Author's note: Okay, so I think Saphira will find out soon, maybe in the next chapter. And since I'm not gonna be able to have Eragon and Murtagh meet up just yet, I'm thinking about tiding everyone over with a slashy dream or something. What do you think? Thanks for all of the reviews so far, and please keep it up! It makes me update faster . . . :) Sorry for the bad formatting I hoped this attempt fixes it. If not . . . . shrugs

-1The day had passed uneventfully, and Eragon felt no real physical exhaustion when Saphira landed him at the slowly growing camp. He dismounted regretfully . . . . Saphira's strength would have allowed them to travel further, but the men and the horses tired far more quickly. Even so . . . He felt hurried, somehow, as though time would be them to some final end. The plains had faded behind them, and they followed the Jiet as well they could, towards Leona Lake . . . Eragon disapproved of this relatively direct route. "I'm going to find Roran," he told Saphira, and his face said it wouldn't be a fun conversation.

Well, then, go! she told him with that sensation of a laugh. I'm going to hunt anyway.

"Be careful," he warned her as she took off again.

Always am, dear one, Saphira replied cheekily as she faded into a small pinprick in the sky. Eragon shook his head and laughed. He kicked a small stone at his feet and rested his hands on his hips . . .no doubt Roram would come to him in a few moments, inquire vaguely about his day, and stare right through him as he talked.

Sure enough, Roran strode up to him. "Everything went smoothly up there, then?" he asked, looking over Marcus's shoulder as though he expected some sight of Katrina. Eragon wanted to express some sympathy for him. He, too, was longing for someone who wasn't there . . . And he swallowed. Roran looked at him, misinterpreting the action. "Are you all right?"

Eragon tried to smile at him. "I'm well enough . . ." he said, and tried to shy from that odd stare Roran gave him.

"Come on," Roran said with genuine affection. "I've known you your whole life . . . We grew up together. I can tell that something's wrong. Is it just the strain of this war?"

"War?" Eragon said hotly. "I hate that word . . . Why does everyone keep saying that? All around, everyone goes on with their lives, loving and being. I always thought of war as one never-ending bloody battle. Now I find that this is war? A series of purposeful strikes from one side or another? What defines war, anyway? Can you only tell from pain?"

Roran looked at him, perturbed. "Eragon . . . I never knew you to be so philosophical . . . It worries me." He shook his head. "I don't know what makes war, exactly, only I think . . . Well, it might be as simple as any enduring clash of desires."

Eragon processed that and blinked. Any clash of desires . . .so it's a war within me as well, then . . .no wonder I'm in such agony The realization forced a grimace onto his face, one more cynical reflection of a smile. "Then-resolution isn't only possible; it's a necessity to avoid fatality."

His cousin sort of squinted at him. "Eragon, really . . . What in hell's name are you talking about? You aren't making a great deal of sense . . . I think the thin air up there has muddled your brains. You should rest for a while . . . I'll take watch." And he walked over to the edge of the little camp and planted his feet firmly on the ground, leaving no room for argument.

Eragon stared at his back for a moment, intending to argue-Saphira wasn't back yet-but Roran was nearly as stubborn as he. With a resigned sigh, Eragon took a few moments to set up his bedroll, and lay down. The horizon was rimmed with a light purple, and on one far edge, he saw two little stars, diminished by the last light of the sun. He tried to shut his eyes, but he wasn't tired. "I'm not a child to be sent to bed. I'm a bloody Rider!" Yet even as he said that, he had to laugh at the sullen undertone of his own voice. "Gods . . . I do sound like a tired youngling." He rolled onto his side and let his eyes begin to fall, not forcing them shut. He'd be sleepy soon enough.

Then Eragon pushed himself back up onto his elbows. Saphira's not here, Roran's not here . . . I'm alone! He wasn't even aware of what he intended; though it was perfect, for he was going to bed, and he could just do this and sleep . . . Maybe his dreams would please him. He dug around in a pack for something appropriate.

Triumpantly, he pulled out a shiny silver bowl. Eragon set it on the ground and sat cross-legged in front of it, pouring half a canteen of water into the dish. He thought of Murtagh and how could he not? He had thought of little else . . . and whispered harshly, "Draumr Kopa!"

His breath caught in his throat when he saw him. He was sure the wave of dizziness had nothing to do with the pull of magic, it was more likely the result of seeing those eyes, as clear and ice-laden as the sky in winter . . . Eragon watched him move, his stride agile and guarded, Murtagh's pace catlike against the shadowy background. The older man's lips were twisted with some tainted emotion; the corner of his mouth pulled upward in a bitter half-smirk. His dark hair fell over his eyes, and he tossed it back-Eragon leaned in closer, as though he could touch him, run his hands over his hair, down over his shoulders . . . He gazed upon him for what seemed like forever, not even noticing that his hands were clenched tightly around the rim of the bowl. Murtagh sat down and put his hands on his head, and Eragon felt an odd pang at that, not liking the sight of Murtagh troubled. Where is he? he wondered, then his eyes widened. Murtagh had stood, and was pulling off his shirt . . . Eragon breathed harder at the sight of Murtagh's abdomen, his solid muscles, the two light lines angling down above his hips . . . Murtagh turned, and Eragon found himself imagining gripping his shoulders, and pressing himself against the scarred perfection of his back . . . He lost his focus then, and the image vanished. Eragon was red-cheeked and warm, but also incredibly tired from the drain of his scrying. He allowed himself to indulge his imagination as he laid there, breathless, falling into sleep almost immediately.