A/N: A few important things:

- Because of this chapter I hate myself for the different languages component. What I've settled for in the fic is that in "Eragon's" chapters, those words that he hears and that are still foreign to him are written how he understands them (and they're in italics. This is truly the chapter of italics). Naturally, he also says them as he hears them. It's a bit like phonetic spelling, only with normal letters. Or at least, it's one way of spelling the words. Of course, sometimes he gets them immediately right by accident. So anyhow, if you come across some strange word in italics, say it aloud, the meaning should become obvious then. "Murtagh's" chapters are the other way around, logically.

- Regarding the language issue in general: I hope I can make it halfway realistic, that's why later on there will be so much time between some scenes and also why I let Eragon be good with languages. Of course I'm no expert on the matter, but one of my brothers is able to learn a new language in no time, so in that respect, I'm kind of basing my Eragon on him.

- By the way, have you noticed the dates? They are different with regards to whose perspective the chapter is from. However, to simplify matters, I'm simply letting Alagaësia have the same calendar as the US, and I've only changed the names accordingly. I inserted the dates when the story was halfway done, realizing that it might get too confusing without them. So, please, always keep them in mind.

Life is not merely being alive, but being well – Marcus Aurelius

Chapter 4

July 13th

Asshole!

There were so many things Eragon needed to think about, so many plans to make, but his mind had wrapped itself around this one word.

It had been the second time in only a few days that he had been subject to violence carried out by the same brute. However, that was also where the similarities ended. A few days ago, at the little stream where Murtagh had punched him with the hilt of his sword, Eragon had thought that it had hurt, he had felt degraded. Now he could only grimace looking back. Today he had experienced pain, real, utmost pain, for the first time in his life. And the asshole Murtagh had brought it about.

He was lying on his side with his knees pulled up to his chest, and was staring at the shapes of trees that he could make out against the darkening sky. When after some time the position became uncomfortable, he slowly and carefully shifted to his backside, but it was already too much. A stinging pain shot from his stomach in all directions and handicapped the movement of his arms and legs. He drew in a sharp breath and lay motionless for a minute or two, trying to even out his heartbeat, to slow his pulse, to relax. Yet it did not work out the way he wanted it to and he felt part of the nausea returning.

He had thrown up earlier, shortly after the beating. Murtagh had let go off his arm and Eragon had simply dropped to the ground, down on all fours, and had vomited all there had been in his stomach – and more. The disgusting taste of bile had stayed with him all day, not contributing positively to his general condition.

After what he had learned to be his punishment, Murtagh had left him alone – as alone as possible when two people were squeezed together on one horse. Later, however, when the daylight had been waning and Murtagh had decided on a place to spend the night, the older one had begun talking to him. Or he has tried to, Eragon thought, for I have not let him. If Murtagh had at least shown some remorse, some guilt about having hurt him so, but no. He had rather seemed quite content with himself and had apparently wanted to continue where they had left off the previous day's morning. How dare he? Eragon told himself that he would not be talking to the other again until some sort of apology was made. And he would only accept one that Murtagh meant, because the actions taken had been wrong.

Thinking about the logic that the other probably saw behind all this made Eragon angry again. Yes, he had 'disobeyed' by not staying, but the command had come from someone who was holding him captive. There was no obligation whatsoever on Eragon's part to abide by Murtagh's rules.

Looking back, he was rather satisfied with the way he had made his opinion known, although he now realized that it could very well have led to a greater amount of pain. Fortunately, though, Murtagh had stayed calm and had only let go of Eragon to wipe the spit away. That was when Eragon's legs had given in and the puking had started.

At least, he thought grimly while massaging his stomach, at least I am cured from Stockholm syndrome. There is nothing likeable about Murtagh.

Asshole.

---xxxxx---

---xxxxx---

"Is good," Murtagh said, holding out a dried fruit.

Eragon regarded him with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. Murtagh did not stop trying. That's not possible! Nevertheless, he accepted the wizened, brown object the size of his thumb and bit off a tiny piece to taste it. Finding it delicious, he quickly shoved the rest into his mouth. He should have known what it was.

Murtagh was watching him expectantly. "Date. With hunney." When there was no reaction, Eragon saw what he had come to call a 'mood shift' in the other's eyes, going from hope to displeasure. "South of Alagaësia," Murtagh added quietly, before shrugging and rising to his feet, whistling for his horse.

Great! Two more useless words for me to find my way in this world, this Alagaësia. It was a strange name, and it goes without saying that Eragon had never heard it before.

He enjoyed the after taste of the sugared fruit a little longer and then got up as well, following Murtagh. He knew that they were going straight east to find some people, and although the forest called Du Weldenvarden never allowed for a fast pace as they were not following any real path, Murtagh likewise never allowed long breaks. To Eragon, it felt like some sort of race, just that he did not know who they were racing against.

All morning Murtagh had told him things, indeed completely ignoring what he had done to him the day before. This time, though, Eragon had not repeated the words; anything that could make Murtagh think he was forgiven was eliminated from the agenda. Yet he had listened closely, aware that only because he was being treated badly, he still had to gain knowledge of the language. The little episode with the soldiers of Ceunon had taught him that he had to learn how to communicate. So he had alternately watched the endless, ever present forest around him, or he had stared at the person in front, all the time reminding himself that the pleasant, low voice was only a trick, that the man it belonged to was a persona non grata.

After their little lunch break Murtagh became quieter, only mentioning things occasionally. This left Eragon's mind time to wander, and it soon arrived where he had not wanted it to go. It's just about time for baseball practice, said a little voice in his head, which started a flood of images. He saw his team mates, some of whom he was close friends with. He remembered their night at the movies, only one week ago, recalled how they had hung out at the mall afterwards. He was even able to picture the brunette waitress at the ice-cream place, and how he had laughed at his friends who had been trying to get her attention. He himself had been more interested in watching the cute boy behind the counter handle the different flavours.

Eragon swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat.

His high school came to his mind, the cafeteria with the greasy fries he liked to eat there, his locker stuffed with the books that he had always considered the greates threats in his life. Hell, even his Biology teacher suddenly seemed appealing and a truly nice guy. I would write a test every single day for the rest of my life, write it gladly, if I was back at school right now.

The horse stomped with one of his hind legs and called him back to the present. To reality. Or was it really? Eragon had a hard time believing that he was stuck there now, in such a strange, hostile world with even stranger, more hostile people in it, but somehow he doubted that he would suddenly return home just as magically as he had appeared. It made no sense. Actually, nothing about the whole matter made sense, yet there was a nagging feeling taking possession of him, a feeling that it was final. I am now in Alagaësia, wherever that is.

"There!" Murtagh pointed to their right, alert. "Look!"

Eragon was secretly thankful for the interruption and looked in the indicated direction. "I… no see."

"You don't see it?" Murtagh corrected while turning slightly in the saddle to glance at the other. Then he brought his head close to Eragon's, gazing in the same direction, and pointed again. A single syllable left his mouth.

Eragon felt both angry and shy at the intimacy of their bodies, acutely aware of a strand of Murtagh's hair touching his cheek. "Woolf?" His attention was wavering.

"No, wolf. Look, Eragon!"

Finally Eragon saw the grey animal, which was quite far off and nearly merging with the forest around it. He would have never seen it on his own. Still, he wondered why Murtagh placed so much importance on it. Are wolves rare in Alagaësia? "Wolf… good?" He bit his tongue. He had not meant to contribute at all to a conversation.

Murtagh turned around until he could truly look at him before explaining quite a few things. The only words Eragon could make out were 'wolf', 'good', and 'bad', and that Murtagh referred to himself, and then it turned into a jumbled mass of sounds, although the older one was talking slowly and precisely. Eragon believed that he must have made a dumb face when Murtagh suddenly laughed briefly. The sound carried far in the quiet summer afternoon, and the wolf was gone.

"Eragon leicks dates." Murtagh explained after a while. "And Murtagh leicks wolves." This certainly left out ninety percent of what he had said previously.

"Leicks," Eragon tried, convinced that he knew what was meant.

"No. Likes," Murtagh said slowly. "I like, you like, he likes." The laughter was long gone, but his eyes kept twinkling merrily.

When Murtagh turned around again, Eragon let out the breath he had not known he was holding. The laughter, the eyes… even now, with all that had happened, there was no denying. I guess I ended up with a truly handsome asshole, he concluded.

The afternoon passed mainly in silence, with their surroundings forever changing while at the same time always staying forest. Beeches, oaks, maples, and birches were the trees Eragon could identify, and numerous bushes were filling out the spaces between the stems. The floor was covered in moss, herbs and old leaves, with the occasional gnarled root or a swampy puddle of water here or there. He was able to spend about an hour like this, observing his surroundings closely, noting that it looked just like an average mixed forest. Once he had arrived at this realization, though, his mind was free once more, free to roam…

No! Eragon did not want to think again about things possibly lost.

The rest of the day he somehow managed to keep his thoughts in check as well as keeping Murtagh at bay with simple yes and no reactions to all he said. In the evening this earned him a snort from the obviously annoyed warrior, who moved some yards away from where they had eaten dinner to sharpen his weapons.

You have no right to be pissed, Eragon thought, all of a sudden feeling unbelievably lost. You hurt me, not the other way around. He glared at the other. I do not understand you, not at all.

Grabbing what was now his cloak, he looked around for a soft spot on the ground and found a moss covered place not far away. There he lay down with his back pointedly to Murtagh and closed his eyes, shutting out the grey twilight in the world around him. However, he was unable to sleep, and it was not only because of the rhythmic scraping sounds that Murtagh was still producing.

Thoughts held back all day were forcefully pushing their way through to the surface. Showers, cars, telephones, school, even friends… in the worst of all cases he could do without. Not easily, yet somehow he would manage. Make new friends. Deal with cold water. And horses. But my family?

In all clarity he saw a scene with his mother: She was working in their backyard, her long blond hair in a ponytail, a streak of dirt on her cheek, laughing at her own futile attempts to fight the rosebush in front of her. Eragon had rushed to her assistance, and had earned himself quite a few scratches as well as mashed potatoes with sausages that day.

"Mom…" Eragon whispered, unable to breathe. A few tears escaped his eyes, no matter how hard he squeezed them shut. "Mom," he whispered again, this time so quiet that it was only his lips moving. The thought of never seeing her again and not even having a chance of saying goodbye… She will be worried to death!

All of a sudden a sob escaped him, while the tears had begun to flow freely. Eragon tried his best, but he could not suppress his aching heart anymore. He missed her so much already.

The sharpening sounds had stopped immediately when the other noise had broken the silence. Between two more sobs Eragon heard that a heavy item was dropped to the ground and that Murtagh stood up – and came closer. The other always moved soundlessly, but Eragon felt him approaching as clearly as if he had eyes in the back of his head.

He quickly grabbed a corner of his cloak and stuffed it into his mouth to stifle the sounds. The tears, however, would not stop, and he angrily wiped at his face. It had taken all his willpower, all his vigour, to endure the beating soundlessly and thereby to prove his strength. He had known that Murtagh had wanted him to break down, which had motivated him even more to withstand the ordeal. So the last thing he wished for now was the other learning of his misery.

"Eragon!" Murtagh called softly, not far behind him.

Eragon remained motionless. Go away! he thought fervently. Leave me alone! I cannot face you at the moment.

Suddenly his shoulder was nudged lightly. "Eragon," Murtagh murmured, before asking what was going on.

Or at least Eragon thought that was what he was being asked, but he only shook his head. "No!" It was completely dark now, the night protecting his face that was wet with tears. Or not. Suddenly there was a finger on his cheek, feeling exactly that wetness. Eragon lay frozen for a moment, then slapped at the hand and curled up into a ball. Go away! he thought once more. I do not want you near!

"Eragon," Murtagh said a third time, albeit refraining from making contact. "Do you want to talk?"

If he had known the words, he would have asked Murtagh whether it was so hard to learn the answer to that question by himself. Instead, Murtagh just would not stop bothering him, enquiring stupid things. But then… brutes are not able to understand emotions or body language, are they? "No," he answered, all too aware of how helpless, how lost even that one syllable sounded.

Murtagh did not move for a while, but finally sighed and retreated.

That night, Eragon silently cried himself to sleep.

---xxxxx---

---xxxxx---

He was getting more and more tired by the minute. The monotony of riding through the forest from sunup to sundown for days on end was taking its toll. Eragon figured that if he had his own horse to pay attention to, he would be more attentive, more alert, but as that was not the case, he had no responsibility whatsoever to keep his mind busy.

The steady rhythm of the horse's walk, the warm sun on his back, and the buzzing of the insects around them made him very drowsy. He had to fight hard not to lean forwards and rest his head on one of the strong shoulders in front of him, although they looked very alluring. But slowly and inevitably his eyes fell shut and his body lost all tension. He was only dimly aware that his head did indeed fall forward eventually, one of his hands securing his body by wrapping itself around the person in front of him…

He was in the park again, taking a bath in the sun, his eyes closed to the bright light. He had agreed to give the farewell speech for their retiring baseball trainer, so now he was using the spare time to rehearse it over and over, changing around bits and pieces here and there.

Suddenly his surroundings darkened, quickly, and he opened his eyes, expecting to be surprised by a storm again. Yet this time he found himself in a pitch black world instead. Slowly he stood up and looked around, but there was only darkness in all directions. All the people that had been lying close to him had vanished, as had the trees of the park. He was alone. Alone in a dark and silent world… except… there was a light coming towards him, a blue light, nearing at great speed. It stopped when it was about to hit him, so dazzling that he had to cover his eyes.

After a moment the intensity of the light lessened and Eragon saw that it was coming from a stone of sorts, a blue stone the form of a perfect oval. He reached out to touch it, fascinated by the fact that a stone could glow so much, when all of a sudden he felt the presence of another person near, a presence filling him from head to toe with horror. He turned around in a flash – but there was nobody, only darkness. When he looked back at the stone, it was now in the hands of a man with blazing crimson hair. He had appeared out of nowhere, sneering at him with dirty teeth, his eyes shining maliciously in the blue light.

Suddenly Eragon feared for his life and panicked, although he did not know why. He tried to get away, to run, but his feet were rooted to the ground. With each breath it became harder to get enough air, and his heart was beating so fast that it threatened to blow his chest up.

"Mine," the man said triumphantly, "too late, Shadeslayer. Mine!"

He screamed.

Little by little Eragon came round when his hand was being patted and a concerned voice was repeatedly calling his name and making soothing noises. It took him a while to recognise who it was, but once he did, he was endlessly relieved to be back in his new reality and not in the dream anymore.

"Shall we rest?"

Eragon nodded, not quite sure what had been asked, as so often only guessing, and – as usually – guessing right. Not for the first time he was glad to have a linguistic talent.

Murtagh slid down the side of his horse's back and held out a hand for him, which Eragon took without much thinking. It had been three days since the beating, two since the embarrassing, teary night, and he had done his best to ignore the alternately worried or irritated Murtagh ever since. But at the moment, he was grateful for the company. The warrior he was stuck with came across as so strong, so powerful; Eragon felt oddly protected from the man with the red hair.

A dream! It was only a dream!

Murtagh led him to a grassy spot and urged him to sit down, crouching in front of him. "Have you slept badly?"

Eragon nodded weakly, surprised at how much his body was affected by the imagined turmoil. What's wrong with my unconscious? "Yes, badly. Here," he tapped his head, "badly."

Murtagh observed him sceptically until understanding dawned on his face. "You have dreamt badly."

"Dreamt?"

"Yes, as in dream… see people and things in your head when you sleep."

"Yes, yes," Eragon confirmed, sending Murtagh a forced smile. "Dreamt… fear." He was gradually regaining his usual state of mind and the horrors of the dream were fading away. Yet the pictures would not leave him completely, especially not that horrible man-like creature, and he wondered just what the hell it meant.

"'Tis all good," Murtagh said and reached out with one hand to cup Eragon's face with it. "I'm here."

Eragon was astonished to find that he did not mind the touch, but the words were not to his liking. Maybe Murtagh was 'protecting' him now from his dream, yet at the same time he was the person that had made Eragon suffer more than he ever had in his life.

The other must have read his expression closely, for there was another mood shift, hazel eyes were darkening, and worry was replaced by casualness. Murtagh dropped his hand and got up, then unsaddled his horse with expert hands. "We stay," he called over his shoulder, "it is all moast sundown..."

"Murtagh!"

The warrior looked up and threw him a questioning glance.

Eragon opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again a few seconds later. Did he want to talk about the dream? More yes than no. Did he have the words? No. He shook his head. "I'm hungry."

Murtagh scrutinized him for another moment before gathering wood for a fire. "I'm hungry, too."

Eragon hesitated only a moment before helping him. He needed to get his hands moving to divert his thoughts, and at the moment he did not feel like keeping up his passive resistance. "Where we… go?"

"Where are we going?" Murtagh always corrected him, but never impatiently or unfriendly as Eragon would have expected him to. "Ozeelon. A big city. Elves live there."

Eragon threw his armload of thick branches on the little heap Murtagh had created. "Ozeelon," he murmured. Most definitely he had never heard of a big city with that name. He opened one of the two saddlebags and looked for food, not asking whether it was allowed for him to do so. Probably it was not, he figured, but there was nothing besides food stuff for him to discover. "Your word, in end… what? I don't understand." He looked up and at Murtagh, noticing that somehow the fire was already burning. How has he done that? Did it go this quickly the other evenings, too? Eragon shrugged; he must have been lost in thought.

"Humans live in Ceunon. Elves live in Osilon. It's O-si-lon." Murtagh was watching him, one eyebrow raised at the unusual interest in talking that Eragon was displaying.

Eragon shook his head. "Humans? People live in Ceunon!" He did not see any difference.

"Well," Murtagh began, then pondered for a while. "Elves are people, too, I think. A person with two legs means it is a people." He made a break, slowing his speaking pace down. "But there are humans and there are elves. Different people."

"You and I…"

"… Are humans."

Eragon picked at his bread. "I don't understand. What are elves?"

"Different people," Murtagh repeated and chuckled quietly before turning serious again. "Elves are old. And beautiful. Whys. And often they don't say what they mean…" He was looking past Eragon now, staring into the distance.

Eragon observed the odd look on the other's face and suddenly he found the whole situation unbelievably funny. Has someone here made bad experiences? He had an idea what it could be about. "A woman?"

"What?" Murtagh asked sharply, his eyes narrowing.

Eragon smiled coyly. "I… dream? I… no words…" He grunted in well-known annoyance.

"Dream?" Murtagh had forgotten the food in his hands.

"In my head…" Eragon tried to make clear.

"Oh, I see. The word you mean is think. You think."

"Ah. I think." The smile was back. "I think you and a woman… an elves woman…"

With a snort Murtagh turned his gaze away and to the fire in front of him. "You know nothing," he said quietly.

"Talk!" Eragon requested without thinking. This is getting interesting.

Murtagh's face froze, although his voice stayed calm. "No. This is pri-wit."

"But-"

Murtagh held up a hand to silence him. "Pri-wit means that only I know," he said a little harshly. "You don't. I won't tell you!"

Slightly abashed, Eragon cast his glance down. He had meant to tease, not to tear open old wounds. "I don't… I… sorry."

Murtagh's features relaxed again the moment the threat was gone. "You were curious. That is understandible. And curious," he explained before Eragon could interrupt him, "means that you like to know things. Remember like?"

"Of course I remember," Eragon piped up, his pride a little hurt. He was struggling with grammar and conjugations, not with forgetting words.

"Of course you do," Murtagh appeased him. "And as for elves…" he added a while later, "beautiful. You will see. In Osilon there are elves."

And what will we do after Osilon, Eragon wondered quietly, the woman long gone from his mind. What will become of me? What do you plan for me? But he did not ask these questions. He was afraid to hear the answers.

---xxxxx---

---xxxxx---

Eragon crawled forwards through the wet, long grass, closing the gap on Murtagh. Part of his mind was insisting on the fact that he was doing a ridiculous imitation of a soldier in war; it was even ridiculous compared to a soldier in a movie. He shut that part up. Murtagh said it was necessary, and Eragon knew better than to object.

Murtagh nodded approvingly. "Soon you shall see elves."

Eragon bit his lip. By now he had heard quite a few things about these mysterious people and he was truly excited to see some of them.

Nearly one week had passed since his creepy dream. One week filled with trees, with riding, and with sleeping. And talking, Eragon admitted freely. He was a sociable person, and not a vengeful one on top of that. Out of boredom he would have started conversation at one point anyway, but in fact he had began quite early. He had not forgiven, could not imagine to forgive. However, he momentarily ignored what had happened and instead enjoyed the very companionable Murtagh he had gotten to know these past days. The older one simply knew so much. And contrary to their first days together, with the other men still around, he was now also sharing his knowledge, patiently answering all questions and breaking down difficult terms and concepts into easy words and short sentences. Sometimes Eragon even got a glimpse of the other's thoughts, although he would be the first to admit that they were very foreign to him. Still interesting, though…

"Alright, come here." Murtagh waved him even closer, shoving away a few branches of an elder bush. "Can you see the path?"

Eragon slid right next to him, acutely aware of the sides of their bodies touching. He stared at the clearing ahead through the little window framed by small, dark green leaves, and after a moment he was able to make out a narrow path at its long side. It was barely more than a trail left behind by the red deer so common in this area, and it would not surprise him to see some this early in the morning. "Yes."

"Now we'll wait."

"We will see many elves?"

Murtagh shrugged. "I don't know. I guess there will be two or three. A typical scowd partee."

Eragon frowned. "I don't understand 'typical scowd-"

"Quiet now!" Murtagh ordered, his body suddenly very tense.

Eragon sealed his mouth shut and nodded. If he had learned one thing in his time with Murtagh, it was not to risk the other's anger unless it was really worth it. As long as he was unsure whether he would profit from breaking the rules, he would comply. No matter how nice Murtagh was these days, Eragon had not forgotten that there was another part to the older one, a part that was never far from the surface.

Then he saw the elves and temporarily forgot about anything else.

For a moment, Eragon was too awed to even think. What he perceived were possibly the most beautiful beings he had ever seen. Three elves, all of them with long black hair and fair skin, clad in elegant, dark green and dark blue clothes, were leading their horses on foot along the path, moving with fluid movements and grace.

When he had spent some moments looking at them, he also noticed that their features were different from those of humans. Their eyes were slightly slanted, and, when he caught a glimpse of one ear beneath the hair, he saw that it was pointed.

Forget Hollywood. This could never be done with special effects. Eragon briefly smiled, then he was again captured by the sight unfolding. The elves did not seem to be walking, they were floating. Perhaps, due to the time of day, it was only the mist playing around their feet, but to Eragon they seemed ethereal. He watched them almost in trance, completely enchanted. Never in his life had he seen people with such an aura before.

Or had he?

Suddenly the skin on his neck and back was tingling and Eragon's stomach made an odd little squirt. A picture was forming in his mind, but it remained just beyond his grasp, frustrating him to no end. He looked at the elves again, at those beautiful people, the most-

Wait!

He tore his gaze away and pulled at Murtagh's vest. The raven-haired head shot around disquietingly, and the older one's face held an expression that Eragon had not seen before. Probably for that reason, the first thought entering his mind was that he should not be gaping after the elves so much, there was a gorgeous, striking man near and- No! He cut off his thoughts and instead motioned for said man to follow him. He crawled back for seemingly endless minutes until a confused Murtagh called for a stop.

"That was od, Eragon."

Eragon shook his head. "Od?"

"Doesn't matter." Murtagh waved it off. "Why did you want to leave? Every human that sees elves for the first time is usually an-tranced for a rather long periad, forgetting what really matters…" His thoughts were clearly drifting.

"Murtagh. You say much." Eragon was shaking his head once more. "Too much for my."

"Me."

"Too much for me. But not first time. I see elves before. No, one elves." Dear God. Eragon turned to heaven for a moment. Please, next time you sent me on a trip, please, please sent me somewhere where they speak English. I cannot take it anymore.

"One elf? You're saying that those weren't the first elves you've seen? You've seen an elf before?"

Eragon's mind was racing from processing all the sounds, although these days they mostly made sense to him. "Yes. The elf… it was a man. But no… hair. Not hair like the others or you." They had not yet spoken about colors.

"Hair like… Black? You mean black?"

Eragon nodded. "Not black. Elf with hair like me."

"Where, Eragon? You never told me."

I have not told you much at all, but you never notice, Eragon thought, irritated, before his memories of the elf kicked back in, pushing other matters aside. "I think… I-I see an elf in Ceunon." Why am I stuttering? "In prison." That's why.

"You… what?" Murtagh seized his arm and led him a few steps in the direction of his horse. "There was an elf in the prison with you?" He was apparently thinking back to that day, but shook his head.

"Not with me," Eragon corrected, chest all of a sudden tight. He had excluded thinking about that night thus far, because it had scared him badly, scared him of the future and of the soldiers doing something to him. "In prison, but not with me."

"In another cell? You could see him?"

"Yes," Eragon answered, the night freshly back in his memory. "He fears, I think. He sleeps, but… blood on him. Pain." He swallowed to suppress a hiccup. "And he dreams. He says things. All night." Any time he would prefer the wild, endless forest with Murtagh to that night with the muttering and groaning person in the cell next to him.

"Did you hear what he said?" Murtagh had grabbed his shoulder and seemed very close to shaking him. "Tell me!"

"I don't know if he said words," Eragon hurried to explain. "It was only… sound. Always sound. Brom."

"No!" Murtagh yelled and immediately cast a look around, shocked at his outburst. "Brom? Are you sure?" he asked, his voice subdued.

"Yes," Eragon answered tentatively. "Why?"

"Brom?" Murtagh began to walk up and down, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "Brom?"

What did I do? "Murtagh?" Eragon felt his heartbeat accelerating. What if I just sealed some person's fate?

Murtagh stopped in front of him, regarding him for so long without saying a word that Eragon became afraid that he had now also turned invisible on top all things. "Brom is… was… a Suretoogal."

No, I'm still very much there. "Suretoogal?"

"Never mind. Brom is dead, Eragon."

"Dead… The rabbit yesterday?"

Murtagh nodded, his mind obviously somewhere else. "Yes, the rabbit was dead, too." He stood unmoving for another moment before reaching with one hand up to his saddle, mounting his horse, and beckoning Eragon to follow.

Eragon moved closer, grabbed Murtagh's hand and put one foot in the stirrup to help himself up. "I don't understand. Brom dead? But... Where are we going now?"

"Maybe he isn't dead, after all. That would mean that… We must herry. I can imagine him steeling the agg, or helping with it."

"Agg?" Eragon asked, although there were more words that he had not understood.

"It's egg." Murtagh flipped his tongue, urging his horse to a canter right away. "Egg as in dragon egg."

"Dragon?" Eragon called. "What is dragon?"