A/N: This chapter's a bit slower, but still enjoyable, I think. Hope you do too. :)

Disclaimer: As always, I don't own what's not mine.

Warnings: None really...pretty mellow chapter.

Oath Under Evil
Chapter 5
By: StriderX

The dingy tunnel outside Galbatorix' hall feels more welcoming then it ever has when the last creek of the obscene door scratches behind. Free of the King's boring gaze, a wave of pounding relief washes over our bond. As I sigh a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding, Murtagh's posture falls and he leans against my foreleg; sliding wearily to the ground with back resting against me. I feel his shoulders shaking and breath shuttering, but think it best not to mention the topic…not yet.

'Can you climb on my back? I will carry you,' I offer gently; straining my neck to ruffle his sweaty hair with a hot breath.

He is silent for a long moment, though I can sense him trying to gather his thoughts and bite back his emotions. 'My legs feel like pudding,' he finally replies in a quite attempt of tragic humor.

I can't help the hint of a smirk that crosses my mind. This boy will never cease to amaze me. No matter how well I think I know him, he always manages to say something so completely unexpected, I find myself forgetting—at least for a moment—the stank, murky halls of our current lives. I wonder if he knows that? Shaking my head of such thoughts, I curve my tail around as a helping hand. 'Here. Grab hold,' with a silent thanks, Murtagh weaves his arms around the end of my tail and holds tight as I lift him to the saddle still strapped to my back. Minding the potentially painful spikes protruding from my tail, he cautiously lets go his grip and settles in the leather seat; obviously thankful for the reprieve.

Satisfied with his momentary comfort, I begin the long walk to our quarters in the other side of the palace. The journey is silent, but not uncomfortably so. I know Murtagh can sense my worry for him, but for the time, I believe he is too weak to argue that I should feel any differently. What strength he does have is used to mask his fatigue whenever someone passes by. To them, we are nothing less then the King's prize mercenaries; fighting our way to satisfy our own petty greed with inhuman—in Murtagh's case—strength and finesse. Oh, how wrong they are. Will anyone ever know of our true circumstances? Somehow, I think not.

The last remains of fog-covered sun have long dissipated into the distant horizon by the time we arrive at the corner apartment declared as Murtagh's and mine. There are very few guards in this area of the castle. All who once filled this wing drew lots for better—safer—positions once they learned of a dragon living within it. Even then, there were not many. These quarters had been Murtagh's since the passing of his mother and father, and, even then, no one had desires to be in close company with the son of Morzan—a man who had a horrible reputation of killing the guards posted at his door just for the blood of it. I may know that Murtagh is most assuredly not his father, but that doesn't mean that these stupid guards are smart enough to see it too.

The two unfortunate men chosen to guard the door to our quarters seem to shrink into the firelit walls as my thumping footsteps bounce into their ears. With a single growl from the hollow of my belly, the fumbling soldiers jump into action and fuss nervously to open the two ornately carved doors gating the apartment. The doors are much smaller then the last, but still large enough for me to walk through without ducking far. As we pass by, one of the guards finds the courage to pipe up and salute Murtagh. "My Lord!" he says in a voice much higher then his natural. "There was food and beer delivered to your quarters upon hearing of your arrival," he tries to calm himself by clearing his throat. "Is there anything else you require?"

Murtagh—sitting straight and tall to camouflage his failing health—shakes a curt not and stiffens the scorn knitting together his features. "No. Leave us and shut the door," he growls so deeply, I can almost taste the gravel tumbling through his voice.

Stuttering, the guards bow awkwardly and yank tight on the door handles; dragging the bulking doors to a tight close behind them. Alone at last, this time it is Murtagh to sigh. I try to minimize the amount of movement Murtagh has to make by moving close to his bed before crouching low for him to slide off.

Our quarters are larger then many others within the palace. It is a great room with a six-meter-high ceiling and plenty of space to stretch about. In the centre, there is a carved bed large enough to comfortably hold three average-sized humans. On each side of it is a table; on one placed a vase and bowl filled with clean water. Occupying much of the right side of the room is a padded bowl-shaped couch fit for a dragon. To the left is a wooden dining table, a door leading to a private bath (for a human, of course), and a group of shelves filled with various books and scrolls framing a sizable fireplace occupying a softly burning wood fire. Heated by the radiating warmth, a worn leather couch beside glows in its comforting orange glow—that is Murtagh's favorite seat. There is no moonlight tonight, on account of the ravaging storm brewing outside the windows, so the only light is the blurred flicker of lantern light. The dull lighting means nothing to us though; we can both see just fine in even the blackest of nights—me with my naturally keen eyes, and Murtagh with the elfin powers I give to him.

As I think, my Rider ever so slowly inches down my back to land to a graceful sit on the mattress of his bed. I know he has no intention of sleeping yet, but the emotion of his final relief does well to calm my ever straining, anxious nerves. Without a word, he begins the arduous task of removing his well-strapped armor. Taking the opportunity, I lean back on my haunches and use the tip of a talon to loosen the straps of my saddle. Shaking it off my back, Murtagh snickers tiredly at my clear refreshment. He knows I'm no more fond of the feel of scraping animal hide against my scales then he is of chilled metal clashing with his own skin.

While my Rider finishes untying his armor, I make my way to the dinning table; curiously examining the many plates of food covering the worn wood. Well, I suppose we should be thankful that Galbatorix at least isn't trying to starve us too. There are many fruits and vegetables, a few well cooked meats decorated with herbs and strange sauces, and—to my enjoyment—a nice assortment of boneless chunks left raw and waiting at the very end. Mmm…those are mine.

Grabbing the luscious gobs in my teeth, I lay in the open space by the fire and set to savor every bite of the semi-fresh food. Even as I eat, one eye never leaves Murtagh's side. After finally declaring victory over his battle with the annoyingly protective armor, he tests his legs carefully; using the bed posts as a crutch for much of his weight. He stumbles slightly, but when I flinch to move, he puts out a hand and shakes his head with weary determination. 'I'm alright, Thorn,' he says. 'Just a little shaky, is all.' A 'little shaky' is a vast understatement, but nonetheless, I let him be.

Despite the much needed food spread before him, my Rider only picks at the morsels sliding around his plate. As he lounges on the couch, my worry for him only grows. Since his torture at Galbatorix' hand, his eyes have grown clouded and expression dark. He tries to hide it, but his limbs have yet to cease trembling. What concerns me more, as sweat drips down his pale skin, I can feel the unnatural heat bursting from within his blood. I'm beginning to fear that his suffered torment piled atop the cold, wet journey here is tearing even further at his body's defenses.

Resigning his struggle to eat, Murtagh places his plate on the floor and settles his head on a pillow; staring lifelessly into the tempting friendliness of the sunset fire. I follow his gaze and burrow into his unresisting thoughts.

Unlike the swirling torrent that spun within him this morning, his thoughts are empty and hollow now; like a midnight sea void of any fish or wave. There is a small trickling of sorrow twisting deep under the depths of the lake, but even its movement is so slight, not even a ripple stirs the surface.

'Murtagh?' I inquire; troubled by such an utter, lonely silence.

He sighs deep; even the voiceless breath is glutted with emotion. His head turns to the ceiling as he drapes a quaking arm over his forehead, shielding his eyes from firelit view. He is quite for a long while more, but I can see him battling his torment's aftermath through my mind's eye. 'There must be a way,' he finally whispers.

I nod knowingly and inch to curl around the small couch. 'If there is, we will find it, my friend.'

Murtagh shakes his head wearily, as if he doesn't believe me. 'It won't be long before we have to face the Varden again…I don't think I can survive another attack like that,' his thoughts are jumbled about as they fight to breach the surface of the unbending lake flooding his psyche, but I understand perfectly. Before I can reply, he shifts to observe me with vehement azure eyes. 'Even if we refuse him, Galbatorix will find a way to make us capture Saphira and Eragon…he'll make me kill him, Thorn. And then he'll kill us.'

His words are final and true—as terrible as it is, that is the inevitable fate that seems to await us. Yes, we could do the selfless thing and simply end our pain ourselves, but, that is a course I cannot allow. At least not until I know another male dragon is born safely. If I were to die and there ended to be no suitable mate for Saphira, the race of the dragons will end forever. And thus, we are in a corner again with no foreseeable escape. 'If it is our fate to survive this battle, young one, a way will present itself in time,'

In desperate depression, Murtagh raises his arm and stretches him hand before me. 'In time? Look at me, Thorn. I can't even stop my arm from shaking! You may be strong enough to continue on like this, but if this 'way' doesn't present itself soon, I'm afraid to think what will be left of me by the end,' he pauses for a long, shuttering breath; struggling against the leaking pools forming behind long lashes. 'My mind is already in fragments of its former self. If not for you, I would already have been thrown into the mud with the rest of the insane.'

He looks down for a moment, but never bothers to wipe away the tears striping his cheeks. "I don't want to die," my head jerks at the uncommon sound of his physical voice. Very few times since our meeting has Murtagh ever spoken to me through his lips; every time has been one of dire need and importance. In fact, so long has it been that I nearly forgot the depth of passion that surges only through that vocal means.

A rock solid lump forms in the back of my throat. In one of the strangely rare occasions between us, I simply do not know what to say. 'Nor do I, my dear friend. Please, your body is weak and your mind in need of rest. Sleep now, for many things are made clear in the deepest corners of night's hold.'

Watching as he settles further into the warm cushions of the couch in exhausted surrender, I helplessly stretch a wing and drape it over his thin figure; hoping desperately that I can at least provide him some comfort from the chill of the biting air. And it is as such we would remain for the length of the night.

My Rider, bless his spirit, falls into a fast, relinquishing sleep in only moments after the last of the firelight drifted apart. I am not far to follow, despite the heavy thoughts ravaging through my soul, but just as eyes close and heartbeat slows, a terrorized scream savagely tears at the air like a rabid beast clawing at his victim in hopeless plea for release.

TBC

A/N2: MUAHAHA!!! And the cliffy's cometh! Hope you enjoyed it; as always, I ask that you please leave a review before you go.

Strider