A/N: Has anyone actually guessed what's going on? According to the reviews: not really. I think I should prepare you, then...

This chapter reveals a lot about Eragon – just as the last (hopefully) told you something about Murtagh – so that afterwards I am able to consider my protagonists as 'introduced'. And yes, I am perfectly aware that I'm working with a cliché here. But I'm also sure you'll find it to be very different from the standard Mary-Sue version, and I don't mean different just because there is no Sue, but also because it's not the main focus of the story.

Keep in mind, though, that only you, as a reader, find out about Eragon's background in this chapter. Murtagh can't claim the same.

By the way, as I want Selena to be Murtagh's mother, I decided on Marian for Eragon's – after all, in the book she took his mother's stead when he was but a child.

To bear is to conquer our fate - Thomas Campbell

Chapter 2

July 10th

Eragon was chewing on the piece of meat and hard bread without much appetite, but his stomach was screaming for food, and as his body was aching all over already, he tried to calm at least this part of it. He did not exactly know what was wrong with his hip, but it sure felt as if a car had run over it. A tree, he corrected himself quickly, a tree fell on me. I've indeed been buried beneath something heavy. Fortunately the pain was subsiding.

So far, so good. Everything else was completely beyond his grasp.

For a short moment after he had regained his consciousness, he had thought that he must have run into participants of a medieval convention in the park. As soon as he had understood, though, that he in fact understood nothing of their language, this idea had started to crumble. And then all of a sudden this guy named Murtagh, who he was now sure was the leader of the group, had placed this incredible sharp and real sword at his throat, a clear threat in his face and voice. That was when Eragon knew that something had gone amiss. Terribly amiss.

Wishing firmly that all the movies he had watched had been right in at least some points, he had decided to do everything not to anger the person that was so obviously overpowering him and that seemed to have laid some claim on him, too. What kind of claim that was Eragon did not want to think about.

He had been surprised that no one had believed his age, although they had just established some sort of communication. Murtagh and that guy Marus had then shown him that they considered him too small and too weak to be sixteen, which had angered Eragon for a moment – until he had taken a closer look at the other people. Marus, who was supposedly sixteen, too, looked like a young bull and definitely older. And Murtagh, at nineteen, looked… well, not old, but incredibly mature. Still, Eragon was glad that the age matter was resolved now.

He sighed and took another bite. No one was talking, although he was sure that Marus and the man the others called Grimgald would like to do so. Yet the group dynamics between the three had been clear to him quickly, and therefore he thought that they simply did not dare to start a conversation. It was Murtagh who was in complete control. And watching him.

When Eragon glanced around shyly, he found that indeed all three were watching him. Great! He wished that it was a bit more normal for them to find almost naked people in the forest. Stop gaping! At least he was wearing some pants now, albeit strange ones. A hysterical giggle was forming in his throat and he fought hard to suppress it. Why, oh why, did I have to tan of all things the moment the storm came and my life was turned upside down? Could God, or fate, or the FBI, or whoever is responsible for this not at least have picked a time when I was decently dressed? Now he was not only being stared at but also bare from the waist upwards.

Worrying about such trivial things as clothing did by no means mean that he was accepting the strange circumstances he was in. The reality he was in. Because, Eragon repeated in his thoughts, it was all very real. The men were, the horses were, the weapons were, the plain food was, and, most of all, the fact that he had not seen anything all day that hinted at any form of civilization the way he was used to. Anything that did not reek of medieval.

Even if he had only been transported to some place in the Russian taiga – and that was already too much of a possibility for him to accept – things would have been different. And yet. He could not exactly put a finger on it, but he knew for a fact that this was not the Russian taiga.

Looking around once more, his eyes met the hazel ones of Murtagh and he quickly cast his glance down, but the curious stare of the other was burning in his memory. Murtagh was unlike any person Eragon had ever met. He was tall, for one, standing at nearly six foot two, and broad-shouldered. Not for one second had Eragon doubted that the huge weapon which the older one was handling with such ease did in fact weigh quite a lot. As a matter of fact, Murtagh was very familiar with all his weapons, and also with his horse, and most of all with being in command.

All day, with his hands tied behind his back and a stinking albeit not unfriendly Grimgald behind him, Eragon had watched Murtagh ride in front. He did not know what to make of him. This morning had shown that Murtagh was better not to be angered, as he was quick to draw a weapon and looked ready to make use of it, too, if need be. Plus, the other two men were more or less afraid of him, Eragon thought. But still, once the men had believed him that he did indeed not understand one word, Murtagh had apparently reached a decision and had been nice enough afterwards. Their 'conversation' had been amiable, although Eragon wished they had talked more, as he was desperate to find out where he was and how he had gotten there. Of the words he already knew, none was of any use.

He heard Murtagh sigh and looked up. The warrior – a title Eragon found befitting – was sitting cross-legged a few yards away from him, his back royally straight. The dark hair fell in lose strands on the fair skin of his face, and he was dressed completely in black. The pants, vest, bracers and the gloves were made of different sorts of leather, the shirt underneath of cotton, the boots of a material unknown to Eragon.

Suddenly a memory flashed through his mind.

"Look, Eragon! Real silk. Come, touch it!" Marian stood in front of the pompous array of cloth in the drapery, her eyes shining.

Eragon smiled and hurried to her side. She had wished for him to come along, and seeing her so happy was definitely worth spending some time on unfamiliar terrain. He reached for the champagne coloured silk. "Oh. Wow!" It was unbelievably soft and smooth.

"See? Now, look here, this is cotton."

Obediently, Eragon touched the next fabric. "Not so wow."

Marian laughed out loud. "No, you're right. But look here…"

They had spent over an hour in the drapery, an hour in which Eragon had learned quite a few things about different kinds of cloth, and also an hour filled with laughter. It had been a very pleasant afternoon...

Eragon swallowed hard and turned his attention back to Murtagh to forget the memory. Altogether, strange as it was, the clothing was of a high quality – especially when compared to what the others were wearing and to the thin, crappy piece that covered Eragon's legs. Moreover, the hilts of both Murtagh's swords were richly adorned with gold inlays and gems, supporting the theory of quality and wealth.

He focused on Murtagh's face once more and could not stop his heart beat from accelerating. He had suspected it all day when he had only seen the other's back, but now he knew for sure: his judgement had not failed him this morning – Murtagh was incredible handsome. It had been Eragon's first thought after regaining consciousness, then shock had set in and he had concentrated on other matters, but now he was back at the same conclusion.

Or maybe my judgement is failing me big time. He remembered having read something about the Stockholm syndrome recently, and the longer he thought about it, the more sense it made. He scanned Murtagh again, but still, even in the light of the psychological revelation, the warrior remained strikingly attractive. Shit!

Stockholm syndrome referred to hostage situations, Eragon recalled, and he realized that he had no idea what his status was. Prisoner? Hostage? Or, he grimaced, fellow traveller? He made up his mind to find a way to address this, but just when he opened his mouth, Murtagh spoke.

"Marus!"

The deep voice sent a shiver down Eragon's spine. Stop it, he told himself. I never liked Sweden, did I? I won't start now.

Marus flinched and nearly lost the bread he was roasting on the flames. He was quick to answer Murtagh with what Eragon guessed was a title of sorts.

Murtagh said some more, which sounded like an order, and true enough, Marus put his stick away and stood up, though not without hesitating very briefly. He walked over to where he had put his saddle and his few belongings and grabbed his cloak. On his way back to the fire his lips tightened into a thin line, and he was staring straight ahead when he tossed the cloak to Eragon, who took it without thinking, remembering too late that he could have thanked the other. Eragon heard Marus mutter something under his breath, but naturally he did not understand it. However, he was sure that Marus had been complaining and had not wanted to give him the cloak.

Murtagh had apparently heard it, too. He made a very sharp, questioning comment, and Marus answered flippantly and seemingly without thinking, before he pressed a hand to his mouth and froze, looking at Murtagh with eyes widening in fear.

Eragon stopped chewing and watched the scene unfold in front of his eyes. Although it was not cold, he had wrapped the cloak around himself and was feeling oddly protected by it.

His voice now icy and hostile, Murtagh again asked something. When there was no immediate reply from Marus, Grimgald started to speak but was cut short by a sharp word from Murtagh right away. Then a movement caught Eragon's eye and his gaze fell on the twitching ring finger of the warrior's right hand. And when he discovered the smaller of the two swords within reach of said hand, the cloak suddenly did not feel like protection anymore.

Murtagh was talking once more, or rather, he was hissing something, and in a flash he was on his feet and the sword in his hand.

Dropping the food that he had still been holding, Eragon crawled away as swift as his hip allowed him to until he was out of the cone of light. He crouched next to some bushes and turned around to watch what was happening, blood racing in his veins. Neither Grimgald nor Marus had moved, but Murtagh was also still in place, even though he gave the impression that the smallest trigger would set him off. Just like a tiger before he strikes.

Sweat was running down Marus' neck, but he soon summoned up courage and moved again. Yet against all Eragon's expectations he made a step towards Murtagh before sinking down on one knee and bowing his head, stuttering something. These two men, Eragon realized, were in no position to oppose Murtagh. They were his. And with great horror he recalled what he had learned in school about disciplinary measures in the Middle Ages.

However, something was keeping the warrior, the tiger, in check. Emotions were struggling on Murtagh's so far impassive face, and his eyes left Marus and came to rest on his hand holding the sword. While he was glowering at it for quite some time it was deadly silent, not even the little fire dared to crackle. Suddenly he threw the weapon away, disgusted, and took one deep breath and sat down again. He spoke to Marus, his voice now calm and quiet, and the clearly relieved youth replied to all that was being said or asked.

In no time the situation loosened up, and as Eragon did not understand a single thing, his mind started wandering.

Soon a thought hit him: stars. He knew how to find the Big Dipper and, subsequently, the polestar. In other words: the firmament spanning earth's sky. Immediately scanning the darkness at hand, he found that it was in fact not dark at all, instead it was littered with thousands of small lights. Usually the glow of major cities hinders a view like this, a small voice in the back of his head reminded him, but he ignored it. Still, craning his neck as he might, he did not find what he was looking for. His body turned ice-cold. What did it mean regarding his whereabouts? Maybe it is just the wrong season? Or maybe the southern hemisphere, or maybe-

"Eragon!"

Eragon winced and looked back in the direction of the fire. Murtagh was watching him, his face composed again, handsome again. Eragon shook his head. You do not fool me, stranger. I have seen you go from relaxed to enraged within moments twice today.

"Eragon," Murtagh tried once more and added a few other words, waving him near with his hand, which gave a clue to the meaning of what he was saying. When there was no reaction, he turned back to Marus and continued their conversation for a moment.

Eragon was still hesitant to move when Marus got up and returned to his old place next to Grimgald. The older man made a comment and chuckled and Marus even broke into laughter. Murtagh, however, did not laugh, or chuckle, or even smile, and Eragon stayed wary. Eventually the warrior rose to his feet as well and grabbed something that looked suspiciously like a wine skin from a history book. He came close and sat down about a yard away from Eragon, speaking softly and taking a sip, as if to prove that whatever the beverage was, it was palatable.

After a while Eragon extended his hand and silently accepted the skin. Without a thought he took a deep gulp – which ended in a horrible coughing fit. A spark of humour glimmered in Murtagh's eyes while Eragon's were watering, which briefly annoyed him, but then he shrugged and took another, smaller sip. When he thought about it, he was sure that he would never stand a chance against the other, no matter whether he, Eragon, was sober or not. So why not drown his misery in alcohol?

That night Murtagh taught him three more words: brandy, drink, and drunk. Eragon, in turn, told the other no less than his life story, the more he drank, the more detailed the story. After some time and a considerable lighter skin later, he was very grateful to have such a wise and polite listener who never once interrupted him. Stockholm syndrome or no Stockholm syndrome, at least the guy has manners. But why is he so blurry?

---xxxxx---

---xxxxx---

Eragon was woken to a brisk, early morning by Murtagh, who simply kicked his leg to get the desired effect. He grunted in protest. "Can you do that a bit less lovingly, please?" He stayed down for a moment, listening to the song of the birds and the occasional snort of one of the horses and watching the pale blue sky through the treetops.

He wondered why in movies, books, and even video games people always woke up oblivious for a moment, realizing only after a while that it had not just been a bad dream, that it was in fact all true. He, on the other hand, was not granted one sweet moment of not being aware of the latest events.

In that case, Eragon thought, he could as well get up, especially because Murtagh was waiting for him and he did not seem the guy who liked to be made waiting. He rolled on his stomach and carefully pushed himself up, noticing with relief that his whole middle section hurt a lot less. Instead, his head was swimming – and hurting. With another grunt he finally stood on his feet, pressing a hand to his forehead. Why is it that I always drink without thinking of the next day? "What kind of devilish brandy do you guys make? I thought something so basic should be the same everywhere. Not that I'm too familiar with it or anything…"

Murtagh had cocked his head a little but remained quiet and simply turned around, leading the way to a small stream where he crouched down at the grassy riverbank and splashed some water in his face. Eragon did likewise, enjoying the cool liquid. After a moment he got rid of the cloak and dropped to both knees, burying his whole head in the creek, ignoring the picture that formed before his inner eye of how stupid he must be looking. When he emerged again he saw a hint of amusement playing around Murtagh's lips and grinned in response. "Yeah, I know. But I don't have a head of stone like you seemingly do."

After a while Murtagh began to talk. Not in a way indicating that he actually wanted Eragon to understand, no, he was simply talking. He continued washing himself and did not stop speaking, his voice calm and low, not unfriendly; it sounded as if he was explaining something.

Eragon found himself entranced. Never before had the older one said so much, and the sound of it gave Eragon a pleasant feeling in his stomach. I don't really know anything about Sweden, right? Maybe it isn't too bad… He knew he should not be feeling like that, but he wanted Murtagh to continue, to make him forget the current situation for a while.

All too soon, Murtagh's tone changed and he was asking for something. Eragon strained his hearing and noticed Murtagh repeating a word several times. "Ze-younon?" Eragon tried, shrugging. Murtagh corrected him until he said it correctly – "Ceunon" – but he did so absentmindedly, losing interest, leaving Eragon wondering about the purpose of that word.

When Murtagh readied himself to return to their camp, Eragon decided not to delay matters any longer, even if he wished to linger some more in this peaceful shoulder to shoulder. Wherever he was, however he had gotten here, he did not plan to stay. They had already covered quite some distance from the place where he had been found, and it was exactly there that Eragon wanted to go back to. The question was whether they would let him or whether he was indeed a prisoner. "Murtagh!"

The dark-haired head shot around and Eragon saw surprise. "Aye?"

Does that mean 'yes'? Eragon stored the word away before realizing that he had no idea how he could phrase his question with the few words he knew. "Eragon…" he began, and was immediately stuck. How on earth do survival experts communicate with indigenous people? "Eragon…" he started anew, involuntarily stomping his foot, frustrated. He looked at Murtagh, who returned his gaze, frowning, and for a split second there was complete understanding between the two of them, a mutual annoyance about the language obstacle.

"Eragon…" He began one more time, then waved a hand in the air, grimacing. This was impossible. "… Murtagh?" Perhaps the other was a psychic. It would most definitely help.

Murtagh shook his head, snorting. He said something in that strange tongue of his, a rapid mass of sounds, but it needed no translation: he had no idea what Eragon meant.

Eragon groaned and thought hard. "Alright. Look here," he said in English. He showed both index fingers and made a knot. "Eragon… Murtagh?" God, I don't even know how to say 'and'.

Murtagh gave him an odd look and chuckled somewhat nastily. He said something and shook his head, imitating Eragon with his fingers, but then pointedly un-knotting them again.

His cheeks immediately burning, Eragon guessed that perhaps tying the knot was universally understood. "No!" Most definitely I did not mean that!

Murtagh looked at him some longer before eventually turning around and walking away.

"Murtagh!" He had to make him understand, had to ask him. In a last, desperate try, Eragon raised both hands, named one Murtagh and gave the other his own name. Then he made the Murtagh hand walk and let the Eragon hand follow, looking at the real Murtagh questioningly.

Understanding dawned on Murtagh's face and he nodded. "Yes. Eragon," then something, "Murtagh".

"No!" Eragon cried out.

"No?"

"No," Eragon repeated, "Eragon no is… comin with Murtagh." He simply imitated what Murtagh had just said, the answer that was exactly what he had not wanted to hear. "Eragon is…" He pointed at himself, then made another walking gesture with his hand, and lastly pointed at a nearby tree.

Murtagh simply shook his head, fingers drumming on his leg. "No. Eragon is coming with Murtagh."

"Shit!" Eragon swallowed hard. So he was indeed not free to go back, the little episode with the rope around his wrists yesterday not merely due to lack of understanding. Gone was all fascination with Murtagh, all possible traces of admiration for his capturer that had been less last night but had returned full force this morning. In fact, all Eragon felt at that moment was a rising anger. I am a United States citizen, free to go as I like, and I will not let this freshwater warrior guy stop me!

Encouraged by his thoughts, he glowered at Murtagh and started walking – in the opposite direction of where their camp and the others were. He had no clue where to go, but away from the warrior, so much he knew.

Suddenly he heard it again, that horrible quiet hiss he had come to associate with a sword being drawn, and he began to run. However, after only seconds he felt his wrist being grabbed and he was hurled around, then Murtagh punched him hard in the stomach with the hilt of the sword, cursing.

---xxxxx---

---xxxxx---

Eragon twisted behind Grimgald, his stomach still hurting. He was so busy being mad at Murtagh, who was riding in front again, acting as if he had not just hurt him badly, that he was not even disgusted by the older man's stink as he had been the previous day.

Despite all the times in the past twenty-four hours that he had wished to be able to properly talk to these people, he kept his mouth shut all day. If Grimgald or Marus had tried to speak to him, he might have reacted, but whenever Murtagh made one of his rare comments, Eragon turned his head away.

---xxxxx---

---xxxxx---

The next morning felt different, but it took Eragon a moment to find out why. Once fully awake, he noticed that the others were restless, making haste, and breakfast was apparently postponed. Eragon's anger had subdued noticeably, replaced partly by sadness. During the long, quiet hours yesterday he had begun to allow his thoughts to float freely.

He was in some very strange place – or maybe just some other time, weird as the thought was – and he had no idea how he had arrived there. Or even less, how he could go back. This meant he was stuck, stuck with a person dangerous and with a temper, but most of all it meant that there were a whole lot of people he would not see again – ever. His heart was crying out to them, crying for help, but of course no one was there to answer. And mom... He could not bring himself to think further.

He approached Grimgald's horse from the side, waiting for the man to appear and to help him up as he had done before. Marus passed him by, as always frowning when he saw his cloak, but Eragon had no problem ignoring him. Suddenly a nasty smell reached his nose and true enough, Grimgald was at his side. Eragon forgot all worries for a moment, wondering if it was possible that the stench had even worsened over night. Part of him wished for something, anything to happen that would make the day bearable at least for his nose.

"Eragon!" Murtagh had arrived next to him, a tight grip on the reins of his fiery, dark grey horse. He pointed with his chin in the direction of its back and said something while watching Eragon expectantly.

His guts instantaneously convinced Eragon that Murtagh was momentarily the smaller of two evils. He accepted the invitation with a nod. "Yes. Up withyou." Something about the words he copied from Murtagh now brought a faint smile to the older one's lips.

When they were riding, the day still cool, Eragon found out that his new front man actually smelled very good. Not in a way that he was used to, not like fresh shower and perfume, but instead very… male. And strong. Eragon slapped himself mentally. It was happening again.

"You know," he informed Murtagh, just wanting to talk, "I'm so glad that you don't understand a word of what I'm saying. See, I just keep my voice nice and pleasant and you won't notice a difference between me complimenting your looks and smell, or me calling you an asshole. Great, huh? It's just as if you were a dog. Hey doggie. Boarhound." He giggled. "Seriously, have you ever felt like becoming a full-time recipient of titles that I make up? 'Eragon and medieval thespian Murtagh'. We could do a radio comedy."

Murtagh had turned his head at hearing his name and eyed Eragon curiously. He asked something, referring to Eragon, but the latter could only shrug. Murtagh took that as a yes and started pointing at random things, saying their names.

Someone is in a good mood today, Eragon thought, but nonetheless jumped at the possibility presenting itself. He repeated all the terms after Murtagh until they ran out of items to point at. Soon the warrior sat half turned around in his saddle and they were gesturing with their arms and even making faces, trying to get across the meaning of basic verbs and adjectives.

Several hours had passed and Eragon was deeply content with the way the day had gone so far. What a difference it was riding with Murtagh, and that was not only due to the spirited mount, which forced him to hug Murtagh at times so that he would not fall off. Although, if he was honest, that was part of it, too.

Eragon had caught one or two looks from Grimgald and Marus, curious, sceptical looks, and he was sure that they applied to Murtagh speaking so much, confirming Eragon's guess about the man in front of him not being much of a talker.

Around noon, all stopped their horses and Murtagh hushed everyone, staring ahead, highly concentrated.

They had emerged either at the end of the forest or at some vast clearing – Eragon was not sure which of the two. He shaded his eyes and eventually made out the silhouette of a settlement in the distance. Probably considered a town here, he told himself, if these were indeed medieval times. And a town means civilization. His pulse sped up.

"Ceunon," Murtagh said, pointing at it. Then he was talking rapidly to the other two, who looked at Eragon and seemed to disagree about something, but quickly let it go, agreeing to what Murtagh was saying.

Eragon remembered the name and figured that maybe Murtagh had wanted to tell him the day before that that was the place they were headed. Or not, he corrected himself a second later when Murtagh addressed him. Apparently he, Eragon, was not going. With so many words and much gesturing Murtagh told him that he was to stay here and wait for their return.

Eragon was slightly thrown off guard at the quick change of circumstances and felt more than just a little regret when Murtagh shoved him off his horse, but then the glorious realization hit him that being left behind did indeed mean being free.

Murtagh tossed him some food and pointed at a nearby small creek, telling him to eat and drink if he wanted to. Then he rode very close to Eragon and leaned down from his horse, all friendliness of the recent hours gone. "You stay here!" He pointed at the ground. "You. Stay. Here." He glowered at Eragon, one hand on the hilt of his huge sword.

That last motion had Eragon swallow, but he managed to hold the gaze and nod solemnly. "Yes." In truth he had to hide his excitement. "I stay here."

Murtagh watched him a moment longer before urging his mount forward, his men following swift. The horses thundered away, apparently more than eager to run after having kept a slow pace in the forest for so long.

Eragon stood unmoving until the small dots had lost themselves among bushes and other objects in the distance. Only then did he allow himself a small, jubilant cry. They have not bound me! I can just walk away! He hurried to the creek and drank thirstily, then relieved himself – remembering with embarrassment how he had had to 'explain' his need to Murtagh on their first night – and was ready to go.

Murtagh knew he wanted to go back to the tree where they had found him, so Eragon was certainly not returning the way they had just come. Not that he would find the place in the first place. No, the moment Eragon had laid eyes on Ceunon, he had known that he had to go there. Seek civilization. Find help. And do all this on my own, without the warrior!

"Thank you for the pleasant morning, mate." he murmured. "Still… Good riddance!"

He began to walk, his spirits lifting.