Hi guys, sorry I've been away so long. Schools making it hard to prioritize my writing. But I've got at least this chapter and most of next chapter typed out! This is mostly just Murtagh brooding in his cell, but I threw in some flashbacks to kind of flesh out his relationship with some other characters.

P.S. The dream reference might seem a little odd but I promise it'll make much more sense in the sequel I'm planning, so stay with me here! As always, please leave comments if you can : ) Also, just to remind you all, I do not own any of these characters.

Ch. 5: Survival

Pain and silence. That is what fills Murtagh's every waking moment. Pain during his time with the sadistic king, and crushing silence in the intervals between as he waits for the next bout of torture. The bastard had somehow cut off his mental link to Thorn, though he could still feel his partner's pain when Galbatorix hurt them.

Murtagh had no idea how long he had been in the dungeons, though it must have been at least a week. After his most recent session, he had finally been allowed to eat. He was barely conscious when the guards came to unchain and drag him to the other side of his cell, where he was propped up against the wall. He had choked back the bowl of thin soup too quickly, burning his throat. The shredded skin on his back grated horribly against the stone wall, but the need for food was more pressing. Before they left, the guards tossed some old clothes at him as well, but he could barely move, let alone dress himself. So now he was curled up on top of them, shivering against the cold night air.

Much worse than the hunger or cold, however, was being left alone with his own thoughts. Without Thorn here to distract him, he couldn't stop himself from dwelling on Galbatorix's words.

"Your so-called friends abandoned you…They didn't come for you before, and they won't come now. You are nothing but a traitor to them… You are alone."

Murtagh knew the king was right. Eragon and Arya had all but forgotten him once they thought he was dead. Nasuada had been too busy, coping with the death of her father and her new post as the Varden's leader. But even if the war ended, even if the Varden won, he knew they could never be together. He was the king's right hand and the son of Morzan. He would never be one of them.

Murtagh curled tighter into himself as a familiar self-hatred washed over him. I'm nothing but a curse. Painful memories replayed themselves in his mind.

~ He was being chased by the city guard as he galloped through the streets of Uru'baen. "Close the gates! Close them!" He heard the captain of the guard shouting from behind him. He hurried his pace as the gap between the heavy wooden doors began to shrink. Somewhere behind him he could hear his mentor shouting. He turned just in time to see the arrow pierce Tornac's armor. He looked on in horror, but his friend shouted at him "Get out quickly, go now! GO! RUN M-" Another arrow pierced his throat, stopping him short as he fell from his horse. Murtagh turned quickly and made for the exit, slipping through just in time. He galloped on and didn't look back, but tears flowed freely down his face. ~

~ Barely a year later, he knelt before the king. A young Thorn, newly-hatched, was cradled in his arms. He shuddered as the king used his true name to force them both to swear oaths of loyalty. The process was long and exhausting. He was so weak that day. ~

~ Eragon faced him from across the battlefield, a look of betrayal etched on his face. Murtagh listens as his "friend" encourages him to sacrifice himself. Then, Eragon's expression morphs into one of revulsion as Murtagh reveals their shared heritage. "We are nothing alike!" Murtagh clenched his fists tighter around his father's sword, turning away. ~

Misery.Perhaps Eragon was right after all.

But he remembers Thorn's words: We can give up hope of ever escaping this hell…Or we can hold out hope that one day we will be free. If we choose to pursue hope, then we must survive at all costs until that day.

Yet, Murtagh muses to himself, if I don't give in… The king had come dangerously close to killing him once already. How much further could he push the man before he decided Murtagh wasn't worth keeping around after all?

He laughs out loud, then grimaces as the sudden movement sends a jolt of pain through him. Here I am thinking Eragon is right, that I should off myself, yet I'm afraid the king might do it for me? He supposed it was a bit different, choosing your own end versus having it forced upon you.

Either way, something would have to give eventually. He could not continue to defy the king…

He cast about for a distraction, since his current line of thinking was giving him a headache. He thought back to the dream he had his first night in the dungeons. He tried to recall the details.

~A red sky. A marsh, tall grass. Lots of mud. He was walking through a marsh, fighting against the muddy dirt and grass. He was going somewhere… He remembers a willow tree on a hill.~

Murtagh didn't dream often, but this one had seemed different. So vivid. He remembers when he was little, his mother telling him to take careful heed of dreams. They tell us about ourselves, and sometimes the future, she had said.

So, what does mud say about me? That my life is going to shit? He thought sarcastically.

But perhaps the willow tree meant something. What was the old saying? Though a tree be rigid and tall, a heavy enough wind will snap its stubborn branches. But the willow bends, and does not break.

Bend but don't break, he thought to himself, but can I even manage that? He clutched his side lightly, feeling the broken ribs there. I'll have to break eventually, if I am to convince the king to stop this torture.

This wasn't the first time he had broken a bone. He remembered the time as a young teenager, maybe thirteen, when a nasty fall from a horse had broken his arm. He had only just started learning to fight with a sword, and was distraught, thinking his good arm would be weaker now. But Tornac had patched him up, reassuring him that, a broken bone mends back stronger than before.

Perhaps, he mused darkly to himself, but not if I'm dead. If he was going to survive this, he would not be able to simply bend without breaking. He would have to break and somehow come back stronger than before.