Back home
The air felt pleasantly warm and the soft, sweet smell of something familiar wafted through it. The ground, too, was soft and somehow fleecy; certainly not as cold and wet as dew-covered grass typically was and not like the hard stone floors of a cell, either. The young rider had to open his eyes, reluctantly, before he remembered where he was.
He found himself in the bedroom he had called his own as a child. But the brief sense of being home vanished as he noticed Thorn's presence absent from his mind and remembered the previous day. Distantly, he remembered Galbatorix healing most of his wounds, placing magical barriers between him and his dragon and unchaining him. He remembered being carried more than led up to these rooms and finding his way to the bed, falling into it straight away. He remembered waking up, still in the dead of night and moving to the floor because the bed was too soft for him after the weeks spent without such comforts. Well, that explained why he was lying on the carpet next to his bed.
A quiet clatter caught his attention. It came from the next room and he realized that it must have woken him. Murtagh pushed himself up, slowly as his head throbbed with every movement, and when he stepped out of the chamber into the sitting room he saw a boy standing by the table arranging a set of fine, ceramic dishes. A lively fire was already happily crackling away in the fireplace.
Then the boy caught sight of him and, obviously startled took a step back and respectfully bowed his head. "I … I'm sorry, sir. I… I didn't mean to wake you."
The fear in his stammers confused Murtagh for a moment, then of course, he realized remembering, I could have him punished for waking me – He looked out the window – especially at this hour. Servants were to start up the fires and prepare a morning meal for their masters, quickly and silently, so that everything was ready and warm when they woke up. Any failures to do this would inevitably be punished.
"Breakfast will be ready in a moment. I … I'll got fetch it immediately," the boy continued quickly and headed to the door.
"No!" Murtagh stopped him. "Get a bath ready first."
The boy nodded obediently still keeping his eyes on the floor. Murtagh felt a sudden pang of sympathy. He had always known of the harsh treatment of slaves in the palace, but he had never empathized with the fear of pain like this before. "You didn't wake me," he told the boy, "and you don't have to be afraid of me."
"Thank you, sir," he whispered before disappearing through the door to the wash room.
Sir! Murtagh leaned back against the door frame and slid down it. I was used to that kind of respect once.
Through the windows he could see a faint grey tint spreading across the sky, so close to morning. No wonder I woke up: the Twins would have beaten me awake by now.
Sitting on the floor, eyes closed and head leaned back against the wall, he tried not to think. He didn't want to think. A while later the boy emerged, still keeping his head low. "It's ready, sir." He left when the rider nodded.
The hot, water stung on his skin at first, but soon it just felt soothing and his mind began to clear as he washed all the grime and grease out of his hair and rid himself of the dirt and the dried blood that didn't belong there. When he emerged from the washroom found a fresh set of clothing, all in red and trimmed with gold thread, laid out for him. Unlike the almost abrasive fabric of the tunic the Twins had given him, this one was finely woven and for a moment he relished its cool and smooth feel against his skin as he pulled it on, and when it could no longer be avoided, he turned to the mirror.
The person staring back at him was thin; unnaturally so, and pale. Shaggy strands of dark, wet hair framed his face, that looked more angled than he remembered. His listless eyes had dark blue circles under them from the lack of rest that one night could not make up for. What have I turned into? Somehow he just didn't feel right in these fine clothes.
He shaved carefully none the less and the sky outside was light by the time he returned to the sitting room. It was only then that Murtagh saw that his breakfast had been laid out neatly on the table, just as it had every morning when he was growing up. He also recognized the sweet, familiar scent he had noticed when he woke up. Peppermint tea! He hurried over to the table, remembering now how famished he really was. Last night he had been too exhausted to feel hungry and too numb to care.
The day turned out to be overcast and gray and it was already mid morning when Murtagh reached the arch that led to his favorite garden. Autumn had almost shifted to winter in the days he had spent underground. Only a few leaves, brown and dry, still hung on the trees. The cold morning wind swished through the grass as the blades whispered the tales of the last year to each other, and a thin, narrow strip of ice had formed around the edges of the two ponds.
Murtagh shivered. Why have I come here? With slow steps he walked down the stone path, and then just cut across the grass.
The memories came racing back. Long summer afternoons of playing in the cool of the thick grass or skipping rocks and weaving small rafts out of willow branches and watching them float lazily on the pond water. Everything had been beautiful; beautiful as the memories he had shown Thorn in the cell. Thorn! A sudden jolt of loneliness coursed through him and he tried in all futility to push at the mental barriers between them. Who else can I talk to? Help me, I'm lost!
Murtagh dropped to the ground. The tears did not take long to follow and he didn't try to stop them. Everything is gone. All I loved. Everything! Murtagh curled into ball. Why? Why me?
He cried, mourning what he had lost. He cried for the people he had cared for, for the recklessness of youth he knew was now over, for his freedom, now stripped away forever, and his quiet sobs were the only sound in the emptiness of the garden.
Only one coherent thought formed in his mind, more painful than anything else. I'm a slave.
‡
Murtagh didn't know how long he had been there, his hot tears mixing with the cold dewdrops; not caring that he was ruining his fresh clothes.
He was still crying when he heard the gentle rustle of footsteps approaching. He kept his eyes closed. It didn't matter who came. No one of any importance would be taking a stroll in the most obscure of gardens on a day like this and with any luck the person here wouldn't even recognize him. He had been gone for over a year and had changed a lot in that time.
The young rider didn't know how wrong he was. A moment later he felt a warm, smooth hand slide under his head, gently lifting it off the ground. He opened his eyes startled found himself looking up into the fine-featured face of a young woman. A set of delicate fingers brushed across his forehead, pushing a strand of hair out of his face.
No amount of tears blurring his vision could have disguised those familiar blue-green eyes framed by a gentle cascade of reddish hair. "Lauren," he whispered. "You're back!"
Worry in her voice, she answered "So are you."
