A/N: Wow, I actually made it! I edited this chapter so much the last weeks, because I realized it had taken a direction I did not like, and while editing I got so unbelievably frustrated with what it was turning into that I wrote and rewrote the whole thing several times. For a few days I was then worried that I would not make the Thursday deadline. And now, after the changes in this chapter, I have to go and change so much in what's next… Oh well, I'll survive. I only hope it'll all be on time.
In defence of the boys: Eragon has just been through quite a lot of bad experiences and is all messed up inside, and Murtagh… well, Angelike Riddle said it best in her last review, I think: "Murtagh might be a little inexperienced as well -- at least on an emotional level."
To Talitian: You're so sweet, you know that? I'm glad you liked the chapter so much, and, as I think you've guessed, both characters do have some issues to work on. By the way, thousands of people on ff have an account only for favouring stories.
---xxxxx---
---xxxxx---
Ono néiat haina eka?: This actually translates into "you not harm me", which was the closest I could get to the desired meaning with what little vocabulary exists of the Ancient Language.
Néiat: Subsequently, this means "not". What I really wanted to say was "no", but there's no word for it…
It is not love that is blind, but jealousy – Lawrence Durrell
Chapter 13
13th Harvest Moon
How was your night, Rider?
Murtagh groaned. What I did a moment ago was waking up, not asking you for conversation. He opened his eyes and found yet another beautiful day dawning – until the huge head of his dragon blocked everything in his field of vision.
He's lying naked in your arms, and you are naked, too. How was your night?
Go away! Murtagh sealed their connection shut and instead turned his attention to the young man in his arms, and a smile crept on his lips. It was a gorgeous man.
With a puff of smoke Thorn trotted away and dropped to his stomach, watching both humans.
Murtagh lightly ran his fingers over Eragon's face, bit by bit exploring all the different textures. The brisk morning air had reddened the cheeks a little, but had not achieved to lessen the softness of the skin. The lips were drained of most of their colour and felt dry to the touch, but touching them Murtagh did, until some blood returned and painted them a wonderful shade of pink. And the hair… so soft!
After studying Eragon some longer, the thoughts of their very first meeting were back in Murtagh's head. A farmer from the south? He snorted. Not quite. Thinking about it, he decided that Eragon's skin was a lot lighter now than it used to be, so not even optically he was anywhere close to Murtagh's original suspicion. And no more lying around idly in the sun here in Alagaësia… While doubting that he would ever understand the customs of the other's world, regarding Eragon's skin colour it did not matter to him, anyways. Fair or tanned, all mine!
His smile widened when he recalled how one of his worst days had turned into such a night. First, there had been the horrible worry eating at him all the way from Ceunon, then, the endless relief when finding Eragon, finding him alive, and finally, the sexual relief both their bodies had screamed for. How amazing he is! And how amazing he feels!
A little frown fought its way to his forehead. But again, this Montana is strange. So… impersonal. Looking back, it was indeed odd how much Eragon had kept to himself. No eye contact, no kisses during the act. And little to no movement on his part at all.
What if something I did was strange for him, too – causing this? The frown deepened, and Murtagh let go of Eragon and sat up, one hand automatically reaching for his shirt and trousers. He had been a bit harsh last night, true, but there had been instincts at work, and he had felt those within Eragon, too, he was certain of it. And I've done everything else he could possibly need – before and after. But still… What if they are far more gentle during the act where he is from? He growled quietly, earning a questioning glance from his dragon, who was no witness to his thoughts. If that's the case, he certainly expected something similar from me our first time…
So many mistakes adorned the path of his life, but hardly ever any when sleeping with those who agreed to it. It had been a natural gift not only to find all the pleasure he wanted, but also to grant some to a consensual partner. He knew he liked it rough, but in a case like this he had always adjusted… But Eragon needed no adjustment, did he? I would have noticed…wouldn't I? With a shock, Murtagh realized that he could not remember. Apparently his body had been more than just a little driven by instinct.
He stiffly stood up, saw to it that the cloaks kept Eragon warm, and put on his vest and boots and all weapons except Orúm. I messed up. The idea stuck with him, bothering him forever more by the minute. Not knowing yet whether it was even true, he strongly disliked the mere possibility.
Eragon stirred, and Murtagh was at his side in an instant and kneeled down. "Good morning, little one." I guess he'll tell me off, then, he concluded his train of thoughts.
Eragon tore his eyes open, confusion and panic shading them dark. "Murtagh!"
"Shh. Did you have another bad dream?"
Gradually Eragon's features relaxed and he took several deep breaths. "Yes," he said absentmindedly after a moment, waving a hand in the air, "it was only a bad dream. No more." But he was avoiding Murtagh's eye.
"Next time, tell your dreams to leave you alone... You're a Shadeslayer now!" My Eragon!
"Shadeslayer!" Wide awake now, Eragon sat up, even began to rise to his feet – but only to grimace and to sink back down. He blushed and draped one of the cloaks around his waist.
"What is it? Your back? Your leg?" Murtagh cursed his healing skills, or rather, the lack thereof.
Eragon shook his head. "No. No they don't hurt."
"Good." Self-conscious again, then? Oh, Eragon… "And yes, you're a Shadeslayer," Murtagh resumed the conversation, wanting to distract. "It's a very, very good thing." He allowed his eyes to roam along Eragon's well-toned upper body. And what a pretty Shadeslayer you are.
"No, no!" Eragon shook his head anew. "I don't mean… He called me that!"
"Durza? When? Yesterday? Why?"
"No. Murtagh, do you remember many weeks ago, when I had a nightmare while we were riding? I didn't speak too well then."
"I haven't forgotten. What about it?"
"I… I dreamt of the Shade," Eragon said, somewhat astonished himself. "I forgot. I dreamt of him."
"Of… of this Shade?" The back of Murtagh's neck prickled.
"Yes." Eragon frowned. "I never knew who it was, but yesterday, when I saw him, I finally understood… In that dream, Durza called me Shadeslayer." He laughed a short, humourless laugh. "It was there, all the time! I just never made the connection between… between the horrible thing in my dream and what everyone told me was called a Shade!" He paused. "Why did I dream of him?"
Murtagh knew it was a riddle he could not solve. "I don't know. It's odd, to say the least. Are you… Have you ever had a dream like that before? Where you saw what would happen in the future, or saw someone you'd meet in the future?" Or do you have any other abilities similar to those of a Shade? he asked in his thoughts, concernced but also strangely curious.
"No…" Eragon said, pondering. "No, never," he decided after a while, dismissing Murtagh's unease. "But things are different here, maybe that's why… I don't know." He shrugged and sent the other a crooked smile.
Murtagh returned the smile, relaxing. "I don't know about different, but things definitely are strange here at times." He went from kneeling to sitting, more than glad that the younger one did not confront him about the sex just yet. He pushed the topic away from his mind as well. "That actually reminds me that there's something we need to speak about. Durza… he did not happen to mention a light furred cub to you?"
"A what?"
"A young wolf? No? Well…" Murtagh wondered how to tell Eragon, and decided to go for the truth… perhaps a well worded truth. "I've learned something in Ceunon, see? Don't let it worry you, but I think you should know. I learned of a prophecy." He scrutinized the younger one for a moment, but when there was only curiosity, he deemed it safe to continue. "Have you ever heard of Angela, Angela the witch? Good. Then listen…" He gave Eragon a detailed account of all he had seen through Marus' eyes, choosing what he said carefully, depending on whether Eragon was looking confused, afraid, or disbelieving at the moment in question.
Finally he ended the report by admitting that the prophecy did not completely make sense to him, and, by the look of it, Eragon whole-heartedly felt the same. "But whatever she meant, it drove the Shade here, or rather, it made him come looking for you, and I think it was something he found in Arya's mind that did the rest. She helped identify you, I think, with an image in her mind, perhaps. And now we have to reconsider just why you are not like others."
"Arya!" Eragon's eyes went wide, and he seemed to remember something, ignoring all else that had been said. "He said she has suffered for me! What is with Arya?"
"I don't know. Suffered?" Murtagh wondered whether anything in connection with Eragon would ever be easy or logical, and decided no. Suddenly he felt Thorn's presence again, asking for entrance, and he found two large, red eyes fixed on him. What is it?
I would have told you after you had answered my question, Thorn said casually. Arya is here as well. Found her this morning.
What? Murtagh was immediately on his feet. Where? How?
About three furlongs to the east, Thorn continued in the same manner, injured and under a spell. She was probably dragged along after Osilon, and Durza did…Shade things with her.
Without further thought, Murtagh started running.
"What's happening?" Eragon called, confused.
Murtagh skittered to a halt and turned around. "Arya's here somewhere, injured. I'm going to find her."
Surprise and anxiety overruled confusion. "Arya? Arya is here? I'm coming, I'm…" Eragon jumped to his feet, clutching the cloak to his waist, and scanned the ground all around him, an ever deepening frown on display. "But… but my clothes are destroyed!"
"Look in Thorn's saddle bags." Murtagh picked up pace again. "We will be in the east, not far, you'll find me!"
Following his dragon soaring overhead, he hurried through the forest and very soon caught sight of some bundle lying on the ground. When he arrived at its side, all earlier anxiety concerning the previous night were forgotten.
Arya was rolled up into the position Murtagh had seen dead foetuses in, her knees drawn up to her chest and her hands clenched into fists and close to her face. Her skin was dirty and bruised, and her hair tangled and matted. Behind closed eyelids, her eyes were darting around frantically.
Within moments Murtagh's hands were roaming over a very pale and far too warm elven body, feeling for any injuries that his eyes might miss. With relief he found his suspicions unconfirmed, but only until he took a closer look at the only obvious wound which was on her right shoulder.
He guessed that Arya had tried to bandage it on her own some time ago, with a strip torn from her tunic, but that had not exactly helped. He pried the grimy cloth away, and the stench escaping had him wrinkle his nose. A large, deep gash was greeting his eyes, and it was already rotting at the edges. Curse this!
How is she? Thorn had landed as close as he could, eyeing the elf curiously.
Not good. Murtagh picked Arya up and carried her over to a puddle of clear water. I'm helpless when it comes to inflammation. He began to wash the gash. You should have told me!
Thorn regarded him sceptically. …It's Arya, of all people.
Well, yes, but… I don't know. You should have.
In that moment, Eragon broke though the bushes and spared Murtagh any further confusing thoughts. The young man stood stark and stiff for a moment, taking in the picture presenting itself. Briefly, his eyes were locked on Murtagh's arms around the elf, and Murtagh saw him square his shoulders, but then Arya alone became the focus.
Eragon made a few steps, kneeled down next to Murtagh, and gently laid a hand on the woman's cheek. "Is she… she is alive, right?" His voice was a pitch higher than usual. "Her arm looks horrible!" Lines of worry spread on his face.
"She's alive, but not well," Murtagh explained. "Unconscious because she's under a spell. And her arm is infected, which is the most imminent danger." He paused when an idea struck him. "Quick, Eragon! I need the brandy. Get it!"
"Now? You want me to go back?" An unsuspected spark of rebellion flared up in Eragon's eyes, but then he looked down at Arya again and changed his mind. "I'll hurry." He vanished where he had come from.
For an instant, Murtagh found himself distracted by Eragon's concern for the elf, but then he shrugged it off and resumed washing the shoulder. Once the wound was clean, he sat back on his heels and brought up a hand to cup Arya's forehead with it. To confirm how feverish she was, but also to try to establish a mental connection.
The well-known red glow from his hand brought some life back to her face, but Murtagh knew it was only an optical illusion. Yet no matter how much magic he used, all he could find was a strong wall around her consciousness, and it was one that was not of her doing. Very faintly he could sense her presence, or rather, he sensed a tremendous amount of pain and anguish and it was in the language of her mind, but it was all behind that impenetrable wall.
He sighed. This is bad, Thorn.
And it's still only Arya, the dragon repeated.
Murtagh shook his head, his heart suddenly heavy. Yesterday this time, I thought that in the best of circumstances I would find Eragon in the state she's in…
Arya, Murtagh! Not Eragon!
Murtagh could not help but smile. Yes, I know. He looked at the woman in his arms some longer. But what about this: we'll bring her back to the elves and use that for a truce of sorts. I, for one, would not mind a period without the entire army at our heels. What do you think?
Hmm. The presence of a justified argument rendered Thorn speechless for a moment. Then do something so that she won't be dead for the occasion!
I'm trying. A moment later, however, he gave up on his renewed efforts to enter her mind. There were mental footprints of Durza everywhere, and he would have needed time and solitude to figure out how to breach or circumvent them. This is why you should have told me earlier that-
"Here!" A red-faced and panting Eragon had appeared out of the blue, carrying the brandy as well as his cloak. He draped the cloth over the main part of Arya's body, crouched down as earlier, and held the brandy out to Murtagh. "But… but you're not using it with the wound, are you?" His eyes darted back and forth between the alcohol and Murtagh's face.
Murtagh looked at the other, confused. "I wasn't going to drink it," he remarked sarcastically, then shook his head. "Of course I'll use it with the gash – it's inflamed." He reached for the brandy.
"No!" Eragon pulled his hand back. "Don't. It's not good. I know you think that you need it, but it's better without." He stopped Murtagh's next approach by grabbing the Rider's wrist.
Murtagh regarded the tight grip sceptically for a moment before yanking both his arm free and the flask from Eragon. "What do you mean?" He's so different today…
"In my world we know that you do it like this, but our syance has found out it's not good. Trust me, Murtagh. Don't do this to Arya. It might harm her!"
…only because of her? Murtagh's stomach made an odd, uncomfortable squirt. "You know what we do?" He could hear the strange tone to his voice himself. "How? Is there something you haven't told me?"
"No." Eragon nervously licked his lips, but made an apparent effort to keep his voice calm. "It's only that you, I mean, Alagaësia and the people here, you, her, the others, everything is like it was in my world in the… the old days, and-"
"Quiet!" Murtagh hollered, as angry as he always was when someone defied him, even though it was not just someone this time. "Watch and be quiet or leave me alone!"
A shadow immediately clouded Eragon's eyes and he withdrew a little. "Don't harm her! I know better with the brandy, it's-" He fell quiet when he noticed that Murtagh ignored him. "It never matters what I say… or not say," he whispered eventually with a strange edge to it, and then, with more force, "But you don't care, do you?"
Murtagh had opened the flask with his teeth and spat the cork out. "One more word and you'll be very sorry." He hardly noticed what he said. Pointedly, he turned his back to Eragon and poured the first amount of alcohol on the gash. Arya's body jerked up and she whimpered, briefly torn from the unconscious-like state of the spell by the burning pain. Immediately Eragon moved around Murtagh and took one of her hands once more, watching her with his lips in a tight line.
Murtagh changed the angle a little and poured some more liquid on the suffering flesh. Arya flinched again, and from the corner of his eye Murtagh saw Eragon flinch along, the pretty face contorted as if he was hurting. Don't, boy! Murtagh silently threatened, then tried his upcoming suspicion with more brandy – and received more flinching. All because of her? "Eragon," he began, voice dangerously quiet. "Stop that! You're bothering me!" He tore a clean strip of cloth from Arya's clothes and renewed the dressing.
Eragon was watching his every move. "I am bothering you?" he asked in a furious whisper. "Good to know." His glance wandered to Arya's sweaty face, and his tone softened. "It's only… I want her to live. I care for others." He fell quiet for a moment. "…You don't want me there when she's in your arms, do you?"
Murtagh bit back the sharp reply that immediately sprung up in his mind and instead lifted Arya and started carrying her towards their camp. Intentionally, he held her closer and more tenderly than he would have under any other circumstances.
"Where are you going?" Eragon called after him before stumbling to his feet and following. "Talk to me, Murtagh!"
"Talk to you? Talk to you?" Murtagh turned around and faced the younger one, seething. "You just insulted me, and before you would not stop bothering me. Listen closely, Eragon! I know you like her, and I know you want to take her and cuddle her and kiss her healthy again, but-" Eragon opened his mouth in protest, but Murtagh was faster. "But that's not an option, don't even try. I'll get her to the elves now. For that, I need Thorn, and for him, I need the saddle. If you're smart, you won't interrupt me." He walked on, his blood boiling.
Eragon stayed at his side, more stomping than walking himself, and grumbled something. He was, Murtagh was certain, swearing at him in English, but in the end he only demanded, "How did I insult you?"
If my hands weren't busy holding Arya… Murtagh tried to ignore the other, tried to control all body parts that were capable of dealing a blow or kick. Did he think of her last night? Was it that what made it strange? The thought made him sick.
Eragon sprinted a few yards and blocked Murtagh's way. "How?" Both his expression and his voice had a quality to it that Murtagh had not only not experienced before, but that he also could not place.
He did not like it at all.
Still, he would not answer yet. Instead, he went around Eragon and arrived at his dragon's saddle and put Arya down. "You said," he eventually produced between clenched teeth while fumbling with the leather straps around Thorn's body. "You said that… you rather implied that I don't care about anyone. After all that I've- You shouldn't have said that." He threw Eragon a sharp glance, but only to be slightly unsettled again.
The moment Murtagh had let go of Arya, Eragon had crouched at her side and taken her into his arms, cradling her close to his chest. However, he had not quit looking at Murtagh. "But do you care about… about anyone?" The question held a strange double-meaning, and so did his eyes.
This is annoying, Thorn suddenly cut in. Can't you end it? Little humans have the tendency to-
Murtagh shut him out. Reason was the last thing he wanted at that moment. "What do you think?" He nearly tore Arya away from Eragon and hoisted her to his dragon's back.
"I don't… answer me!"
With one swift movement Murtagh seated himself behind the elf. He looked down at Eragon, who returned his gaze angrily, although Murtagh thought he saw the corners of the other's mouth quiver, and those eyes… Blast it!
He swallowed down a lump in his throat and tore his gaze away. Something was completely wrong, so much he already knew. "I'll be back later." Thorn took off.
"Do you care?" Eragon yelled after him, his voice breaking.
Murtagh never answered.
After a few moments he threw one last glance to the ground, watching Eragon become smaller and smaller, thinking that he looked so very young all of a sudden. Young and helpless. And it was sadness that had replaced all other emotions on the younger one's face.
Something inside of Murtagh cracked. Gods above, Eragon! What happened?
Thorn sighed. If you want to know… You are being your father.
What? I'm… What? Go back!
I certainly won't.
Turn around! Murtagh yelled mentally, but Thorn only growled.
Get your senses back together first! We're going to the elves now. He slid through several layers of air until he found a wind suiting him, then increased his pace and rushed them east.
---xxxxx---
---xxxxx---
"Two months."
Murtagh nodded, his eyes on Islanzadí although he did not really see her. After all that happened. "… Two months." After last night!
The queen flicked her tongue. "But it goes without saying that the moment you commit any cruelty, raise the weapon against any of my people, this truce is void."
"Sure…" But he shouldn't care for her like that anymore! Murtagh shook his head, and for a split second he was surprised to find himself surrounded by elves. He pinched the bridge of his nose and scolded himself a bloody amateur. The meeting was far too important not to pay attention to. "Same for you. Attack me or my dragon, and we'll forget about this agreement."
Seems to me they're able to break the spell, Thorn remarked, being able to observe the bundle of elves around Arya from his heightened point of view.
A murmur suddenly swept through the crowd, and some of the hostility in the air around Murtagh was lessening. "It wasn't too late, then?" At least one thing I got right today.
"No. Arya will live," Islanzadí said tentatively, but when any sort of negative reaction on Murtagh's part failed to appear, she added, "which she wouldn't without you. I owe you my thanks, Rider."
Again, Murtagh only nodded. Was this worth being harsh towards Eragon, Thorn? "…Excuse me?" Something else had been said.
Thorn snorted, which caused a little flame to show at the tip of his snout and had several elves draw their swords. Was any harshness needed in the first place? A dragon would have known better…
"Unless you mean to go against your Rider, Thorn, you will not provoke us!" Islanzadí shot the huge head above her a stern warning glance. "I said," she turned back to Murtagh, "that I was not the only one surprised by your deed."
Is that hope in her eyes? "I surprised myself. But imagining someone else in her position scared me and-" Murtagh bit his tongue and glowered at the queen. "Work your magic on someone else," he growled. "My motivation is my own!" He turned around and stomped to his dragon. "Two months it is," he called over his shoulder.
Immediately Thorn hurled himself up and gained altitude. You just turned yourself into a complete mystery for them, he commented with amusement. Emotions were the last thing they expected from you.
Emotions! If I have any at all, it's always the wrong ones showing! Murtagh straightened up and threw his head back, longing for the cold wind to wash away some of the recent insanity from his mind. Soon he noticed, however, that it was no more than wishful thinking. In less than an hour so much has changed… Why?
I'm not sure what you mean. But at least Thorn seemed in a mood for the conversation.
You know exactly what I mean! Earlier you said I was my father!
Again Thorn had found a wind that pleased him and he turned west. You were. And you were on a course of self-destruction.
Self-destruction? I was only-
Shut up, Rider! Without warning, Thorn drew in his wings and dropped several yards, knowing exactly how much Murtagh detested this. Once he sensed the desired nausea through their connection, he resumed flying peacefully. The little thing has crept into your heart, he explained, and with going mad like that you'll only cut your own flesh. And I'll never get my female dragon.
Crept into my- As if, Thorn. And I am not going mad. Too many people around me have done that already.
Then shut up already and settle this! It is annoying! Thorn cleared his mind of any coherent thoughts and instead regarded the sky around him, adorning it with countless adjectives and comparisons.
With a somewhat angry sigh Murtagh understood the hint and did not force any more questions or musings on his dragon.
---xxxxx---
---xxxxx---
Thorn landed close to the horses, sending the hobbled Cadoc stumbling deeper into the forest. He's out on the grassland, in case you were wondering…
Murtagh untied himself from the saddle, slid down, and after a moment chose to leave Zar'roc behind, wanting to look as harmless as possible. Walking in the indicated direction soon turned into a swift jog towards the plain. His mind was blank, and had been for a while, so he simply decided to go with the moment and situation at hand. If only he hasn't cried…
Soon the forest thinned out around him, but only when he had left it behind completely did he catch sight of fair hair amongst the yellowish see of grass, both rippling in unison when a light wind came up.
"Eragon," Murtagh called softly to announce his presence, but he could as well have whispered it, for Eragon failed to react. Hesitantly he neared the other, who was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs. So…small.
Murtagh came to a halt about a yard away, and after standing there rather stupidly for a while, sat down on the grass as well. For some reason, being close to Eragon brought memories back to his mind, and it were not the pleasant ones of the previous night, but instead he saw once more how the other had held Arya this morning, his eyes tender when watching her, accusing when watching Murtagh…
"You're back." Eragon's voice was even and calm, resigned somehow. He had yet to look at Murtagh. "How did it go?"
Murtagh took one deep breath. Talking is always a good start, they say. "Good, I think. We've made a truce."
"A… what? What about Arya?"
Murtagh grimaced. "She'll survive."
Eragon remained motionless.
"…Happy?" Murtagh eventually asked.
Eragon looked at him for the first time, and it was a very strange look, one that Murtagh could not identify. "Yes, I am happy. Are you, too?"
No, Murtagh decided, he hasn't cried. He felt a little better. The other's tears had an unsettling effect on him, and they would have made this so much more difficult. As often before he recalled that one night in the very beginning, and the mere memory had his chest tighten. Even back then the tears had been disturbing, and to imagine that now he could have been the cause for some reason… No! He hasn't cried. It can't have been too bad, then.
After a while, he realized that Eragon had actually worded a question, but he refrained from replying. Eragon would not get sarcastic with him.
"No answer?" Eragon was randomly pulling out blades of grass, his face averted once more. After a while he sighed and asked, "Are we going to this Brom now? Can you tell me at least that?"
"Yes, we are." It seemed as if the question had actually been a different one, but Murtagh was only able to answer the obvious.
"Shall we get the horses?"
"We should."
Neither moved.
"Are you riding along with me?"
"Yes."
His previous nineteen years assured Murtagh to carry on in this manner, but all of a sudden both his heart and his conscience made themselves heard, and after he had stomached his surprise, he changed course. Curse this! "Eragon… I do care." He had to clear his throat. Look at me, please! "And… and it's you that I care about." And I've never said that to anybody. "And I do care about what you say, and-"
"Stop!" Eragon held up a hand to silence him. He turned his head towards Murtagh, his face distanced, far away somehow. "Those are only words. This morning you did not care about what I said. All you cared about was… was…" He fell quiet and never finished the sentence.
The way his precious, rare words were ignored was like a slap in the face, a blow that took some time to recover from. In the end, Murtagh only asked mechanically, "What did I care about?"
"You better ask what you did not care about!" Anger was creeping into Eragon's voice. "It's all well as long as you get what you want, is it not?"
Murtagh leaned back from the other. "So this is about last night," he guessed, and guessed right. While earlier the day the topic had made him fret, he now mentioned it bitterly, mentioned it like an accusation.
Eragon grunted, his face disbelieving. "You… what? Last night? This is about last night? I knew it!" He jumped to his feet, looking down at the other. "When I saw you with Arya this morning, I knew that… knew that you… you only conquer, right? You told me all that about her so that you could have me… use me… but you really want her, right?" He was downright yelling at Murtagh. "Now that you had me, you're going back! I knew it!"
The bastard is blaming me? Me? Murtagh was rendered speechless and motionless for an instant, but then jumped up as well, clenching his hands into fists. "You dare telling me that?" he hollered. "All you did last night was think of her! You did not even look at me! And here I was, afraid that I had done something wrong!" He spat to the ground at Eragon's feet. "Don't ever, ever, accuse me of using you again!"
Eragon watched him throughout the whole shouting, his face set and defiant, even though, as earlier the day, the corners of his mouth were now quivering. "The way you held her this morning… You didn't want me there!"
Murtagh shook his head. "I wanted you to quit interfering," he explained, then felt the fury inside rise again. "But you! You were all worried about her, and when you got a hold of her… You cradled her in your arms!" He kicked at a stone at his feet; the memory was hurting as much as the one of Eragon and Arya kissing, only this was so much more recent.
Eragon regarded him endlessly without saying a word, only the wind rippling in his hair causing any movement on his part. Finally he spoke, frowning. "You say that… I want Arya? That I thought of her last night?"
"You didn't?"
"No! Curse you, Murtagh, no!" Eragon yelled, desperate. Right after, he broke eye contact and made a step away, shaking his head. Murtagh thought that he had seen tears beginning to form. "You are the one liking her! Like her better than me. You care, you say? You care, maybe… about her!"
The tone in which the shouted argument was presented pierced right through Murtagh's thoughts, and now it was his turn to be silent for long minutes. As far-fetched as the accusation was, there was no denying that Eragon truly believed it. Little by little Murtagh's anger ebbed away, and it was replaced by an ever growing realization. "Are you…" he began, looking at the other who did not return his gaze, "are you jealous of her?" A mixture of a laugh and a bark escaped him. "Of Arya?"
Eragon turned his attention back to him, his face well composed again. "You like her," he repeated more calmly.
How stupid! Now Murtagh was laughing in earnest, even though it was shrill and humourless. "You like her! Not me, you! No, don't say a word!" He choked on his laughter, and the following coughing fit wiped some of the momentary madness away. "Can't you see, Eragon?" he asked in an almost excited whisper. "It's so obvious!"
Eragon just watched him, his lips pressed together, and Murtagh dearly missed the spark of hope or understanding that usually showed in the blue eyes when he explained something.
"I do not like Arya. I… I hate that woman. Still, others I hate even more, I now know that, and… somehow I don't think it was wrong to save her life. But I do not like her."
"…You don't?"
"Do you?"
Eragon grimaced. "I… you know I do. But," he hurried to add, "I've told you I don't like her like you thought… And now I think I know what you mean."
They were both quiet then, the only sound caused by the wind sweeping over the plain. Their eyes were locked, and Murtagh knew that Eragon was judging him just as he was judging the worth of Eragon's words.
"Well…" Murtagh eventually broke the silence, "why did you avoid looking at me last night if it wasn't about… you wishing there to be another face? I mean, you didn't… did you?"
While Eragon was still shaking his head in answer, his mask suddenly fell, and from one moment to the next, tears were running down his face. "I… should I have looked at you?"
What kind of a question is that? "Well… yes."
Eragon nodded, squeezing his eyes shut which sent more tears rolling. "Then I know now… Would it have changed something, though?"
"Change? So you wanted it differently? Wasn't it-" Murtagh paused, remembering what he had pondered about that morning. "How do they do it where you're from?" All of a sudden he was dreading the answer. "Different?"
"Different?" Eragon sat down, or rather sagged down. "Maybe. I don't know."
Murtagh quickly sat down as well, extended one hand – but pulled it back before making contact. Even with as little as he knew about relationships, he felt that it was a crucial moment. Last I need now is for him to shy back from me. "I know that in different regions there might be different… forms or levels of intensity of sex," he began carefully, lied carefully, for he only guessed and did not truly know. "But different doesn't mean that it can't work out," he explained eagerly. "Just tell me how it is in your world and we'll find a way. We'll make it good!"
Through his tears, Eragon actually smiled at him, but it was a sad smile. "I don't know."
Murtagh licked his lips in utter concentration. "You mean… you don't know what I mean?" He was concerned of getting any part of his argument wrong, too well aware of how big a mystery the workings of Eragon's mind still were to him. "I think that some practices are probably different in our two worlds," he reworded his earlier sentence, "and maybe only very few the same… Well, the only one I can think of is that with virgins, you should be careful everywhere." And yet, the moment he said it, scenes from his past flashed in his mind, scenes where he had inflicted tremendous pain on several of said virgins, not caring, laughing about them afterwards. Now, however, the memory made his cheeks burn in shame. "Apart from that, though-"
"Murtagh!" Eragon croaked, "I do not know any differences or anything… anything same in our worlds!"
What? "You… don't? But how…? Why?" How can't he?
Eragon swallowed hard, blushing as well. "I-I-I," he stuttered, then took a deep breath and broke the eye contact. "I," he began anew, sobbing, "I have n-not done it… before… before yes-yesterday."
No! "No!" After an instant in which his heart had frozen, Murtagh was on his feet again, pacing to and fro, throwing an occasional panicked glance at Eragon. "Tell me that's not true! Tell me!"
Eragon hung his head and his shoulders were heaving with every sob. He did not answer, only cried.
"You… You're a man!" was all Murtagh could think of to defend himself. "This can't be! You're a man!"
It earned him Eragon's attention. "I'm sixt-t-teen," he pointed out, "not a man."
"What? But-"
"Not wh-where I am from! I'm not a man… at home." His voice broke. "Murtagh, I am sixteen!" For him, it was apparently all the explanation that was needed.
And in any case, it was enough for Murtagh to understand.
He stopped dead in his tracks, his heart hammering in his throat as it usually only did on a battlefield. A virgin? An ice-cold shiver ran down his spine. I took a male virgin like that? One look at Eragon convinced him that he was not having hallucinations or a nightmare. No! Fate, no!
Eragon was looking at him now, his eyes wide and wet, everything about him proving just how much he was hurting, but also that he was… expectant?
Murtagh's heart rate increased. I am to do something? But… but what? Suddenly he felt sick to he core.
Eragon slowly raised a hand up to breach the distance between them. "Murtagh…"
In the mental blackout following, Murtagh just turned around and ran, ran as far away from Eragon as he could, ran until his lungs were on fire.
---xxxxx---
---xxxxx---
Thorn sighed. Two yards to your right.
Ah. Murtagh quickly covered the distance and picked up Zar'roc, which he had been searching for a good five minutes. The lack of success was probably due to him not really seeing the ground at his feet – and Eragon watching his every move.
"Straight west!" Murtagh called, his voice strangely twisted. "I… I'll find you."
Eragon just stood there, not indicating whether he had understood or not. With his shoulders hanging and a face like that of a person condemned to death, he kept staring at Murtagh until dragon and Rider had disappeared out of view.
---xxxxx---
---xxxxx---
A very light shuffling of feet had Murtagh freeze to the spot.
Peering around the corner of the house, he saw a cloaked figure hurry through the dark alleyway. Judging by the size and the small shoulders he figured it was a woman. His guess was confirmed a moment later when she stopped in front of a house, looking carefully from left to right. Then she pulled back the hood and nervously ran her hands through her long locks before knocking on the door. Only seconds after, the door was torn open by a young man with a candle in his hand, and, upon seeing the woman, a radiant smile on his lips. In the next instant, she threw herself in his arms and subdued laughter reached Murtagh's ears. Still hugging each other, the two went inside and closed the door.
Murtagh swallowed down the lump that had formed in his throat. Even those who harbour a secret and forbidden love affair are happier than we are… It took him some effort to clear his mind of the last picture he had of Eragon and instead focus back on the task at hand. With three swift strides he had crossed the street and entered a small alleyway.
When the sun had still been above the horizon, he had spied on Carvahall from a little hill in the surrounding woods, and eventually he had made out the tall, proud form that he had been looking for. Brom had looked alert back then, though, watchful, and now Murtagh was concerned that the former Rider would use the cover of the night to vanish just as he was using it to approach.
When he neared the house he was aiming for, his steps became shorter and even more careful; in the end, he only tip-toed. All was quiet in this part of the village, no light shone from any of the neighbouring houses. Slowly Murtagh crept around Brom's home to see whether there was a backdoor or any open shutters. The back of his neck was prickling, sending constant warnings, and his magic was only fractions away from breaking free and turning the whole place to shreds. Somehow the mere possibility of Brom being present made Murtagh feel ten years younger – and ten years less experienced.
After finishing the circle he was standing at the front door and took a deep breath. There is no one in this world that I don't stand a chance against! He vehemently ignored his heart, which disregarded his warrior skills and instead screamed back at him 'There is!'
Soundlessly he drew his long sword, and wished he had the shorter blade to draw as well. But when he had left Eragon he had not been able to take Orúm away, too afraid of another unwanted danger that the younger one could have to fight against. The Ra'zac could be close…
Quite angry with himself for getting distracted again, Murtagh shushed any thoughts and instead called upon his instincts.
Little by little he lifted the door latch, then pushed the door open forcefully so that it did not provide a hiding place for an enemy.
The room in front was dark, and the little cone of moonlight that Murtagh had let in did not allow him to see further than the length of his sword. Swiftly he closed the door again, not wanting to be such an easy target against the subdued light.
Once the outside world was shut out, he allowed his magic to flow freely, and through the gloves the red light illuminated the shapes of a table and chairs at his left, and a fireplace to his right. In front of that fireplace stood an armchair with its back to Murtagh, and the moment his eyes graced it, the prickling on his neck became almost painful. Every muscle prepared to strike, he circled the armchair.
It was not empty.
The moment Murtagh perceived the person, a spell ready in his mind and his sword eager in his hand, the person moved – and lit a candle.
"Murtagh." The candlelight with its deep shadows showed each and every year of long life on Brom's face. He looked calm, or at least, he would have to most onlookers. Murtagh, however, was not fooled that easily. The taut muscles caught his eye, as well as the too fast breathing caught his ear.
"Brom." Involuntarily he inclined his head a fraction, and was well aware that the other would not miss this sign of respect – and that it was involuntary.
"Look at my right, Rider." Brom said, his voice deep and a little raspy. "I only need to pull at the rope and the entire first floor and roof will come crashing down. Kill me, if you like, but the whole village will know you're here."
One corner of Murtagh's mouth twitched upwards in a smirk. "Are you trying to scare me with that?"
"No." Brom was smirking as well. "But you have put a lot of effort into getting here unnoticed, and I'm sure you want to leave secretly as well."
Damn you, old man! But finding out that Brom had known he would come, and had apparently used the last hours for preparation, raised Murtagh's guard even higher. While he was not afraid to cross swords with the older man, well aware of his superiority in strength and agility, he knew what the other was capable of in all other aspects, and he had been warned of a brilliant mind. After all, the fall of the Forsworn was largely due to this one person. "I have not come to kill."
"No? To steal the egg, then? It isn't here."
"I know. And why would you call it stealing in the first place? It belongs to… us."
Brom's eyes narrowed. "The king has stolen it long before I did!"
Murtagh shook his head, mentally pushing back the attack spell he had readied. "It belongs to the next Rider, and it will be the egg choosing him, not us. But I have not come to talk possessions, either."
"No?" Brom asked again, but did not have a third alternative prepared. "What is it, then?"
"Talking, perhaps? Isn't that what two people do if they don't kiss or kill?" Murtagh asked sarcastically.
"I will not talk to someone whose body is as set on murdering me as yours is." Despite these words, though, and Brom's general alertness, there was no mortal fear visible on his part, and Murtagh wondered what he might have up his sleeve.
"It is not for you to set the terms!" Murtagh hissed, but at the same time realized that in the end, he wanted Brom to do something for him and thus should go about it differently. "Fine," he amended right after, "I'll get a chair." Walking backwards in the direction of the table, he clearly saw the sceptical look on Brom's face, probably to do with his quick concession. Just do some wondering, old man. I have some surprises up my sleeve as well.
A moment later he had grabbed a chair and neared the candle again, sitting down about three arms' length from Brom. He lowered his sword arm, but did not let go of the weapon.
After that, they sat silently for long moments, staring each other down.
All of a sudden something to Murtagh's left rattled, and shortly after an item dropped to the ground with a loud clang. Like a flash he was on his feet, bringing distance between both him and Brom, and him and the noise. Meanwhile Brom had jumped up likewise, his before hidden sword ready in his hand. His eyes darted back and forth between his unwanted guest and where the tumult had come from. And right there, in a moment where both humans were looking, a cat emerged in the cone of candlelight, a mouse in her mouth. Unperturbed, she walked, almost paraded, the front line and then vanished in the dark again.
"Undbitr still suits you well," Murtagh remarked after a while, "and it still looks sharp, too."
"Of course," Brom said grumpily, "who am I to abandon my sword?"
Shall I, or shall I not? As, so far, he felt nothing of his father's hate towards this man, Murtagh decided to take the initiative in a more trustworthy manner. "The next cat might start a fight," he tried to joke. "We should put our swords away."
Brom cocked his head and studied him for long moments, then gave a short nod. "Over there!" He pointed to the table.
Overly cautious, both neared the furniture, and after some hesitating put their swords on top. Their steps exactly the same length, they walked back and sat down.
"Ono néiat haina eka?" Brom suddenly asked sharply.
"Néiat!" Murtagh replied. "And I'd like to get to the matter now."
Brom motioned for him to begin and, while closely watching Murtagh, began fumbling with a pipe.
"I take it you have heard of the prophecy?" Murtagh knew that for Brom, living as far away from everything as he did here in Carvahall, the distance did not mean a shortage of news.
"I have," Brom agreed, face impassive. "Have you inherited the title?"
Murtagh grimaced, preferring not to be reminded. "I have. Wolves are a family thing."
Brom nodded. "Who's the light cub?" came the next, inevitable question a moment later.
"A young man," Murtagh replied, not yet willing to give too much away. At the same time, his strictly controlled thoughts were briefly overruled by emotion, and it was as if a dagger of ice pierced his heart when he thought about the pain he must have inflicted on Eragon. Not only during the act, but also after, when running away instead of comforting, as Thorn had pointed out more than once on their flight here. The wolf was supposed to protect the cub…
"Why did Angela speak of dragons, not dragon?"
"I don't know."
Brom scrutinized him again for some time, but in the end seemed to be convinced that Murtagh had spoken the truth and returned some of his attention to his now glowing pipe. "Why did you come?"
Murtagh smiled in anticipation of the reaction. "To ask a favour of you."
Brom's head shot back up and he coughed on the recently inhaled smoke. "A favour?" he asked, wiping at a wet eye. Then he laughed a little. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Perfectly sane," Murtagh commented, still smiling. "I must say, I have often imagined what it would be like to meet you, but I never thought you'd lose your composure like that in the process."
"Respect your elders," Brom mock-scolded, but then seemed to remember that he was not talking to some children from the village. He turned serious again. "I need more information."
"Certainly." Murtagh nodded. "This is about the light cub, actually, for he needs protection. By now, about every party involved wants him, I think, even the elves whose guest he has been." It was not as if he was unaware of Brom's growing astonishment, but he just continued, his thoughts on Eragon, his heart heavy. "This is really about his safety, see? The favour I was talking about only consists of me… me being happy if he's well."
Brom raised an eyebrow at this, but else hid his thoughts behind a mask. Eventually he said with a hint of amusement in his voice, "I'm afraid I still need more information."
Murtagh nodded again, having expected no less. "The name is… Eragon. And he's from far away, very far away. So far, that he has never heard of dragons or Riders, has never ridden a horse, never held a sword." And these things he does so wonderfully nowadays. "He… he has learned, of course, but he's not up to this war. He should not be. It isn't his." He went quiet, his chest tight. And he needs someone to care for him as he deserves.
"I never knew there could be remnants of your mother behind those looks," Brom murmured, almost to himself, then asked more loudly, "Alliances?"
Murtagh had shot the other a sharp look at the comment, but could not detect any hostility behind the words. "None. Opposed to the king, though, I think I can safely say."
"And travelling with you? I've yet to hear of someone surviving those circumstances…"
"Don't judge what you don't understand!" For a moment, Murtagh glowered at the other. "He… it wasn't exactly his choice," he carried on more calmly, "but now it is." Is it still, though? some small voice asked. "…What do you know of friendship, Brom?"
The old man considered his answer. "I was friends with your father once… What else do I need to know?"
Now his anger got the better of Murtagh. "Do not imply that I would betray him! I am not Morzan!"
Brom smirked. "You sure look like him."
"A son doesn't choose his father!" Murtagh needed all his willpower to remain sitting, knowing that all else would be seen as an act of hostility.
Brom must have sensed the anger, for he inclined his head a little and said, "Well spoken, Shurt'ugal."
Murtagh took a deep breath, shot the other a last warning glance, and continued. "I wanted to say that we're friends, despite all differences, despite all obstacles." And all of those flooded through his mind now, and he dearly wished that they still were what he was telling Brom, especially because they were even more. "Believe me, I have not made it easy on him – you know what they say about me, right?" He grimaced. "So much of it is true, and so much he had to experience… but not anymore." Liar! "I want to bring him to you, for I must go to battle, and I will not take him anywhere close to danger."
Brom thought for a long time, his posture noticeably relaxed now. His bushy eyebrows were drawn together in concentration. "How old is he?"
"Sixteen, but not a man where he's from." Murtagh swallowed.
"And you want me to… look after him? Protect him even? Look at me! I don't have a warrior's body anymore, and my magic… Tsk! I shouldn't be telling you that!"
"Fear not. I'm not your enemy." Truly, he isn't. Who would have known?
"I did steal the egg…"
Murtagh chuckled. "Aye, but take a look at who you've stolen it from. As long as it doesn't get into Varden hands, I'm happy it's gone from Uru'baen. And yes," he added, stressing the words, "I know you founded the lot of them." He could see that Brom had not known that he knew. His smile turned into a smirk. You're not the only one with information…
"You didn't answer my question," Brom changed subject.
"True. Well… All I want is for you to let him live here with you, and all you have to protect him from are the evil's of a normal life in Alagaësia. Believe me when I say that he doesn't know those. Apart from that, I'll see to it that battle will stay as far away as possible from Carvahall."
"Why me, of all people?"
"Who else could I possibly ask?"
Brom chewed on the end of his pipe. "I am Varden, after all."
"You have brains," Murtagh pointed out. And I'm having a good feeling about this, he added silently.
Once more Brom retreated into himself for a while. "I must say," he finally opened conversation again, "that you have me curious about this man… boy… Eragon."
"Can I bring him, then?" Murtagh asked a bit too eagerly, and bit his tongue. "I mean, I don't like for me and Thorn to stay too long in this area – it might draw attention."
Brom slightly rocked his head from one side to the other. "I would say yes," he told his excited audience, "but what if those that you don't have control over decide to look for him? What if it's useless for you to keep trouble away from him if trouble is coming here?" He leaned forward and folded his hands. "What I'm talking about is… What about Durza?"
"Oh," Murtagh said, and a wide, proud smile spread on his face. "Durza, you ask? To be honest, I'm not sorry that I can counter your only counter-argument so easily. Eragon killed him."
For the first time that night Brom was quiet not because he was pondering, but because he was speechless.