Murtagh's head felt as if it had been split in two. For the past few weeks he had been slipping in and out of consciousness, those talking and standing around him blurring in a bright blend of color whenever he opened his eyes.

He couldn't tell dream from reality, and often woke to violent spasms. They would continue until something held him down and murmured comforting things to him. But as time passed, they subsided. He slept and recovered. Some moments he felt himself being moved, and others, he could taste sweet wine and thick milk on his tongue. These were short periods between what seemed like ages of monotony and darkness.

Murtagh felt aware at one point, and then at others he felt as if his mind was being pulled from his body. When he opened his eyes he saw things, impossible things. His mother; who was long dead, smiling down at him and stroking his hair. He would see his father; Morzan, as well, standing in the corner of what seemed to be in the white he was kept, his arms folded and his eyes dark and grim.

For Murtagh, it seemed like thousands of years until the darkness was gone.

"Are you alright? You were speaking. . ." A voice said as Murtagh felt his skin pull away around his eyes. A sticky substance had clung to his forehead, which obscured his eyesight. He was blinded almost instantly, and he saw gray shapes shifting before him.

"Don't crowd him! He's been in that bed for nearly a week!" A low-pitched voice bellowed.

"I wasn't crowding."

A man's face appeared before him. He was old, with red skin that was creased with lines of age. His hair was a dusky blonde color, thick and braided. A small mouth sat underneath a hooked nose, and his eyebrows were arched in analysis, blue eyes wide with interest. Behind him, a girl stood, wearing a frown on her face. She was similarly colored, and wore a simple white blouse that seemed to travel all the way down to her ankles.

"Ah, good. You're actually awake." The man said gruffly.

"Eat this." He commanded, and forced a spoonful of sweetened milk into Murtagh's mouth. He swallowed in surprise, pressing his head back against his pillow.

"You were dangerously wounded when you came here. You took a blow to the head. You would have died if I hadn't been able to work on you as I have. You should be fine now . . . but you may experience crippling headaches in the future. But it is a small price to pay for life, in my opinion."

Murtagh remembered the mace that had fallen on him the day of the attack on Karem's holding. It was then he realized who he was still with.

The Varden.

Murtagh felt restless.

"Can I walk?" He asked politely, his mouth felt strange when he moved it.

"I don't see why not. If you feel any strong pain, come back to me. You are to report to the King. He wanted to see you as soon as you wakened. There will be men to escort you." The doctor left him at that.

Murtagh furrowed his brows. What could Orrin want with him? Is it possible that the King knew who he was? It was entirely likely that a mage had sifted through his memories while he was indisposed. . . but would these people kill an innocent man? He was Morzan's son, but he had done no wrongs to the Varden or attempted to halt their cause. The girl who was in the room before returned, and with a fresh set of clothes. Murtagh thanked her and rose from the bed.

He was aware of her eyes as they looked at his body, which was bare from the waist up. Scars covered his chest and back, faded red and black and purple. Some were simply straight cuts that healed over time, others were zigzagging trails that knotted and curled his skin when they had healed. He ignored her gaze, however, and she left the room, allowing him to dress.

Murtagh pulled the shirt over his body and changed into the fresh pair of trousers. The new clothing felt good on his dry skin. His head was dizzy for a moment, but he was able to regain his composure. He left the room, taking a deep breath as he did. As the doctor had promised, there was an armed man waiting for him. He wore a boiled leather raiment, pained in Varden colors, along with a sigil that he did not recognize, a flying horse. His hand was on the pommel of his sword as he looked at Murtagh with zero interest.

"King Orrin has summoned you." He said simply. Murtagh's stomach growled.

"Is it possible that I may eat some food before I am presented to the King?" Murtagh inquired. He was in no hurry to see Orrin, and he was hungry. He felt thinner, vapid somehow. The clothes he was loaned felt good, but he didn't like the way they hung from his body.

"Food will be provided." The man responded unkindly. Murtagh took the hint and remained silent as they walked through the stone keep.

The Varden had made this place theirs- The walls, which were barren the last time Murtagh had seen them, were covered with paintings. Banners lined the empty spaces, and Murtagh recognized a few sigils- houses that had been under the Empire's control. How many had secretly rebelled against Galbatorix?

It wasn't long before he came to that familiar wooden double-door, and he was surprised to still see it scratched and battered. Two men stood before the doors, and opened them for Murtagh and his escort. They walked inside. Instantly the smell of bread and meat hit Murtagh's nose, making his mouth water and his stomach unruly with noise.

Orrin's borrowed hall was empty compared to when Murtagh had last seen it. A table had been prepared, below the raised incline of stone where the King's throne sat beautifully-and vacant. Instead, Orrin was seated at the head of the feasting table, which was covered from beginning to end with various foods: Roast duck and chicken, a spicy-smelling meatloaf, buttered bread, grapes and dark wine and barbequed pig, the kind where the swine was whole, with a juicy apple stuck between its teeth.

Murtagh had to restrain himself from running towards the table. King Orrin lifted his eyes to the two.

"Ah, so you've finally woken. In good time too, I've just begun dinner." He said as he popped a slice of ham into his mouth. He motioned towards Murtagh with a fork.

"Come, come! Sit. Eat." He commanded. The guard led Murtagh to a chair, and then bowed towards King Orrin before taking his leave of them.

Murtagh sat directly in front of the King, but the small mountain of food between them made Orrin hard to see. Murtagh didn't know where to start. There was a plate before him, complete with cutting utensils and an empty cup, but it was then he noticed that there were dozens of empty seats around the table.

"Will more be joining us?" Murtagh asked as a serving-man filled his cup. Orrin nodded his head, his eyes raised above the roast pig.

"Yes. For my advisors. Though I tire of eating with them as of late, so I take my meals first. That would explain the amount of food, it would seem!" Orrin laughed at his own jest.

"I'm a King, not a glutton. But sometimes those two things become one in the same."

Murtagh ripped into a duck, one of the several that were scattered about the table. He took the closest one to him, taking two legs and a wing. He then retrieved three thick slices of bread, using one slice to soak up the grease on his hands and then took to eating it.

There was never a silent moment. Orrin talked about his youth, his training, and the victories over the Beyonders. He never stopped prattling, and he loved focusing on himself. If he wasn't talking about himself directly, he was focused on his name, his family, and their achievements. His great-great-great-great grandfather, Ulron The Wizened, had stopped a host of Urgals from invading the west lands as they marched down the North.

Ulron's younger brother, Kyun, had built a great keep that had served Lords in the south faithfully until it was destroyed in the Rider Rebellion.

"One of my ancestors was a Rider. His name was Yonrin. They said he had a great dragon, brilliant and yellow, with four legs AND wings. A dragon with four legs is very rare." Murtagh had to keep from rolling his eyes. Galbatorix had told him everything he had wanted to know about dragons when he was young. His father, however, wanted nothing to do with dragons aside from his own, and wished his son the same.

Murtagh remembered one day when Galbatorix was humoring him with a story. A young Murtagh had asked him why Morzan hated speaking of dragons.

As Orrin droned on, Murtagh replayed the years old conversation within his mind. He smiled, remembering how Galbatorix had paused for a moment, reflecting.

"I suppose you're old enough to know. Besides, your father has never spared the worst from you."

Back then his scars still seethed pink pus, despite having received them years ago after Morzan's final raging.

"He hates dragons because they remind him of betrayal. They remind him of Selena, and worse, Caomhim. They remind him of his two sons, your dead brothers. When he sees a dragon, he sees not a majestic animal, but a dark beast. He killed Caomhim's dragon himself, and killed your mother in the process."

After he had told Murtagh that, Galbatorix rose abruptly, leaving Morzan to his quarters. Before he left, Murtagh squeaked one last question.

"What was his name? the dragon he killed?"

Galbatorix answered without turning.

"Her name. And it was Saphira. A beautiful name for a beautiful dragon."

Murtagh found himself back in the present, Orrin's voice still going on and on.

". . . So do you agree?" Orrin asked. Murtagh frowned.

"Agree to what?"

"Oh- I've been talking to the deaf, it seems! Long story short, my friend, the spire children all say that you are the best fighter among them. Granted, you are weak from your heroic wound, but a few good meals and training will put you back on track. I plan to have you escort one of my advisor's daughters to the dwarf keepings in the mountains. You will be well prepared, supplied and rested. The best horses of the realm will be underneath you. And better yet, if you are successful in getting there, you will become part of my personal guard."

Orrin paused to let that sink in, but Murtagh had no desire to be a guard for this fool.

"There will be lordships in it for you, of course. Lands and titles that will be passed onto your children," Orrin added hastily. Murtagh had to keep from laughing. He remembered that Orrin had promised him a lordship earlier, along with all of the captured Spire children.

"Why the dwarves?" Murtagh had only seen a dwarf once before. He had expected a stout little man with a thick nose and large neck, standing at best maybe 4 feet- But what he saw disappointed him. Dwarves were a little more than five feet tall, and at their tallest, they stood as high as the average man. What set them apart, however, was their six fingered hands and sculpted muscle. Unlike men, Dwaves were born with it, and had to do little to no work in order to gain strength.

"I am trying to broker a peace with them. They are no friends of Galbatorix, I'll tell you that. We have arms now but. . . . It's going to take more than that to defeat Galbatorix and his dragons. Not to mention the mighty houses that still stand with him."

Murtagh cringed. Galbatorix's dragon.

Shurikan, the black dread.

"However, I am not done here. I need to settle my forces, regroup, resupply, and then anoint someone to preside as Lord of the Realm while I am away. I plan on meeting up with you, but I must stay here until everything has been taking care of. I cannot leave with a party, because I am needed. The Dwarves have no patience, and refuse to give me the time I require. Therefore, I am sending a speaker in my stead."

Murtagh assumed that was wise, for Orrin, anyway.

"Who is she?" Murtagh asked, referring to Orrin's dignitary.

"Daughter of the deep southman Ajihad, sister to Nasuadon, Nasuada."

Murtagh vaguely remembered the stone-faced Nasuadon, who acted as translator for Orrin. His hair had been of interest, shaved on both sides but long down the middle, falling down the back of his head like a reversed waterfall.

"I have never seen Ajihad or this Nasuada."

Orrin grinned. "Ajihad is a great man, big and strong. Nasuada. . . she is big, but in the way a man wants her to be."

Murtagh grimaced at Orrin's vulgarity.

"So she's beautiful, then?"

Orrin shrugged as he smacked his lips. He was done with his meal.

"Only in a savage way. I wouldn't make her queen, but perhaps she could be my concubine after the war. I'd fill her with my seed, give her some sons with royal blood. My blood is royal, you know."

Before Murtagh could respond, Orrin rose from his seat.

"I enjoyed this meal, Sir. You had better rest. Your training begins tomorrow, and you will want to be as well prepared as possible. Outside these walls this world is very dangerous, quite full of evil."

Murtagh was brought to a new room, which was larger and far more comfortable. A feather bed waited for him, wide with thick blankets and pillows.

He went to sleep thinking of Nasuada, the girl he was now bound to protect, so that she could conspire with Dwarves to overthrow the kingdom of a man who had given him everything. Despite his grim musings, Murtagh slept well.