...Too tired to write notes.

Theme song: Samson, Regina Spektor (yes yes okay maybe my butterfly playlist is a little repetitive shut up)

Disclaimer: Not mine blahblahblah as per usual. (Also, sorry this is late!)

Serenade: In Which There is Bonding, and Also Memories

The peace of great prairies be for you.
Listen among windplayers in cornfields,
The wind learning over its oldest music

Carl Sandburg--For You (Smoke and Steel, 1922)

--

The dragonet licked her tail and snapped at the fingers dangling temptingly in front of her nose. Her other-soul yelped. She chuffed, amused.

Another person--this one smelled like smoke, but she liked smoke--scritched behind her head. She liked that. She licked his hand. He laughed, stopped scritching. She butted her head against his hand.

He laughed again, and resumed. She purred.

Her other-soul made a surprised noise, and said something, making the floor vibrate. She rolled over; her tummy needed scritching too.

--

Morzan was smiling. And laughing. And he was doing it voluntarily with no trace of sarcasm or malice. And Eragon's baby dragon seemed to actually like him.

Murtagh was this close to curling up in a small ball on the floor, whimpering. Tornac, who had moved closer to the wall, seemed to agree.

Murtagh gritted his teeth and gripped Tornac's hand like he was dangling off the edge of a steep cliff (really, no fun. Don't try it) and Tornac was his only link to safety (why did that feel so familiar?). Tornac gripped back.

Morzan said, "What are you going to name her?" He rubbed his fingers along the side of the dragonet's jaw, and she arched into him.

Eragon blinked at him. "Uh--"

Morzan rolled his eyes and crooned at the dragonet. She made a happy noise.

Tornac shot a desperate look at Murtagh, who returned it.

--

Katrina worried at her bottom lip, trying not to let the panic seep through her eyes. The presence in her mind kept talking. It didn't seem to realize that she couldn't help it, even if she'd wanted to; there was an alien presence in her mind.

That, she knew, was not good. The Varden-Council were not happy with things they could not control, and a voice in Katrina's head was an anomaly they could definitely do without. They wouldn't kill her—she hoped; the Varden didn't kill their own—but they could and probably would lock her up until Trianna and her mages could figure out what'd happened. And with the frequency of Empire-attacks lately? That could be quite some time.

Katrina sighed. She couldn't—not tell them; her entire life was here, all her family—from her father, Horst, to her mother Elain's sister Alzie (the one with the wicked knife)'s five-month-old son, Kyal. She couldn't let them get hurt. Not because of her.

She said, Who are you?

Angela—I was—a herbalist—well, a witch really. I—Galbatorix captured me. I'm his dream-seer. Please, I need help. The being—Angela, she supposed, though she wasn't sure what the protocol for this kind of situation was; did she get attached to the person she might have to cast out of her mind?--had a ragged, panicky mind-voice, damped at the edges with relief.

My name's Katrina.

I--

I know you knew that; if we're sort-of sharing a head than the least you can do is not poke through my memories, all right?

Uh--

First things first. You are the Empire's, yes? Do they have a trace on you? Can they hear what I'm saying now? She tried to keep her mind-voice from wavering, sounding panicked; this Angela-person, whoever she was, had enough panic for the both of them.

Katrina ran through her memories of magic-lessons with Trianna, looking for something relating to lying in mind-to-mind conversations. She knew that it was impossible to lie in the Ancient Language, but she didn't actually know the Ancient Language and was fairly sure she didn't think in it. Or automatically translate it.

Angela said, I don't think They (the T was capitalized, no question about it; the fear in her mind-voice sent chills up Katrina's spine) bother to; they have me under control. Or they think they do. There was a hint of triumph there—that was good, Katrina thought, it meant Angela-the-person wasn't completely gone into the blind obedience the Empire demanded. But you'd better not let me see any vital Varden information, just in case.

Right. Because that's so easy. Katrina grimaced; she'd never been any good at magic, or magical theory. She'd have to try; she couldn't trust whatever-this-was—goddess knew she'd had that drilled into her head enough times.

The being sharing her mind—temporarily, she hoped—gave the mental equivalent of a shrug and said, How did I pick someone as unmagical as you?

Katrina thought nasty thoughts at her; called for or not, that was rude, and said, Well, did you pick? Actually, on second thought, how did you end up in my head?

There was a moment of sheepish mind-silence—well, at least she wasn't panicked anymore—in which Katrina picked at her fingernails, fiddled with her necklace, leaned against Roran, and watched Trianna flip through her book.

Then, It was an accident. I just—needed to be out. Needed to—I needed to warn you! And the magic took me where I needed to be—Katrina, tell Jeod it's Angela; he'll know who you mean. Galbatorix knows who you are now, and where. I saw it, and I—oh, goddess. I couldn't stop him. Katrina, I saw the world burning. From Spine to Sea, all on fire. And it was the King's fire. Angela's mind-voice was urgent now, and Katrina didn't think she was lying, but she wasn't a great judge of character—she'd thought Hale liked her, liked her. Hale did not like females, and he'd had a thing for Roran, before he noticed Nasuada, and she was babbling in her mind, and--

Katrina pulled herself together, and said, "Trianna? Nasuada? Roran? Her name is Angela. She's a herbalist, and she says she used to know Jeod...?"

--

Galbatorix, King of the Empire of Alagaesia (and really, that had never made sense, being a King of an Empire—he'd known alcohol was not conducive to sound judgment, but he'd never say he wasn't a moron on occasion) absentmindedly reached for his dragon's mind—Shruikan bucked and screamed, but no one listened; the creature was insane, after all. He soothed the beast with a narcotic magic, and watched Morzan through the magic burning in his veins.

His sometimes-lover, right-hand-man, best friend, protege—Morzan was all of that and so much more—how did you describe such a man? ...And now he was getting poetic. He almost laughed; if only Vrael could see him now.

Morzan was caressing his younger son's dragon—she was very pretty, Galbatorix thought (they both were)—and he did hope the third dragon, the green, would hatch to someone not in Morzan's family—hopefully there weren't any others that'd pop up with a sudden urge to hatch a dragon; if dragon-mating worked like he remembered they might have some problems mating Eragon's blue to Murtagh's Thorn.

The blue was really quite beautiful, though Galbatorix didn't quite understand what had possessed her to hatch now and for Eragon, of all people—he knew it must be giving Morzan the chills. It was not quite so long ago, in their terms, that Brom's blue Saphira had died.

Now that had been unfortunate—he knew Morzan had been fond of the younger Rider, but Brom hadn't run, like he'd been told (the Riders, to their credit, had known how to pick loyal youngsters), had stayed and tried to fight.

He hadn't wanted to kill the man (Morzan would've had his hide, and half the Forsworn would have sulked besides—Brom had been popular, for whatever reason), but neither could he let him wander around causing trouble wherever he went. So he'd killed Brom's dragon. And then, perhaps making a big mistake, told him it was thanks to Morzan's concern that he was still alive.

Well, it had sorted itself out in the end. And he hadn't even had to intervene.

He pulled the dark embroidered robe close around him (yes, all right, he didn't like the cold. He was the King, not invulnerable), and slipped behind Morzan's eyes.

Morzan said, Ask first, Tor. And shoved his mind gently.

Galbatorix rolled his eyes, withdrew, and tapped gently on the visualized door to Morzan's mind. May I?

Oh, all right. Morzan was smiling, though, and when Galbatorix fell into him he was warm.

So, a blue.

...We need to get off that as a talking point, Tor.

All I said was--

You know what you said. Morzan's mind-voice was just a little irate. Galbatorix reached for the narcotic-magic, to soothe him—just a touch, he wouldn't even notice—and jolted back in shock.

Morzan, I'm sorry-- He pulled out, shaking like a leaf, glad there were no servants in his wing.

I almost—oh old-gods what did I almost do?

--

Faolin said, "What hit me? Do you know?" His hair had managed to get tangled in the run from their room to Arya—to be fair, the City was a rabbit-warren, though by design rather than accident—and she reached out a hand to smooth it.

She said, "I don't know—I was doing the spell when you found me."

"Oh." Faolin said, running his fingers through his hair distractedly. "Want any help?"

"We should go back home and then you can anchor me." Arya told him, disentangling threads of magic that she didn't need right now. Her hands were dipped in green, she knew, glowing with the essence of her.

Faolin touched her palm gently, his own electrum-coloured magic mingling with hers, a siren-lure of home.

She smiled, drawing his warmness close to her like a cloak. "I was worried," she said softly as they made their way down the hall, hand in hand, "You really need to check your shields."

Faolin grinned wryly. "That I have to. Are you all right?"

"My shields held—I went to find Jeod and Ajihad after the first wave, but then the dragons were singing and I figured you'd wake up."

"We should--"

"Finding out is more important."

--

Jeod mopped at the tea on his lap with a napkin, mind detached. Ajihad picked up his sword slowly and stared at Jeod.

Ajihad said, slowly, "We should--"

"While they're off-guard..." Jeod said, half-reluctant.

Ajihad sighed. "We won't actually do it, will we?"

Jeod closed his eyes for a moment. "I'm afraid, sometimes, what I would do to destroy Morzan."

Ajihad put the sword beside him carefully. "You--?"

"I did." Jeod traced a pattern on the back of his hand and looked at the ceiling tiredly. "I did."

--

Murtagh ran his free hand through his hair and watched Eragon's sapphire dragonet snap at Morzan's fingers. He combed his memories for the time after Thorn'd hatched; had Morzan been like this with Murtagh's dragon? He sighed. Memories of that time were blurry--he'd been young--thirteen, maybe, if mature for that age--he didn't know, goddess-damn-it.

He smiled wryly, remembering himself at age thirteen--tall for his age, and pale, with floppy dark hair that just wouldn't stay out of his eyes. With his father-complex for his little brother, who had been a gift when Murtagh was very small--one he hadn't wanted; to four-year-old Murtagh it'd seemed like the baby who wouldn't stop crying was a poor trade for his mother, absent though she'd been.

He'd dealt with it--he was responsible, after all, and didn't want the tiny almost-person to get a scar like his. He didn't have to put himself between his brother and his father very long, thankfully--Morzan'd done some soul-searching, apparently, and dropped drinking.

...And then Eragon hit adolescence, and Murtagh had had to separate them all over again, but that was beside the point.

He remembered running his hands over the ruby-crimson egg (blood, he'd thought, but blood is life too), and then it'd hatched. For him. It had been the best feeling ever--how did you describe such rightness as when you met the other half of your soul?

The dragonet had fallen asleep, again, curled up on Eragon's chest, and Morzan was still smiling. Somehow he wasn't quite so disconcerted, not anymore.

He remembered, suddenly--

A red hatchling, curled in Murtagh's arms, tail wrapped around his wrist. A fierce feeling of joy, and Morzan's vivid, bright smile.

Thorn said, Remember when you were that stupid?

Murtagh sent the mental impression of a glare--Remember when you were that small?

Very funny, Thorn said, and listened to their hearts beat in tandem, then--He was like that with us, too, you know. Your father is weak for small baby dragons. And, you know, kittens. And puppies.

Murtagh stifled a laugh. Tornac looked at him oddly.

He risked a glance at his father--and blinked, startled.

Morzan's eyes had gone slightly glazed--yeah, mind-to-mind with Galbatorix, probably, that wasn't odd--but Morzan snapped out of it quickly, a worried expression lingering on his lips. Murtagh rubbed his wrist, just under the cuff, a little worried.

Not that he'd ever say anything, but Morzan-and-Galbatorix freaked him out. Not because they were both male--for goddess' sake, he wasn't drinking tea with Tornac all the time they were together--but because, well, Morzan looked about seventeen. At the oldest.

And Murtagh got the feeling that their relationship was not based on romantic love so much as mutual possessiveness--sure, there was love buried in there somewhere, in that mass of swirling emotions, but it wasn't--the heart of it.

Thorn said, Stop brooding. It's a hatching day! Be happy!

Murtagh said, No, seriously. How did you get into the mead?

But he was pulling Tornac up, and he was smiling.

--

You are smiling--your lips red like blood, bitten so deep--the girl in the other part of your mind is talking, telling her friends the truth/lie you spun (who are you to say what is holy?).

Her name is Katrina, daughter of Horst and Elain, sister of Baldor and Albriech--also daughter of Sloan and Ismira, though that is buried deep in her psyche. You wonder at her--at her sheer humanity, which you sort of envy--even through the thousand wars she's fighting she is still herself and not a weapon.

You dig a little deeper, and oh--that's why there are no visible scars.

It sends a shiver up your spine, and you recoil.

--