Part Two – Forgotten
You made me forget my dreams
When I woke up to you sleeping
There was blood on the sheets again
And the view outside the window
Of gardens and bloom
Obscured by all the trouble we had
(Belle & Sebastian – You Made Me Forget My Dreams)
"News travel fast", thought Arya.
A few hours before, Thorn had found a gap in the tangle of Du Weldenvarden's treetops, managing an abrupt landing which left his two riders unharmed, apart from a few scratches. They had travelled for the entire night, enjoying the company of the cold stars, not talking to each other. Now Arya was striding in circles, a thoughtful expression on her face, while Murtagh watched her patiently. If he was concerned, none of his features betrayed such a feeling.
After another while, she finally spoke.
"I'll take the risk. I'll bring you in front of my people."
"News travel fast", he muttered. She startled. Since when were they thinking alike?
"I'm well aware of that fact", she snapped. "So be prepared. If they find out, and they will, eventually, you'll have to be gone in a split second. Otherwise it will be too late, and everything we realised will be gone."
He stared at her in disbelief.
"What did we realise, Arya? I don't understand."
She smiled. Her hand touched his, the look in her eyes almost prankish.
"We shall."
It was easy enough to keep Murtagh in hiding, but Thorn was another story. So they had to split, the red dragon accepting to spend a time into the wild, hunting or resting at ease, as long as he took care not to be seen. He seemed to consider Du Weldenvarden as a kind of challenge, so the need to persuade him was not brought into discussion.
"For them all, you are Taghmur, and things like Dragon Riders or using magic are unfamiliar to you. They sound like legends to your ears. You cannot pass as a mere peasant; you are too imperial in your attitude and speech."
He glanced sideways at her flattering words.
"Therefore, you'll be a spy come from far away, from Galbatorix' court itself, bearing vital information we've got to deal with together."
"Sounds like a good plan", he nodded, patting Thorn on his fierce head.
"Of course, you'll have to conceal that sword."
"I will not leave it anywhere", he grunted. "It is rightfully mine, and if I ever need to defend myself …"
"Never said you should get rid of it. Just keep it away from the others' keen eyes."
They walked in silence into the unexpected.
His morning awakenings were soothing; the view of the surrounding trees in bloom always brought a sensation of peace into his troubled conscience. Yet the nights were painful and ramping, the voice in his head enraged and pursuing him incessantly, the words bitter, and demanding, and sometimes obscene. It became clear as dawn, after a short while, that he couldn't handle it alone anymore.
One certain day, before the appearance of the first, faint sunrays, he woke up abruptly, strangling a roar into a sigh, his fingers pale while clenching the bed sheets. There was blood, spread over the soft material, and his back felt like bare flesh exposed to sunburn.
"Turn around", she said faintly, her eyes lacking colour.
He obeyed, the loud gnash showing his pain.
"Your scar …"
There have been nights when she used to caress his bare back, while he was lying next to her. She had countlessly followed the dire sword trace with her fingers, with her lips. She had murmured words of comfort against his tortured skin. And now it was bleeding, burning, and wide open as if the red blade had left it only moments before.
"I can heal you", she whispered.
"And what good will it do?" he snarled, his teeth still clenched.
"Not the wound, Murtagh. You have rested for a while now, so hear my words. It's the reason I have followed you, the very reason which brought us both here, into weak hiding, yet safe for a while."
He painfully turned to face her determined gaze.
"You want to confront him?"
While waiting silently in the cosy antechamber, Arya's thoughts were running wild, throwing her back and forth between memories and hopes. She faced perhaps the most difficult choice in her lifetime, and that was not a short one at all. Struggling between her own sake and the benefit of the world was not easy, even for an Elf with her power and experience. Feelings. She thought they have been left behind.
At the beginning, she was just amazed, and maybe curious to learn of his ways. But as the days advanced and news of the last stand approached, she discovered a small light bud into the grey, ready to bloom, to burst into emotion. It was a dangerous path, and now she had to decide whether it was worth the risk.
"Mother, I need your wisdom. I need your hands, and the ancient sap flowing inside them."
"The stranger, child?"
Arya flinched. The Queen just smiled.
"He's troubled. He's fighting in a personal manner a war not belonging to him."
Yes, she had been into his mind, though he'd allow her there only reluctantly. She had seen the atrocities, heard the filthy words, and shivered at the sight of the tortures that madman calling himself King was displaying there. Yet she had seen some other images, just splinters, and sparks, moments of sheer joy. She knew it well.
One day she heard him laughing. And Murtagh laughed so seldom …
"I … care for him, Mother."
Islanzadí nodded.
"I thought so."