no news or sign of Eragon, I want you to wait three days, then set out in the direction of the Varden camp and see if you can intercept them."

The King's black eyes met him.

"You will have a chance to fix your mistake, and bring him back to me," He said coldly.

Murtagh nodded, already bracing himself for the pain of hurting his brother.

You gave him one chance, and you paid for it, He told himself, That's all he gets.

The King made him swear an oath–very clear, this time–that he would do anything within his power, short of dying, to capture Eragon and Saphira and bring them to Uru'baen.

Hope you're not as much of a fool as it sounds, Eragon, Murtagh thought as he left the map room, prepared to hunt his brother down.

The Ra'zac, as it turned out, were dead.

Murtagh stood at the entrance to a cave from which wafted the worst thing he had ever smelled. He was now inside the spire of Helgrind–a horrible blemish in the stretch of land outside Dras Leona which he had never wanted to see closer.

The priests were irate. The offerings they'd left–human slaves chained to a rock–had not been taken for several days. Something had happened to their beloved masters–the disgusting, slimy, otherworldly things that they worshiped by hacking off their limbs and shedding their blood.

"Avenge this evil," One of the priests had scowled at Murtagh; the man was missing an ear, a leg and an arm, and had a bald head and tiny pig-like eyes full of red fury.

"See that you hunt down the heretics who've committed this atrocity and shred them to the bone!"

Murtagh had said nothing, finding himself darkly gleeful at the fact that the beak-mouthed abominations were no more.

Now he stood at the entrance to their cavernous abode, cringing at the smell, the carcass of a massive leathery flying thing moldering nearby.

Thorn sniffed the air.

A place of evil, this, He said; then he eyed the dead creature. A mockery.

Murtagh shook his head.

"He's mad," He said, meaning Eragon. "And this… cousin of ours has got to be twice as mad."

Murtagh shook his head and kicked a stone across the floor, sending a zipping, echoing noise cascading down the darkened tunnels that stood open before him.

"Come on."

They spoke with the Chief Guardsman of Dras Leona, who had nothing useful to report, except that they had heard strange sounds coming from Helgrind two days previous and seen some kind of commotion up near the top of the spire. A group of horsemen had been sent out to investigate, but they'd found nothing, and the magicians among them sensed no living thing in the spire.

"Always somethin' dark going on there…" The man muttered, evidently not an acolyte of the priesthood of the Ra'zac.

"No one saw a dragon?"

"No, not a dragon–well–one fellow thought he saw one of them leathery beasts that the beak-men ride. But that's not uncommon."

The guardsman shivered, clearly disgusted. He was nervous and fidgety–though if that was his usual demeanor or if he was just terrified of Murtagh, it wasn't clear.

"Take me to the men who were on guard duty the last three nights," Murtagh demanded, and he soon stood before a half-awake collection of disheveled soldiers. They woke up quite quickly when he threatened to send them to search Helgrind for further clues, but they had nothing useful to share. No dragon sightings. Nothing out of the ordinary.

"If anyone sees or hears whispers about what happened at Helgrind two nights past, you report only to me. None of you say anything to anyone about what we've discussed here today. On penalty of death," Murtagh's eyes scanned the faces of the nervous soldiers. He gave them the deepest glare he could, trying to frighten them into submission.

"Sir, we are required to send daily reports to the King and Gove–"

"You report to no one, but me," Murtagh repeated with a growl. He did not want news of the Ra'zac's demise reaching Galbatorix before he had a chance to capture Eragon. If the King learned that he'd lost his deadliest servants…

The men in the room seemed cowed by Murtagh's show of fury, and they did not protest.

In the end Murtagh and Thorn decided to fan out from Helgrind in search of Saphira–not that he had any hope of catching up with them, but his oath bound him to do everything he could to try and find Eragon.

If you're still in the Kingdom, Eragon, you'd better get out quickly.

They set out as the sun was rising, both watching the horizon and the ground below for any sign that Saphira had gone by. Murtagh wondered why Eragon would agree to such a risk, just to help his cousin get revenge for a dead lover. More importantly, why would Nasuada agree to such a risk, after only just getting Eragon back from the elves?

All this and more Murtagh considered as he and Thorn criss-crossed the sky, working their way south of Helgrind and secretly hoping they found nothing.

They landed near an army outpost long after dark, when Thorn was sagging with exhaustion and unable to continue. They scared the daylights out of the soldiers there, before they'd recognized that it was not the blue dragon descending on them with a deathfire.

Murtagh demanded to see the captain of their barracks, and he was shown to a man who seemed much too young to have leadership of such a company. But Murtagh supposed that there had been severe losses on the Burning Plains, and he might've gotten a field promotion after the disaster.

"Apologies, my lord," The young man said, entering the room hastily, his cheeks still flushed and his boots muddy from riding, "We weren't aware y–that yourself and–and the dragon would be honoring us with your presence."

"His name is Thorn," Murtagh spat, "There's a fugitive on the loose, and we've been sent after him."

The man's eyebrows rose.

"Fugit–? Alright. Um, well, yes, how can we help?"

"Anyone suspicious you have in your prison?"

"Ah–no, sir. No one tonight. Usually we're pickin' up the odd deserter or a Varden spy, but… nobody today."

Murtagh tried not to look relieved.

"Well. We'll need to rest here tonight, and in the morning we'll be off again. You've got food and water?"

"Y–yes sir, of course."

"And meat enough for Thorn?"

The man went a little pale.

"Ah… well, I'm–I'm sure we could manage," He stammered.

"I'll have ale as well. Where's a bed?"

Murtagh was given the Captain's bunk, and took it without comment, opening the window so Thorn could stick his head in, though it was a tight squeeze.

He ate alone and slept fitfully, hoping to wake up in the morning and fly south and find nothing, hoping that Eragon and this cousin of theirs had gotten themselves out.

He was awakened in the morning by the urgent pounding of hooves, and had shot up and drawn Zar'roc before he was fully conscious.

He heard urgent voices and the nickering of a nearby horse.

A two-legs-round-ears has just arrived on a four-legs-tall-ears… Thorn said, The man has something important to say.

Murtagh pushed himself out through the garrison gates while the captain was still talking with the messenger.

"What is it?" He demanded, and the horse-rider blanched upon seeing him, saluting.

"At ease, what is it?" He asked again, impatient.

"Sir, report from within the Varden camp. The–the dragon, she's returned. Had two passengers–man named Stronghammer, and a woman; our spy thinks she belongs to him–his wife or something."

Murtagh felt a little twist in his gut.

"Two passengers?" He asked.

"Aye, sir."

"No sign of Shadeslayer?"

"No, sir."

The horse rider was panting as loudly as his horse, who was skittering away from where Thorn sat beside the garrison.

"My lord?" The captain asked as Murtagh thought.

Eragon hadn't returned to the Varden camp. But had he ever left? Of course. Saphira wouldn't have gone without him. But he didn't come back. He wasn't… he couldn't be…

"Did the spy hear what the two passengers had to say? Why wasn't Shadeslayer with his dragon?"

"Can't say, sir. Whatever the reason, it wasn't well-known in the camp. Our spy wasn't able to gain access to that information."

Murtagh frowned at the ground.

He can't be dead, He thought, and it was almost a plea.

If he were dead, I think Saphira would have flown to Uru'baen and torn it to pieces, claw and tooth, Thorn answered solemnly, No. Eragon-brother-Murtagh is alive. But he did not return from Helgrind.

Not on dragonback, anyway, Murtagh thought, looking at the man who panted, out of breath, and the skittish horse.

"Captain," Murtagh turned to the garrison leader, lowering his voice, aware of the guardsmen who stood on the wooden walls of the outpost, listening.

"The man I have been sent to seek is Eragon Shadeslayer, and I have reason to believe that he is somewhere between here and the Burning Plains, on foot."

The man's eyes widened.

"You will rally your men together, and tell them that we are going after a fugitive. You will not tell them who this fugitive is." He gave the young captain a look, and he seemed to understand. If the soldiers knew who they were hunting, they would lose their nerve.

"Send a fresh horse to the closest garrisons, and have them send out search parties as well. They'll be looking for a young man, thin, medium height, with brown hair; he'll have some elfish features, but he may be concealing them with magic. He'll have a blue ring on him, and most likely armor, though he could be hiding it. He'll be traveling alone."

Murtagh spoke calmly and quietly, meeting the man's frightened eyes.

"I do not need to tell you, Captain, that it will not fare well for those of us here, if Shadeslayer is allowed to escape after entering so brazenly into the King's territory. Do you understand?"

The Captain nodded, his eyes wide.

"Good. Fetch your fastest rider first, then see to a quick meal, and get your men on the road."

The countryside was awash with groups of traveling soldiers, all hunting for a young, sandy-haired man, traveling alone, with a blue ring and a set of armor. Murtagh felt torn, as he criss-crossed the sky on Thorn, receiving reports from the various captains, spreading the word between barracks.

On the one hand, he had to find Eragon, both because he'd sworn an oath and because he knew more punishment awaited him if he failed. On the other hand, he was rooting for Eragon to get away. Hang the Ra'zac, and hang Galbatorix and good for Eragon and his cousin and that girl for getting one over on them. But still Murtagh hunted, making sure the soldiers feared him and told him the truth.

He received a report that a band of soldiers was killed on one of the southern leading roads, but all signs pointed to Urgals being the culprit. Murtagh wasn't inclined to believe this interpretation of events, but by the time he reached the scene, it had been nearly a full day, and any trace of the attackers had been blown away by the crisp winds.

Three days after he'd arrived at Helgrind, when both he and Thorn were haggard and tired from their constant search and lack of sleep, Murtagh landed at the southernmost outpost–mere miles from the Varden camp.

A messenger had arrived that morning with news from the spies within the camp–Shadeslayer had returned safely to the Varden, on foot, in the company of the elf Arya Drottningu.

Murtagh felt a sickening clench in his chest. He had failed. Again.

He sat that night on the cot provided for him in the captain's private room, and he tried not to think about what would happen, when he returned to Uru'baen with the report that Galbatorix's best servants had been killed and Eragon escaped.

His fear and anger was followed, surprisingly, by a sort of manic laughter. Thorn pressed his thought towards him, wondering at Murtagh's sudden humor, as he sat leaning on his knees, too tired to lay down.

What is humorous?

Eragon, Murtagh said, shaking his head, aghast. The mad bastard. He really did it.

Thorn seemed concerned, but Murtagh found himself taken with a fit of laughter, giggling quietly like an insane man, utterly amazed that his brother had managed to infiltrate the lair of the most feared creatures in existence, kill them, rescue his cousin's fiance, and escape the Kingdom on foot while hundreds of soldiers and a dragon rider were hunting him down.

Mad bastard, Murtagh thought again.

He had learned that Eragon's cousin–his cousin–was called Roran Stronghammer, and had had a spark of recognition at the name. Eragon must have mentioned it when they'd traveled together so long ago.

He had realized, of course, that Eragon and Roran had not been after the Ra'zac for revenge at all; Eragon wouldn't have risked so much for that. They had gone into Helgrind for a rescue, and evidently they had been successful. Roran's wife, or betrothed or whoever she was… they'd snatched her from the jaws of death itself.

Murtagh wondered what it was like–to love someone so much you'd travel across the world and brave the heart of darkness for them. He felt a pang of jealousy, not only because he'd never known anything close to that kind of love, but also because no one had come after him when he'd been taken by a monster.

There will be consequences, Thorn thought ruefully, echoing his own warning from the Burning Plains. Murtagh's laughter died.

We did what we could, He said dully, and it was true. They'd fulfilled their oath–he really had been trying to find Eragon. He'd told his brother there would be no more mercy, no pass given, no quarter the next time they met, and it was true. But this time–this time Eragon had managed to outsmart him. And he still wasn't sure how he felt about it.

He stood before Galbatorix two days later, in the map room, with Thorn at his side. Two of the King's cartographers were busy at work laying out the latest troop reports, and a servant was cleaning up the King's dinner tray.

Murtagh stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his chin high.

"...he made it back to the Varden before we were able to apprehend him."

Galbatorix again leaned on the table, his eyes scanning the route Eragon had taken from Helgrind to the Burning Plains. His broad shoulders were hunched.

"Alone?" Galbatorix said, icily quiet.

"We believe at some point he was joined by the elf–Arya Drottningu."

Galbatorix' scowl deepened.

"And the Ra'zac? They were unable to take him captive? Hmm? Even after he sent his cousin off with the dragon?"

Murtagh breathed to steady himself.

"He killed the Ra'zac, sir. And their mounts. They're dead."

Galbatorix's face grew so hard it might've been carved from stone. Murtagh took a breath.

"It happ–"

Before the words could leave his mouth the King bellowed with rage, and swiped his hand through the air, spitting a word–instantly the two cartographers fell dead, their necks snapped grotesquely.

The two guards behind Murtagh started, but they had only a second to be afraid before the King unleashed his wrath upon them, too. The servant woman with the tray of food shrieked in terror, and Murtagh saw what was about to happen. He lunged towards her,

"Wait!"

But it was no use. The King flung her against the stone wall with a push of magic, cracking her skull.

"It wasn't–" Murtagh whirled around, but he found Galbatorix charging towards him, and then the King's great hand was around his neck, squeezing, crushing.

He felt himself shoved back onto the map table, his legs flailing as he tried to loose himself from the vice-like grasp.

He choked and gargled and saw spots dancing before his eyes–the King's face was close to his, heat from his fury radiating outward, his words spitting.

"If you somehow helped him escape…" The King snarled, his eyes white with rage.

Murtagh grunted and swung his arms, desperately trying to break free but prevented from attacking the King by his oaths. He felt every heartbeat in his chest as the blood in body seemed to slow; he heard Thorn growling behind him, he saw the beading sweat on the King's upper lip as he squeezed, all reason gone from his black eyes.

For a moment, Murtagh thought that perhaps Galbatorix really would kill him this time. Perhaps the King had lost control, perhaps his rage at the loss of the Ra'zac, the loss of Eragon, the loss on the Burning Plains, Murtagh's betrayal… perhaps it was all too much, and he had snapped, and this was it.

Murtagh's only thought as he twitched and struggled, and the corners of his vision turned gray, was that Thorn would be alone. He didn't care so much about death, except that it would mean leaving Thorn, and that he couldn't stand.

He clutched wildly at the King's iron hands, his eyes wide and helpless, straining to wheeze air through his throat.

"Please…" He rasped breathlessly, his feet scrabbling for a foothold on the stone floor.

Just before Murtagh lost consciousness, he heard Thorn roar with fury, a sound that reverberated in Murtagh's skull. Unable to attack the King directly, Thorn attacked the map table in front of him. He reared up with a deafening bellow and landed his two great red forelegs on the table, crushing the wood and knocking the flat surface out from under Murtagh so he dropped away from the King's grip.

Murtagh landed hard on the shattered table and gasped for air, coughing and wheezing as he rolled to his side, and the King turned his fury upon Thorn.

"You fail me!" The King bellowed, and unleashed his magic upon the dragon, who writhed in pain and fell back, shaking the floor as he landed. "I give you keys to the power of the universe and you fail me!"

Galbatorix' fury was a terror, his madness unleashed. Murtagh crawled over the rubble of the table, wheezing and reaching out a trembling hand.

"It's not his fault–" He stammered breathlessly, "Please–It's not–"

He had grabbed at Galbatorix's cape, trying to steer the King's wrath away from Thorn, but the King backhanded him with his heavily-ringed left fist, and Murtagh saw stars. He fell back onto the splintered wood as the side of his face began to throb.

"I give you strength beyond any! And yet you are not strong enough to best a mere child!" The King spat as Thorn twisted and howled in pain.

"I will just have to make you stronger," Galbatorix sneered.

Murtagh heard the spell leave his mouth, and now he understood what the words meant.

"No…" He panted, but his limbs were clumsy from a lack of air and he couldn't push himself from the floor. He felt the all-too-familiar stretching, aching sensation from Thorn–the painful wrenching in his bones that told Murtagh the King was growing him, forcing his limbs to lengthen, forcing his muscles to expand.

"St–please…" Murtagh gasped; he tried to move, but the splintered table shifted under him and he fell. He heard Thorn whining as the dragon curled onto the floor and the terrible spell did its work, expanding him like the stretching of a bellows.

Murtagh's breath came in rasps as he lay against the wooden pieces, and he reached out a weak hand towards Thorn, trying to lend his strength, trying to shelter him from the pain. But he was too dazed to even lift his own head, and he could not shield his partner.

When the King's wrath was spent and Thorn was nearly four feet larger than he had been when the day began, Galbatorix swept from the room and let the doors fall shut with a hollow thud, leaving Murtagh lying on the floor with five dead servants and his wounded dragon.

His eyes fluttered as the ceiling swam over his head. He was splayed out on the rubble of the map table, and he felt something wet dripping down the side of his face. He thought it was blood, but then he touched it and his hands came away black.

Ink. His foggy mind informed him. The ink bottles that the dead cartographers had been using.

He kept trying to get his limbs to move, but he couldn't seem to keep his concentration together for long enough to lift an arm.

Vaguely he was aware of the door opening, and the sound of shuffled footsteps.

"Sir?" A man's voice said, and a bald face appeared above him. "Ye conscious?" The man asked and Murtagh coughed again, his throat throbbing.

"Can ye sit up?"

He felt the man take his forearm and put a firm hand on his back, helping to lift him from the broken wood of the map table. Murtagh sat wheezing for a long second, sitting up but swaying like a drunk man.

"Shall I fetch a healer?" The bald man asked, unsure. Murtagh coughed again, and looked around to see Thorn on the other side of the ruined table, shaking his head as if he'd been stung, confusion swimming in his great red eyes.

Thorn? Are you okay? Murtagh asked, trying to crawl himself towards his dragon. Thorn blinked several times, and shifted his weight back and forth. He tried to stand but his limbs seemed to quiver, and he fell again, sending a great vibration through the floor.

"He alright?" The bald man asked above Murtagh, whose face and tunic were streaked with ink.

Thorn? Murtagh asked again, and Thorn raised his gaze to meet him. He let out a little whine, and Murtagh was reminded of the tiny dragon with the shackle around his neck, trapped in the box. Helpless.

"Help me–can–can you help me over to him?" Murtagh breathed to the bald man with the sword at his belt.

"Of course, sir," He hurried over and half-lifted Murtagh off the floor, helping him shuffle over to where Thorn lay heaving.

Murtagh's shaking hands felt sturdier once they had touched Thorn's scales.

"Alright?" He murmured, trying to lend the dragon some of his energy, though he had precious little to spare, as they had already returned their Eldunari to the hold.

After a few moments, Murtagh felt Thorn's panic subsiding, and the dragon's breaths began to come easier.

"What, uh… what happened?" The bald nobleman asked, peering around at the destroyed room, at the five dead bodies.

"What's your name?" Murtagh asked as he leaned on Thorn's neck, his legs bent beneath him.

"Lord Barrow, sir. I… was just about to come in and have a meeting with the King… suppose it's luck I wasn't here."

The man looked again at the dead servant woman.

"You shouldn't be helping us, Lord Barrow," Murtagh said darkly. He gave the man a significant look; he was sure he knew exactly what had happened.

Lord Barrow's lips thinned, and he lowered his gaze.

"Yes, well."

The nobles all knew of King Galbatorix's volatile explosions. Their reverence was far more from fear than from respect, and all were aware that death was only too real a possibility if they got on the King's bad side.

"...I've got a young lad and lass," Lord Barrow continued with straightened shoulders, "And I'd like to think someone'd help them when they needed it. Even if there was a risk."

Murtagh kept silent. He ducked his head, waiting for his breathing to return to normal and for his vision to stop blurring in and out.

"Here,"

Lord Barrow stepped gingerly to the table where the food tray had sat–carefully avoiding the dead woman on the ground next to it–and he poured a cup of water, handing it to Murtagh, who still had one arm on Thorn's neck.

He took the water with a shaking hand and drank it gratefully, wincing as he swallowed through the painful swelling in his throat. He would be able to heal himself eventually, but right now he hadn't the energy to spare.

"Thank you," Murtagh breathed, emptying the cup.

Thorn? He asked, patting the dragon's scales.

You alright?

Thorn whined, but he shifted his weight and began to stand. Murtagh sat up and let the dragon rise, shaking his head like a wet dog, twitching his wings as though to make sure they worked.

He made an uneasy grunting sound in his chest, and Lord Barrow took a few steps back.

I am myself, Thorn said, finally, his mind heavy with exhaustion and his muscles still aching from the forced growth.

Murtagh stood with the help of Lord Barrow and gripped one of Thorn's neck spikes tightly as the room swam around him.

"You gonna be alright to make it back to your quarters?" Barrow asked. Murtagh closed his eyes and breathed. He nodded.

"Aye. Thank you for your help."

"I'll go, uh… fetch one of the attendants, I suppose. Shouldn't leave the folk lyin'."

The man looked sadly around at the five dead people who lay strewn about the destroyed room. Murtagh squinted at him, surprised at the man; he hadn't met many noblemen who would mourn for servants.

"Thank you," Murtagh said again, and the man gave a stiff little bow.

He and Thorn shuffled slowly back through the winding passages of the citadel, picking the most remote path towards their chambers.

As the fearful pounding of his heart settled and he began to breathe again, a deep anger settled into Murtagh's bones.

Blast Eragon and his blasted revenge. Five people are dead because of him. Because he had to take his retribution on the Ra'zac. Couldn't have taken the girl and run; had to end it. Had to get his satisfaction.

And sure, Murtagh admitted that the Ra'zac would've likely been responsible for the deaths of many more than five people if Eragon hadn't killed them, but the anger felt right; it steadied him as he made his painful way back to his chambers. It felt good to have someone to blame.

Demelza was in the room when Murtagh pushed open the double doors to let Thorn through–he barely fit now, and his tail scraped clumsily along the door panel as he lumbered in.

Murtagh heard Demelza give a little gasp, first at Thorn's size, and then at the black ink on the side of Murtagh's face and the blotchy purple bruise forming around his neck.

"Sir… is everything…? What's happened?"

Thorn stumbled towards his cushion and sat down heavily, and Murtagh steadied himself on the bedpost.

"It's alright," he breathed, closing his eyes to keep the room from spinning.

"Here, sit, please." Demelza hurried to bring over one of the chairs, and put it behind Murtagh's legs. He sank onto it as another coughing fit fell upon him.

"Take a drink," Demelza said as he wheezed, his hand against the post. She offered a cup of water to him, and again he drank, though the swelling lump in his throat seemed to be growing and not shrinking.

"Did the other rider do this?" She asked, confused. Through his uneven breaths Murtagh gave her a look that discouraged questions, but she seemed to understand.

"Can you… could you heal yourself, sir?" She changed tack. Murtagh nodded hazily.

"Just… I just need a minute," He breathed.

Demelza sat on the edge of the bed, holding the half-full glass in one slender hand, her brow furrowed. She shook her head.

"He's going to kill you if he keeps this up," She murmured, a sorrowful anger biting in her voice. Murtagh's eyes shot to her, and he grabbed her wrist suddenly, his heart pounding in his ears.

"Don't you ever say anything like that again," He hissed, fear suddenly overwhelming his fatigue. "Never. Never speak of him, do you hear me? Don't ever."

His heart was hammering, already scared that she had sealed her doom–what if the King saw that memory in his mind? What if he saw what she had dared to say out loud? Her treasonous anger towards him? What if he killed her like he'd killed Aberfell? What if he made Murtagh do it?

Demelza's eyes were wide and her lip trembling, but she seemed to understand. She nodded once, slowly, and Murtagh released his tight grip on her wrist.

She rose stiffly and placed the water glass down. Then she took a towel and dipped it in the wash basin, coming over to Murtagh and sitting again on the edge of the bed, close enough to wipe the ink from his face.

"You'll need a wash–get this out of your hair," She said as she dabbed the cloth along his temple. He was too tired to take the cloth from her and do it himself, so he leaned his head against the bedpost and let her continue. The cool water felt good on his throbbing skin, and her hands were gentle.

"I suppose then… you didn't find the other rider?" She asked quietly.

"No," Murtagh breathed, "...he got away."

They were silent for a long moment.

"Demelza?" He panted, wincing as he touched the bruise around his neck.

"Yes?"

Murtagh let his hand fall, his eyes vacant.

"...he's my brother."