CHAPTER TWENTY: ECHOES
CW: Violence, distressing situations
Murtagh paced his chambers, restless and uneasy. It was evening on the day after he'd brought Nasuada back, and he'd spent most of the day in fitful sleep, after being awake for nearly forty hours straight.
Now he waited for the King to summon him, torn between the desire to be close to Nasuada–to keep an eye on her and protect her–and the knowledge that what he was about to do to her would be unforgivable.
Galbatorix had made it clear that Murtagh would be participating in her "persuasion", as he called it.
"You said she could be broken–let's see how long it takes you."
His stomach was clenching and unclenching like a sickly beating heart. He couldn't stand still. He wanted to see her and yet he knew his presence would only hurt her.
She'd been taken to the Hall of Soothsayer, strapped down to the same stone block where Murtagh had suffered, and made to wait while Galbatorix tended to other, trivial affairs. He was doing it on purpose–letting her stew in her own fear.
She was probably scared, and probably trying not to show it. She was alone, and tied down, and helpless, and probably cold and uncomfortable. The King had refused Murtagh's suggestion that they get her some real clothes, and left her in the torn sleeping shift she was wearing when he'd snatched her at the camp.
"She will receive all the comforts she could ask for once she swears her oaths," Galbatorix said coolly.
We have done what we could for her, Thorn offered, If she were not in that cell right now, she would be dead. Is that what you would prefer?
No! Murtagh ran a hand through his hair.
When he was finally summoned, though, he focused on once again making his heart like a block of granite–jagged and cold and unfeeling. He had to get through this. He had to help her get through this.
For what? A little voice in his head said, What's the point? She's soon to be enslaved, like you. You've doomed her, because you couldn't bear to let her die with her honor. Selfish.
If the King sensed the depths of Murtagh's feeling for the Varden leader, he didn't let on, and Murtagh intended to keep it from him as long as possible. The King would be certain to hurt Nasuada worse, if he knew that Murtagh cared for her. He would use him against her, and he couldn't have that.
When he entered the Hall of the Soothsayer behind Galbatorix, Murtagh had a visceral reaction to the place–he felt a buzzing in his head and his skin was crawling as he stepped down the small staircase.
He was immediately transported back to the torments he'd endured in this room–the icy water, the metal rods, the seizures, the bugs eating his insides–and the moment his life ended. He dug his fingernails into his palm to keep from throwing up.
He knew where Nasuada lay, but he didn't dare look at her. If he looked at her, he'd lose his nerve. So he turned instead to the brazier where metal rods sat heating–this would be his task, to do to her what had been done to him, what he had been forced to do to himself. He would hurt her, in order to save her. That had been his decision. Choosing to see her in pain, or choosing to see her dead. It was no contest.
He stood with his back to her, knowing it was cowardly, but unable to face her, and waited as the King spoke with her in his horribly calm voice, giving her much the same speech as he had given Murtagh, before he'd tortured him nearly to death.
He listened, and he waited for the King to give him the order. When Galbatorix told Nasuada that she and Eragon would join Murtagh in his slavery, he almost lost control of himself, and shoved a piece of iron so hard it hit the other side of the brazier with an echo.
Then Galbatorix, in his cruelty, made him speak, forced him to turn to her, forced him to see her in that state.
His voice was dull, and empty, as he answered the King's snide promptings. He couldn't look at her.
He had decided, though, that he would not obey–not until Galbatorix forced him to, invoked The Word. He would show Nasuada that he did not want this. He would show her that he had tried. It wouldn't matter–she'd hate him anyway, as she should–but he had to cling to the knowledge that he'd not hurt her willingly.
It was worse than he anticipated. He'd forgotten to prepare himself for her screams. Had he sounded like that as the King tormented him? Had his voice ceased to be human and his words unintelligible? Had he begged and cried as she?
He felt no disdain for her, as she prayed to her people's gods and pleaded for mercy. He understood. His respect for her strength only grew, as hour after hour she endured the torture, and refused to submit.
His nerves were frayed and his teeth set on edge, listening to her pain again and again, moving stiffly as he brought the hot iron down on her skin. Minutes started to blend together, and his thought drifted, and he wasn't quite in the room anymore, his mind wandering, foggy, overwhelmed by the sound of Nasuada's pain.
Then it was over.
She was finally given a reprieve. Murtagh was allowed to stop with the burning rods, and he left the Hall of the Soothsayer, and he kept his grim silence until the King dismissed him with a casual wave. Then Murtagh stomped to the kitchens and grabbed a stone flask of liquor, and he drank to forget the last few hours of his life.
You think that will help her? Thorn asked with a reprimanding look as he shuffled into their chambers.
Murtagh scowled.
"I can't help her. I can't do anything."
And becoming inebriated is supposed to remedy your situation?
"Just leave me alone," Murtagh muttered, curling up on the bed.
I will not leave you alone, Thorn interjected, It is not right for you to drown out your pain while she lies helpless in hers.
"I can't do anything!" He spat back again.
Not in this state, certainly. Thorn's chin was lifted, hard and determined, but Murtagh didn't want to hear his reprimands tonight.
He scowled, rolled off the bed, and stormed back out the room before he said something he'd regret, or threw something at Thorn again. The heavy doors swung closed as he charged down the narrow hallway, taking a swig from the flask and firing a blast of magic at a suit of armor, just to watch it topple.
He stalked the castle corridors angrily for several long minutes, scaring away anyone who passed. Once, he screamed at a guard who had stepped out from a door too quickly and almost ran into him. The poor man squeaked in fright as Murtagh shoved him in the chest and punched the wall next to him several times, shouting obscenities and breaking the skin on his knuckles.
When the man had scurried away, though, Murtagh's anger was suddenly drained, and he felt like a shell of a person, wandering the castle corridors as a ghost, haunted, half-alive.
He found himself, inevitably, at the door of the Hall of the Soothsayer. The guards down the corridor had said nothing to him as he stalked past, no doubt assuming he was heading to put the prisoner to further torment.
Murtagh stood in front of the heavy door, breathing, staring at the grain, knowing that Nasuada lay on the other side, wounded, hurting, alone. He put his hands on either side of the doorway and pressed his forehead against the rough wood, his eyes squeezed shut, fighting with himself.
She doesn't want to see you. She hates you. She'd kill you if she could.
I should go to her. She shouldn't be alone. I can help her.
No you can't, you're a monster. You hurt her.
You hurt her.
You hurt her.
You hurt her.
Finally he couldn't listen to himself anymore, and he took another swig from the jar, before hurriedly tucking it into his shirt and wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. He blinked through the fog for a long moment, swaying uneasily.
When it hurt too much to stand there, he put his hand to the door, and stepped inside.
Nasuada could not turn her head to look at him; she was strapped down, as he had been, her head and hands and feet immobilized. Utterly helpless.
Murtagh stood staring at her for a long time, his chest clenching in pain, seeing her like this–wounded, alone, half-naked, weak, and shivering. It was nothing like the fierce woman on the black war horse who had bravely led her army to victory against half the cities in the empire. This was the King's cruelty–not just to perform his violence and torture, but to strip such a strong person of her strength, such a dignified person of her dignity. That was a true crime.
Finally he couldn't bear to look at her anymore, so he tromped to the far wall and slid down to the floor, drinking and wondering why he'd come to bother her with his presence.
He started talking. He was not fully aware at first that he had done so, but he was trying to tell her something–he just wasn't sure what.
"M–my–my horse, when I was… I had a horse… and I was riding once and–and I hurt–I hurt her ankle, I took her down a steep hill I shouldn't… shouldn't have…" Murtagh swallowed, pulling memories from years ago, hazy and indistinct. "And I brought her back to the stables and I gave her back and I didn't–I didn't tell… them… and w–when the stable master saw the horse was lame, he… he blamed the stable boy." Murtagh's gaze was tracing the patterns of stone on the floor.
"...and I didn't say anything."
He sniffed, and drank.
"But Tornac–Tornac, somehow… no one knew, but he knew. He–he knew it was my fault the horse was lame. But he didn't say anything either. He asked me what had happened, and I–and I lied to him, cause I didn't want him to be…mad."
Murtagh squinted, wandering in thought through the old feelings, old memories, half-remembering the point he was trying to make when he'd started.
"And he said that–he told me… he told me he wasn't going to say anything to the stable master, but that if I was… if I was a man of honor, then… I would do it."
Murtagh swallowed, swaying as he sat.
"He said it didn't matter that the stable boy was a poor orphan and I was a high-ranking noble. What–what matters is the truth, he said. And what matters is telling the truth, even if it hurts you. Even if it turns people against you. A man of honor–and he was–Tornac was–he was that. He was the best man I ever knew. Good man. Not a great one…" He took a deep breath.
"He said a man of honor owns up to what he's done. Regardless of the consequences."
Murtagh sniffed then, finally circling back to the thought he'd had in the beginning, the thing he needed her to hear, the thing he needed to explain. He was pleading with her.
"Galbatorix was going to have you killed…" He whispered, "He knew Elva wasn't guarding you like she used to, so he decided it was the perfect time to have you assassinated."
The words suddenly poured out, quickly, but dull, like he had memorized a script for this.
"...I only found out about his plan by chance; I happened to be with him when he gave the orders to the Black Hand–"
Suddenly his throat tightened, and he shook his head.
"It's my fault. I convinced him to have you brought here instead. He–he liked that; he knew you would lure Eragon here that much faster…" He took a shuddering breath, fighting tears,
"It was the only way I could keep him from killing you… I'm sorry… I'm sorry."
Murtagh buried his face in his arms, wiping his tears away angrily.
How dare you cry in front of her. After what she's just been through? How dare you sit here weeping when she's in pain.
Then his heart clenched as she heard her hoarse voice from the stone slab:
"I would rather have died."
"I know," He croaked. He took a shaking breath, asking the question he most needed to ask, but dreading the answer.
"Will you forgive me?"
That, she did not answer.
Serves you right, selfish coward, The inner voice said. Murtagh scowled and took another drink.
When he started talking again, it was a ramble of thoughts, and everything poured out. He started telling her things about his childhood he'd never shared with anyone, he started recounting his life like he was a bard and she a child at a campfire.
He didn't know why he was doing it. He needed her to know something, but what? His dazed brain couldn't say for sure. His words slurred and wandered through the maze of intoxicated thought, but he had a point he was trying to make, a feeling he was trying to invoke in her.
When he spoke of Eragon, he spat and his anger grew again, the unfairness of it all–special Eragon and his special dragon, and his charmed upbringing with loving parents and a cousin who was like his brother, and their mother fleeing her prison to rescue him while she left Murtagh behind. It made him furious to think about it.
He realized it was pity that he was trying to get Nasuada to feel. Never before in his life had he wanted someone's pity. He had actively rejected it, in fact, but now he was begging for it–for understanding, for sympathy, for her to know he hadn't chosen this, he hadn't wanted this, hadn't become this on purpose.
He just wanted her to feel something other than hatred for him.
He talked about his own tortures, hoping in his foggy mind that perhaps it would make her feel less alone, give her strength to endure. She was stronger than him, of this he was certain. If he could survive all that, then so could she.
He shuddered when he spoke of the bugs crawling down his throat, and the needles piercing his skin, and the water poured over his head, and the iron rods… she knew about those.
He reached the end of his drawn out rambling, coming back to the thing that he always came back to–his chains–the day his life had ended–the day he'd been broken, because of Thorn.
He just wanted her to understand–to see that he had tried.
When he'd finished his tirade, he couldn't stop his tears, though he cursed himself for them.
How dare you cry in front of her, He said again, even as he clutched his torso and wept, his head leaning against the cold stone wall.
He didn't know how long he sat there, staring at the cracks in the floor, but she said nothing, and eventually he became sober enough to realize that he'd been a fool, to come here and complain to her, as if she wasn't suffering horribly, as if she would want to see him, as if he wasn't the person she hated most in the world.
He staggered to his feet, suddenly feeling the need to get out of there.
But he stopped as he neared her stone slab, and he forced himself to look down. Her dark curls were bedraggled and stringy with sweat, and her skin had a gray tinge to it, but still he found her beautiful. Her beauty was in her inner strength, in the depth of her eyes, in the determined set of her mouth.
He heard Thorn's voice in his head.
It is not right that you should drown out your pain while she lies helpless in hers.
Without thinking, he placed his left hand on her shoulder, and began speaking spells of healing to her–leaving the marks, but taking away her pain. If he could do nothing else for her, he could do this. And yes, if the King ever found out, he would be punished for it. But what did it matter? He would face the King's wrath again, for her.
He took his hand away quickly, not wanting her to feel afraid, and he turned to go as her voice broke the quiet and she said,
"I cannot forgive…but I understand."
He paused for one moment, half-turned, and he felt a pathetic welling of relief.
Pity.
He had earned that from her, at least.
He nodded, and said no more.
When Murtagh returned to the Hall of the Soothsayer with Galbatorix, and Nasuada's torture began again, he tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that he would return, and he would take away the pain he was even now giving to her.
Nasuada remained strong, and did not give in, and Murtagh could sense the King losing patience. Murtagh didn't remember everything he had said and done the night he'd stumbled into the Hall and sunk to the floor in tears, but in between her bouts of torture, in the brief moments when their eyes met–when he couldn't bear to look away from her any longer–he thought he saw a different expression in her dark eyes.
Immediately after Galbatorix had left her to her pain, Murtagh wanted to return to help her, but the King dispatched him and Thorn to fly north and meet the Elven army–which had set out from Gil'ead towards Uru'baen.
"Slow them down," The King said, "And make sure General Parseith's troops get across the Ramr. Then return. Our work with Ajihad's daughter is not finished."
Murtagh was angry at being sent out, angry knowing that Nasuada was lying in her cell, in pain and alone, and he couldn't go to her.
Let us finish this business with the elves quickly, then, Thorn said as they flew out from Uru'baen and angled to the north. Murtagh cast one last look down towards the citadel, willing Nasuada to just hold on until he could make it back.
As Thorn and he approached under cover of new-fallen darkness, Murtagh saw the Elven army and the troops of the quickly-retreating garrison splayed out before the outstretched branch of the Ramr river, their torches flickering in the night like a thousand fireflies.
Some of the men under Parseith's command seemed to be crossing the Ramr already, but it was slow-going, and the Elves' march was relentless. There were cries of alarm as Thorn swooped down, but the men quickly recognized which dragon it was, and then the cries of alarm turned into cheers of triumph.
"My lord," Parseith–a middle-aged man with a close-cropped gray beard and hollow cheeks, bowed when Murtagh dismounted. He'd clearly been partaking in the fighting himself–his clothes were ragged and his armor dented– and Murtagh respected that.
"How long will it take you to get your men across the river?" Murtagh demanded.
"At least two more hours," He said, casting his uneasy gaze to the approaching line of torches in the distance, "We've limited boats, and the river is swift."
"And going around?"
Parseith shook his head.
"I did the calculations; we'd lose too much time–they'd be upon us."
"They're about to be upon you anyway," Murtagh pointed out, and the man grimaced.
"Yes. We had a slow time getting the wounded over the foothills."
Murtagh nodded.
"Well. I'll get you the time you need, but see to it those men move as quickly as possible."
"Thank you, sir, yes, sir," Parseith bowed, and Murtagh returned to Thorn, tying his legs in with the new leg-straps he'd made. After having to cut them loose at Dras Leona to avoid being crushed to death, he figured he shouldn't let the problem repeat itself.
Thorn and he took to the skies, and before long the torches were once again in the distance.
What is our plan? Thorn asked, sniffing the air as he glided silently towards the approaching Elven line.
Well, there's no point to subtlety. We want them slowed as much as possible. Why don't we announce ourselves?
Thorn grunted in agreement, and, several hundred yards from the army, he began a steep dive towards the ground. He unleashed a roar only when he was seconds from the assembled troop, so the Elves had little time to react to his sudden appearance.
Whipping along the front of the line, a mere handful of yards from the foremost row of horses, Thorn unleashed a torrent of fire that lit the brown grasses in a wall of flames. He kept straight as an arrow, blocking the Elves' path with his conflagration, and hurtling back into the sky as many high voices cried out in alarm and dozens of arrows pinged off his wards.
That got their attention, Murtagh thought, feeling Thorn's pleasure at his performance. The night was now alight with the roiling flames below, and Murtagh saw the army stop its forward momentum.
The effect wasn't long-lasting, though–these were Elves he was dealing with, and they had experience with dragon fire.
Murtagh watched from high above as dozens of soldiers approached the wall and lifted their hands, their mouths moving with indecipherable words, magic flowing from them as easily as water from a spring.
The fire was soon tampered down, and the army continued.
Guess they're not going to make it easy.
For the next three hours, Murtagh and Thorn battered the Elven army with fire and magic, buzzing around their heads like an irksome bee. It annoyed Thorn to be so standoffish, but Murtagh didn't dare take on the entire Elven army alone. That would be suicide.
Not only were they all exceptionally trained warriors and exceptionally powerful spellcasters, they also held a deep hatred for Murtagh and Thorn–the people who had killed their beloved elders–Oromis and Glaedr.
Murtagh could feel their fury towards him as Thorn made another pass of fire. Arrows and spells bounced off his wards and shouts were thrown. Once, a group of five elves attempted to do as Arya had done, and fling themselves into the air with magic, latching on to Thorn. Two succeeded in hitting their mark as Thorn whizzed past.
One landed on Thorn's tail and tried to stab at it, but unlike Arya's glowing spear, his longknife did not bypass the dragon's wards, and Thorn whipped his tail so that the Elf was flung into the air. The other elven man slammed straight into Murtagh and would've knocked him out of the saddle but for his leg straps.
Murtagh cursed and grappled with the elf, who scratched at his neck and dug his long nails into Murtagh's wrist, tearing at his sleeves as the wind whipped past them and he tried not to fall. Murtagh felt a strong mental attack, but deflected it determinedly as Thorn swooped upside down, causing the elf to tilt with gravity, tearing Murtagh's tunic as he tried not to lose his grip. Murtagh elbowed him in the face, and pulled out his knife, slashing at the piece of his shirt that the Elf was clinging to, and sending the man careening into space.
The other elves caught him with their spells, but he was limp with exhaustion. He had no Eldunari to bolster his strength.
Murtagh's respite was short lived, as Thorn righted himself only to find a great white bird hurtling towards them with a shriek that sounded almost human.
Murtagh cursed and ducked, but the bird swiveled quickly and pecked at him, and Murtagh's wards did not prevent the beak from digging into his flesh.
"Blast it!" He cried, swinging his knife at the strange bird, who flapped and ducked and dove, keeping just out of reach.
The bird squawked loudly and then said,
"Wyrda!"
Murtagh startled at the sudden voice, and the bird managed to gouge his cheek with its beak. Just as Murtagh moved to retaliate, it landed on Thorn's neck, and closed its wings, and suddenly Murtagh was frozen.
It was not magic–no spell was preventing him from attacking the bird, or keeping Thorn from twisting around and knocking the creature off his neck. But both of them were stopped for a long moment, enthralled, as the white raven blinked its dazzling eyes at Murtagh.
Then it croaked:
"Change approaching. Bonds breaking. To save the one, the other risking."
Murtagh blinked. The air whistled past. The raven's words echoed in his skull like a flurry of snow.
Then his moment of stunned silence broke, and he felt the pain from his cut face, and he lunged at the bird with his knife. But the white raven took off with a squawk of,
"Wyrda!"
And returned to his master below, a woman whom Murtagh knew without doubt was the Elven Queen, Islanzadi.
At last, when Murtagh looked back to the Ramr river and saw that the torches from Parseith's garrison were stretched in a thin line on the southern side, he and Thorn abandoned their harassment of the elves, and turned back towards Uru'baen.
He barely took time to heal his wounds, dust some of the ash from his hair, and let Demelza stitch up the holes in his clothes before hurrying out of his chambers and half-running towards the Hall of the Soothsayer.
Be careful, Thorn warned, as Murtagh left him with Demelza, who seemed to wonder but did not question Murtagh's hurry.
He collected himself for just a moment at the door to Nasuada's cell, quieting his pounding heart, before shuffling in and casting wards behind him to keep out intruders and eavesdroppers.
He almost sighed in relief when he saw Nasuada lying there, still breathing. He'd half-expected her to be gone, or dead, when he got back. But the King, it seemed, hadn't touched her since their last terrible encounter.
Immediately he went to her, and healed her of her pain–leaving the scars. He felt her shudder under his touch, but he kept his eyes to the floor as he whispered the words of healing.
As soon as the spell had done its work, he lifted his hand from her, and crossed the room, sitting against the wall once again. Without the comfortable haze of drink to shield his emotions, he felt nervous of what she would say and do, and what he ought to say and do. He was taut with anxiety as the silence stretched on, but eventually Nasuada broke it and said,
"Does Galbatorix know where you are?"
Murtagh took a small breath. At least she wasn't flinging curses at him.
"He might, but I doubt it," He murmured, "He's busy playing with his favorite concubines. That, or he's asleep." Murtagh sniffled, stretching his sore legs out on the stone, his boots scuffed and his clothes disheveled.
"It's the middle of the night right now," He explained, realizing she would have no way of knowing the time. "Besides, I cast a spell to keep anyone from listening to us. He could break it if he wants, but I would know."
"What if he finds out?"
Murtagh shrugged, inwardly terrified for the punishment he would receive, but outwardly keeping himself calm. It didn't matter. He had to help her.
"He will find out, you know, if he wears down my defenses," Her voice was soft and uneasy, a twinge of worry coloring her usual strength. Murtagh's head shot up, his heart suddenly fearful for her. Was she close to giving up? Was she near her breaking point? He had thought her strong and resolved, even as she screamed, but her words made him doubt.
"Then don't let him," He said fervently, pouring all his strength into the words, "You're stronger than me; you have no one he can threaten. Y–you can resist him, unlike me…" He was pleading with her, he realized, he needed her to remain free.
"The Varden are fast approaching, as are the elves from the north," He continued, hoping to bolster her courage, "If you can hold out for another few days, there's a chance… there's a chance maybe they can free you."
His words felt feeble even to him, and Nasuada was still clear-headed enough to sense it.
"You don't believe they can, do you?"
Murtagh kept his silence. He could only shrug. Of course he didn't. But he had to give her hope somehow, right?
"Then help me escape," She said, her voice desperate.
Murtagh barked with laughter–as if that hadn't occurred to him, as if he hadn't tried himself to find a way of escape every day for the past year. As if he wouldn't do anything to get her out of this.
She argued with him, trying to think of some miraculous plan of victory that he hadn't already thought of, and in the end came back to the desperate phrase that he'd thought to himself every night as he'd drifted into fitful sleep in his chains on the dungeon floor,
"There must be way."
"If there were…" He smiled sadly, and looked down. If there were I would've thought of it by now. If there were I might've been able to stop all this. If there were I could've come back to you.
"...it's pointless to consider."
She was silent for a few moments, and he half expected her to tell him to leave. She was probably angry with him, that he could not save her. That was the only reason she was speaking to him, after all–he was her enemy, but she hoped to use him to escape. He didn't blame her; he understood. He would've gladly been used. But he hoped she wouldn't be done with him now that he'd offered no solution to her problem. He didn't want to leave her.
"At least let me out of these cuffs," She said then, and Murtagh sighed. She was relentless.
Isn't that what you admire about her? His inner voice said.
"Just so I can stand up," She clarified, and suddenly he felt suspicious of her intentions. Was this a trick? Was she trying to work her way free, so that she could stab him and make her own attempt at escape?
He hesitated, knowing it was foolish of him, to give in to her demands. But he couldn't bear to say no to her–he knew how it felt to be tied down like that, immobilized, helpless, feeling like you might go mad from being held so still.
He stood and began unfastening her bonds with trembling hands, trying not to touch her feverish skin.
"Don't think you can kill me," He murmured, hoping he could avoid a pointless struggle with her, "You can't."
He didn't look to see her reaction, but paced back to his former place on the floor, and sat with his eyes averted, knowing she would not want him staring at her, with how tattered her dress was from all the burns.
She surprised him by walking over and sitting herself down next to him.
He was suddenly very aware of his body, of the way his shoulders slumped and the way his ash-dusted hair hung in front of his face, of the bruises along his neck and wrists and the smoke residue smudged on his forehead.
The inches that separated them felt taut with energy, and he held his hands together to keep them from trembling.
She surprised him even more by asking him suddenly about Tornac. He remembered telling her a garbled story about his former swordmaster when he'd come to her drunk that first night, but he didn't expect her to recall it, or to care.
He started talking, and answered her steady questions, all the while waiting for her to slap him and tell him he was a monster and she hated him. But she was on a mission. She eventually asked about the King–about his weaknesses, of which he had none–convinced that there must be something that Murtagh had not considered, some way of taking Galbatorix down.
Then Murtagh tried to reason with her, tried to give her another form of hope–that maybe it wouldn't be so bad, if things went how they must go, inevitably. He had tried to convince himself of this, to really give in to the King's smooth words as he spoke of the new world he envisioned. If it was inevitable anyway, why fight? He figured maybe if he believed in the cause he was forced to fight for, then it might hurt less.
"What's more," He said, his own voice thin, "If–if the Varden lose, Eragon and I can be together, as brothers ought to be. But… if they win, it'll mean the death of Thorn and me. It'll have to."
This was the point of contention he had continued to run against in his long hours of pondering. Part of him wanted to be with Eragon, wanted someone to share his burden with, wanted to not feel so alone. And part of him was sick at the thought of Eragon going through what he'd gone through–would do anything to keep his brother from being punished as he had.
But regardless of what he felt about Eragon, if the Varden were to be victorious, they could not do so while he and Thorn still drew breath. So how could he hope for such an outcome?
Nasuada didn't buy his feeble attempt at reasoning for Galbatorix's cause.
"Oh?" She said, "And what of me? If Galbatorix wins, shall I become his slave, to order about as he wills?"
Murtagh winced, a sudden horrible image blossoming into his mind–of Nasuada, forced to do as he had done, sent out to whomever the King pleased, her body used like a bargaining chip. He bit his tongue to keep from throwing up.
"You can't give up, Murtagh," Nasuada said.
"What other choice do I have?!" He burst out, unable to contain it anymore. But she did not flinch from his words. Instead, she stood briskly and said,
"You can fight!" Her voice echoed after his, "Look at me…"
He closed his eyes. But then she said it again, this time a command.
"Look at me!"
And he had to obey her. He met her fiery expression, her skin gray and her hair disheveled, but her jaw set with determination. She had never been more strong.
"You can find ways to work against him. That's what you can do. Even if your oaths will allow only the smallest of rebellions, the smallest of rebellions might still prove to be his undoing."
She panted, her face pleading and full of anger all at once. Murtagh felt very small beneath her, like a soldier facing his general's reprimand.
"What other choice do you have?" She breathed, "You can go around feeling helpless and miserable for the rest of your life. You can let Galbatorix turn you into a monster. Or you can fight!"
Murtagh held his hands against his forehead, her words piercing. She saw him too clearly, she was crawling up under his skin and tearing loose the foundation of his sanity. He had been fighting, didn't she know? Didn't she know his whole life had been a battle from the day he was born? Didn't she know how tired he was?
She lifted her burn-marked arms for him to see.
"Do you enjoy hurting me?" She demanded, and that felt like a stab to his heart.
"No!" He exclaimed, his voice cracking.
"Then fight, blast you!" She shouted, "You have to fight or you will lose everything you are. As will Thorn."
He couldn't stand it anymore. Anger and shame and sorrow roiled inside him like fire in the belly of a dragon.
How dare she! One voice said. She didn't know Thorn, she didn't know all that the dragon had endured since the day he'd hatched, she didn't know how strong he was, how good he was, how hard he fought.
And as for Murtagh? She didn't know what he'd been through, what he'd suffered, the punishments he'd taken for her precious Varden, for Eragon. He had been fighting, and all he'd gotten for his efforts was more pain.
He rose from the floor with the push of his old fury–his constant companion since before he could remember. He glared at her, breathing through his nose, wanting to tell her everything, wanting to spit it out, to tell her what she didn't know, the hurts he'd endured, to shame her into silence.
But the other voice said,
No, she'll be disgusted. Don't tell her. She'll laugh at you. She'll think you're pathetic, even more than she already does.
Before he could decide which voice to listen to, Nasuada said,
"If I can keep fighting, then so can you."
"Back to the stone," He snapped, pointing over her shoulder. He didn't want to be here anymore, didn't want to have this conversation.
"I know you're not a coward, Murtagh," She said, and a cord snapped in him. He lost his breath for a moment as she continued to speak, hurriedly, trying to get her words out before he cut her off, "Better to die than to live as a slave to one such as Galbatorix. At least then you might accomplish some good, and your name might be remembered with some measure of kindness after you're gone."
There it was again–Eragon had said the same thing. Why don't you just die? Why don't you and your dragon just die? That would be the best thing for all involved. Nobody cares about you. Just die, and solve all our problems.
"Back to the stone," He growled, taking hold of her arm and pulling her–a little harder than he should have–towards her slab.
His heart was hammering and his skin felt hot, and her words were swimming through his mind:
I know you're not a coward, Murtagh. I know you're not a coward. I know you're not a coward.
How did she know? How could she? Could she be right? Could his name be wrong?
He fastened her straps down with trembling hands, feeling a heat rise in his throat and behind his eyes. He would not cry in front of her, not again.
He stood back from her when he was done, his hands recoiling like her skin was scalding hot. But the pounding of his heart would not allow his legs to move. He couldn't leave her. Not like this.
I know you're not a coward, Murtagh.
"You have to decide whether you are willing to risk your life in order to save yourself," She said, her voice almost a whisper, her eyes meeting his wild, unsteady stare.
"You and Thorn both. And you have to decide now, while there is still time."
Her expression became soft and understanding.
"Ask yourself: what would Tornac have wanted you to do?"
This stopped the fire in his limbs, and calmed the pounding of his heart. There was no doubt to that answer. Tornac would have said the same as she–
Fight, Murtagh. Small rebellions. Find a way to resist. Be a man of honor.
His throat was still tight, and he couldn't speak.
Instead, he lifted his hand and placed it near her collarbone, and he began to whisper the Ancient Language, a spell of healing and of shielding, a complex web of magic that he wove over her, to guard her from the same pains that he had endured. He would do anything–to guard her from that.
When he was done, he felt the sudden need to be gone from the room, like he had just been exposed and needed to hide. She saw too much. She knew too much.
"That should shield you from the pain of most any wound," He murmured, not looking at her, "But you'll have to pretend otherwise, or Galbatorix will discover what I've done."
He didn't wait around to hear a response. He stalked up the stairs and slipped out of the Hall of the Soothsayer.
When the door closed behind him, he leaned back against it, the heat returning to his eyes. He slid down to the floor and leaned his smoke-streaked hair against the rough wood, tears sliding down his face.