Apologies ahead of time my friends 3 It's a rough one, be gentle with yourself!
It was foolishly done, Saphira scolded later that day, when Eragon was already kicking himself with guilt, If you were trying to persuade him to lower his defenses, you have only done the opposite.
I know. He just made me so angry.
Of course he made you angry—he is afraid, and he is using anger as a shield. You have the upper hand, and you are meant to be the better man, why stoop his level?
I get it, alright? I shouldnt've said all that.
Eragon ran a hand through his hair and Saphira snorted, smoke trailing out of her nostrils.
His words were ill-wrought and cruel, She acknowledged, understanding Eragon's rage, And he is wrong. You are neither weak nor pathetic. And there is no rider I would choose above you.
She blinked at him for a long moment, assuring herself that he would let the words sink in. After a moment Eragon nodded, taking a steadying breath.
I know.
He squinted into the setting sun, Thorn's shape silhouetted against the golden sky.
But it's only going to get worse. If he won't let us in willingly, we will have to force our way in. And I'm afraid he meant what he said—he won't forgive me for this.
Saphira lowered her head.
If it is the right thing to do, then we must do it regardless.
I don't know if it's the right thing, Eragon said heavily, But right now it's the only thing.
Arya and Eragon spoke to Glaedr and asked him if he would help them to enter Murtagh's mind; they knew it was a big ask of the mourning dragon, but they also knew that it would be risky to do it without him. If Galbatorix was able to take over Murtagh's mind, then they needed to go in with someone who would be able to fight off the mad king long enough for them to retreat to their own consciousnesses. Glaedr agreed, but Eragon worried about his anger, and what he might do when he was faced with the man who killed his rider.
As a last ditch effort to avoid the inevitable, Eragon asked Thorn if he might open his mind to them, or try to persuade Murtagh to do so, but Thorn refused angrily, saying,
You have already used me against my rider, Shadeslayer, do not test my patience.
Eragon knew that reasoning with him would not work here; he might sacrifice his own mind to save Murtagh's, but they both knew it wouldn't end there—they would have to go in and take whatever they found. And Eragon felt sick at the thought of what he was about to do, but when he considered the alternative—going into battle with Galbatorix having no effective weapon against him—he knew what must happen. If it were any other servant of the king—anyone but his brother—he wouldn't have hesitated.
He thought of something Oromis had said to him, though, and steeled himself for the task:
"The purpose of life is not to do what we want, but what needs to be done. This is what fate demands of us."
Eragon wished fate would bother someone else for once.
In the evening of the next day, he followed Arya as she carried Glaedr's Eldunari—wrapped in cloths and placed in an unassuming sack—across the camp towards the prison tent. Elva pattered next to Eragon, having offered to be present during the interrogation (if they could even call it that) to monitor Murtagh for danger.
"There is such a thing as pushing a person too far," She had said ominously, and Eragon had quickly agreed. Now he hung back with her a bit and allowed Arya to distance herself from them before asking,
"He's not going to kill him, is he? Glaedr?"
Elva looked at Eragon, then at the bundle in Arya's arms. Her little lips pursed.
"No, he won't kill him. But he won't be pleasant either."
Eragon swallowed tightly, but nodded.
"If it helps," Elva continued dryly, "This is the better of several bad alternatives. You're going to wish you hadn't broken into his mind, but if you don't do it, then you'll wish you had."
Eragon frowned, sorting out Elva's words, which were rarely ever hopeful and only sometimes helpful.
"So it's the right thing to do?" He clarified, and Elva laughed humorlessly.
"That is not a question I am qualified to answer. Seek a Dwarven Priest if you want to talk about right and wrong."
Eragon nodded somberly, realizing his mistake. Of course he wanted Elva to tell him this was right—that he was doing the right thing despite Murtagh's curses and the twisting in his own gut. But sometimes it was impossible to say whether something was right or wrong until the deed was done.
It was impossible for him to say, even as he stood before his brother, who was already being restrained by two guards holding his arms, his whole body poised to strike.
"Last chance, Murtagh, please," Eragon said, his voice dull, knowing it was useless but that he had to try. "Let us in. We aren't after your mind, we only need the king's secrets."
Murtagh glowered silently, his curses spent, and Eragon sighed heavily, before giving a nod to the guard near the front of the tent. A moment after the man left, the tent flap pushed aside and Arya ducked in with Glaedr's Eldunari wrapped in its cloth.
In the tent were only Eragon, Arya, Nasuada, Elva, Blodgharm and the two guards. Saphira was sitting outside, her mind connected to Eragon's, and the other Elves waited with her, in case their assistance might be needed to break into Murtagh's mind. However, as soon as Arya brought Glaedr in, Eragon felt the temperature drop around him, and Murtagh seemed to feel it too.
He tensed, and his face went gray.
"What is that?" Murtagh said shakily, his legs shifting as he tried to shuffle away from Arya.
"What is that? Eragon, what is that?" His voice rose in pitch, and he pulled against the grip of the guards, as Eragon felt Glaedr's consciousness radiating outwards, touching them all with a deep, rage-filled rumble.
Eragon glanced at Elva, who had a pinched look, but was not stepping in. She had promised Glaedr would not kill Murtagh, and Eragon had to believe it. Nasuada was gripping her hands together tightly, and Blodgharm waited in the corner in calm silence.
"Don't! Dont—Don't do this, Eragon, I swear to Angvar," Murtagh was panicking as he realized what he was looking at, and he wrenched backwards hard enough to dislocate a shoulder
"Let us in, Murtagh," Eragon said hollowly, not quite looking his brother in the eye, not quite able to see the fear on his face. Eragon knew Glaedr wouldn't kill him, but Murtagh certainly didn't know it.
"Blast you!" Murtagh shouted impotently, his anger unable to mask his fear. Eragon heard Glaedr's voice in all their heads, and he had to concentrate to stay standing.
Open your mind, hatchling, or it will be pried open.
A flurry of fear and distress distorted Murtagh's face, but he quickly wrestled it under control and turned it into an expression of pure rage. If anyone had a chance at matching the anger of a grief-stricken dragon, Eragon thought it might be his brother.
Murtagh glared at the orb in Arya's hand, clearly preparing to withstand an onslaught. Eragon could feel Glaedr taking hold of his own consciousness and connecting all their minds together, leading them forward, forming out of their thoughts a great hammer with which to strike against Murtagh's mental wall.
When it happened, it felt to Eragon like he was falling, as Glaedr thrust forward against the stony mental shield. Shockingly, the wall of anger withstood the first blow, as Murtagh hung from the hands of the nervous guards, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth gritted while he fought off their attack.
But even Murtagh's determination was not enough to keep back Glaedr, and on the third blow, the cracks in the mental wall shifted, and Eragon felt the panicked thought that spelled his brother's downfall.
No, don't!
Like shattering glass, the barrier to Murtagh's mind disintegrated, and Eragon was dragged along with Glaedr's consciousness through a veil of darkness, as an echoing scream gave way to a cloudy silence…..
They were inside Murtagh's mind.
The first sensation Eragon was conscious of was a woman's distant voice, singing.
… Sweet little darling, where have you gone?
Table is ready and supper is on.
I've asked the butcher, the cook and the maid.
Where has the boy gone and could he have stayed…?
It felt to Eragon like he was standing on a white, smoky plain, whispers and echoes and creaks around him, like a great forest of thought, full of shadows and shufflings. Eragon felt his heartbeats, but he was not in his own body, he was now just an extension of Glaedr, a small form in the center of the smoky mass of Murtagh's mind.
The woman's echoing voice reverberated in Eragon's skull. He turned to look for her, but saw only shadows—then a shape, running past, hiding between the pillars of thought, distant laughter. Eragon turned around.
I know that voice, He thought.
Focus Eragon, Arya's mind cut in, We do not have time.
Who is she? I know her.
There was a rumbling beneath his feet, the swirling white plane trembling as with an earthquake. Eragon felt himself fall to his hands—or his consciousness did. He was vaguely aware that his body was standing in the tent in the Varden camp, but in his mind he was kneeling on the trembling floor, as Glaedr growled, and the white smoke around them was suddenly plunged into shadow.
Eragon was falling again, his stomach swooping as the floor gave out beneath him and scraps of sound fluttered past him. Glaedr was searching, searching for hidden things, secrets, searching for what they needed…
The woman's voice flickered in and out.
Look at the world, Murtagh…. so beautiful and so big.
Just a flash of a smile and a face framed by long hair.
Then a deep, hard voice, that somehow made Eragon feel both afraid and full of yearning, Murtagh's emotions becoming his own:
You will be great one day, son. You will make me proud, and when you pass into the void as all mortals must, your children will serve me in your name, and their children after them…
Flickers of light, distant shouts, the woman saying,
This is mummy's friend Neal…
Then wails and tears and heartbreak, and past Eragon ran the shape of a black-haired young boy, his high voice shouting with laughter,
Come on, Tornac! You're not even really trying.
Eragon saw the kindly face of a graying older man, but it soon vanished into smoke as Glaedr continued to search. They were not here for old memories, they were looking for the King's secrets, chained by vows, trapped in the dark corners of Murtagh's mind. Hidden away.
Eragon was surprised then, to suddenly see Nasuada's face, cast in the soft light of a dwarven lantern, smiling.
I don't think I believe you, Her voice echoed with laughter as the world seemed to come into focus for just a moment, and Eragon found himself somewhere under Farthen Dur, in a quiet cell.
Murtagh was sitting on the edge of a modest cot, his face seeming years younger, and the light not yet gone from his eyes.
He held up a book.
I'll prove it to you.
Eragon felt Glaedr's frustration. This was not what they were looking for. Eragon's stomach lurched as the scene dissolved and they shot forward again.
There was a cacophony of great noise, and scraps of the first woman's voice, like she was following them.
I know her, I know that voice.
And then Eragon saw Ajihad, his face streaked with grime and the world around him red and dark. But he was speaking calmly, and his eyes were kind.
You've got a masterful sword arm, and a stout heart, His warm voice echoed, I value the second more than the first, but both are important for soldiers of the Varden.
Murtagh looked up, his own dirt-streaked face confused.
Sir?
Well, is that something you want?
Glaedr rumbled again, and the world shifted, and Eragon heard terrible screams and the ringing of metal and the howling of Urgals. Suddenly Murtagh was fighting for his life, and a man was reaching his hand down to help him up, but before he could stand that man's head was bashed in by an Urgal, splattering Murtagh in his blood.
Eragon! Murtagh was shouting, even as he crawled towards Ajihad, struggling to get to his feet. Eragon watched his brother search the skies for him, waiting for help that was going to come too late, screaming Eragon's name.
Then Murtagh was stumbling towards Ajihad, who was beset by enemies on all sides. With a shout, Murtagh raised his sword and charged, running to Ajihad's aide and his own inevitable death.
The memory dissolved and Glaedr's voice rumbled,
Show me.
Eragon felt the resistance; Murtagh was fighting them, trying to push them out, trying to get them out of his head. But Glaedr had him mentally pinned.
Show me…
Again, Eragon saw a scrap of Nasuada's smiling face, but it lasted only a second, before they were plunged into darkness and Eragon recognized his brother's terrible screams echoing off the walls of a dungeon.
He writhed on a wooden slab, as black-clothed men pressed burning rods against his skin. He screamed as his back was struck by a glass-threaded whip, hanging from bloodied shackles as new scars were cut over the old. He gripped the arm of a woman—a sorceress, who whispered healing over him—and he begged her to end it, but she refused.
In brief, horrible flashes Eragon saw torture after torture, and the jailer demanding that Murtagh swear featly, and his continued refusal. Eragon felt echoes of the pain, and even that was overwhelming, and he wanted to look away more than anything but he couldn't; Glaedr was searching, pushing through these memories that Murtagh kept hidden away, to find what they needed.
Murtagh was on the floor of the cell, his body broken and haggard, his breath rattling horribly as he stared at a nail which protruded from the bars. Eragon was startled to hear his own name again, rasping from Murtagh's mouth, his voice torn from the screaming.
Please, Eragon… He begged to the darkness, curled on the floor and cradling his head like a madman. Please…
Eragon felt Arya's mental assurance, holding him steady, keeping him from backing away, from tearing himself out of Glaedr's grasp and escaping this horrible memory.
Then he watched as Murtagh lifted his shaking wrist to the rusty nail sticking out of the bars and whispered,
I'm sorry,
Before tearing open his own flesh.
No! Eragon lurched forward without thinking, forgetting himself for a moment as the image flickered and Murtagh began to lose consciousness. He felt Arya gripping him and holding him back, as suddenly they were in the King's treasure room.
Here!
Glaedr was taking in the details of the room—two eggs sitting on cushions, the sun streaming through the windows, the inside of Uru'baen, secrets, knowledge, advantage.
But all Eragon could see was Murtagh chained to the floor and hunched forward, half-asleep or dead he couldn't tell. Eragon watched as the red egg on its cushion began to move, and Murtagh begged it not to—telling the dragon inside to stay where it was, to stay safe.
And when Thorn hatched, in what should have been the happiest moment of Murtagh's life, he begged the little dragon to run away, not to touch him, not to bind himself.
No! Don't come any closer, go find Eragon—you have to go find Eragon, he can help you.
There was a rush of light as Eragon felt the dragon-touch, his own palm tingling at the sensation, at the memory.
But following the burst of light was only more darkness.
Screams again, dragon and man, terrible tortures, flashes of pain, insides burning, something crawling inside him.
She cared enough about your brother to protect him, The King's voice echoed, But she didn't care about you.
You're lying! Murtagh protested hoarsely, chained to a stone slab in a high-ceilinged room.
No one in your whole miserable life has ever truly loved you. Except for Thorn, The deep voice said with finality, And you would allow him to be tortured. You would put him through agony, just to appeal to your pride.
Murtagh groaned in despair and pulled helplessly at his bonds. The pain continued for some time yet, the terrible roars and sparks of hot agony, but finally the memory stilled and Eragon saw Murtagh collapsed over a wooden chest, hanging onto it like a drowning man gripping a piece of driftwood,
Open it! He shrieked, and Eragon's stomach twisted, realizing that Thorn was inside, trapped and chained in the tiny space.
No, not this, Glaedr rumbled, still searching, scanning the memories, looking for clues, anything to help.
There was a blur in the memories, vague colors and sounds—wind, roses, light laughter, haughty voices. Eragon saw a woman kissing Murtagh, but it didn't feel right; he saw a garden courtyard, and heard the ringing of swords. There were flashes of the Burning Plains, armies spread out beneath a smoke-choked sky, then the King's voice:
I said, 'do you want freedom, Murtagh'?
Yes, your majesty, A haggard voice whispered.
Then we will have to learn our lesson again.
Murtagh's head snapped back, and the pain closed in again just as Glaedr's searching probe moved on from the memory.
Things then began to twist, to change, to seem fuzzy and uncertain at times. Murtagh was in the library, but the pages of the books were blurred; Galbatorix was speaking, but his voice was muffled; Murtagh walked through a room that was utterly empty, made of mist, invisible. These things were buried, things so well hidden that they could not see even when they were looking straight at them.
Glaedr roared in frustration as he scoured Murtagh's thoughts, finding piece after piece that was muddled or altered or simply invisible to them.
How is he doing this? Eragon wondered as he watched Galbatorix leaning over what he could only assume was a map table, because the image was blurred and Galbatorix's voice was just a rumbling of indecipherable noise.
It isn't him, Arya said, as suddenly they were on the Burning Plains again, and Eragon saw himself, frightened and bleeding, everything clear. And Eragon understood—somehow Murtagh's vows were masking the very essence of his memory. The King's hold on his mind was so strong that not even his thoughts could reveal the secrets he had sworn to keep.
Glaedr grew more angry as he tore through the pages of Murtagh's mind, finding nothing of use. Eragon saw a red haired young woman curtsying, and a good-natured young man sparring in a sunny courtyard; there were small glimpses of light, amidst all the pain. He was flying with Murtagh and Thorn above Uru'baen, and then he was walking in the garden, and then sitting in a smoke-choked little inn with a chatty merchant.
Show me! Glaedr commanded, and the memories seemed to take on an almost frantic feeling. Suddenly the good-natured young man was falling dead at Murtagh's feet, and then there was a hand around Murtagh's throat, the king strangling him in the wreckage of a map room. Then he was back on the stone slab, screaming for relief. Hands were brushing like sandpaper across his skin. Thorn was twisting in pain. A woman's haunted eyes gazed back at him. Glaedr and Oromis were falling from the sky. Thorn was raking fire across a courtyard. Back in the tunnels under Uru'baen, fleeing the Urgals, heart pounding with fear. Nasuada's face, Ajihad's voice, Eragon, help!,Tornac lying dead in a courtyard, Thorn in the box, He doesn't deserve this hurt, submit, hands on his waist,
Pain, pain, pain…
All these things Murtagh had been pushing down and away, keeping out of sight, keeping hidden, and Glaedr was unearthing them, searching for something that mattered.
Eragon saw Murtagh stumbling around drunk, and watching Thorn be tortured, and destroying his chambers in a fit of fury, and screaming in the dungeons where no one would hear or care, and still Glaedr searched; deeper, further, unearthing every secret thought.
Suddenly they were in an ornate dining room, and Murtagh was backed against the table, and an older man was standing too close.
I believe we can come to an agreement, The voice echoed and Eragon felt a chill down his spine. Murtagh was shaking with fear, his eyes averted. He wanted to run, why didn't he run?
Tell Glaedr to go, Elva's voice of thought cut in suddenly, and Eragon blinked to find her next to him, We shouldn't be here.
Sound flickered in and out, and Eragon watched the man tracing his finger up Murtagh's arm, as his brother stood frozen and trembling.
Why doesn't he tell him to stop? Why doesn't he fight him off? Eragon wanted to look away but he couldn't.
Glaedr-Elder, this is not what we are searching for, Arya's thought echoed, and the memory flickered, and Eragon was aware of Glaedr's insistent searching—unearthing secrets, scouring the dark corners. This dark corner. This secret.
Eragon heard a terrible cry of pain, and flashes of feeling as if it were him—cold hands under his shirt, vice-like grip on the back of his neck, pressing down, suffocating; the man could smell his fear, his vows held him helpless, this was his punishment, he was trapped, trapped, trapped…
He is trying to hide this from us, Glaedr insisted, still searching for meaning in all the pain, not understanding. But Eragon understood with a sick, twisting feeling what was happening, what was wreathed in shadows as even now Murtagh tried to stamp out the memory and push it away.
This is not one of the King's secrets, Arya's voice reverberated pleadingly, as Eragon was struck mute by sudden horror. Please, Glaedr, we must keep searching, we have no time.
Glaedr finally seemed convinced, because the terrible image flickered out, and they were dragged somewhere else in Murtagh's mind. They hunted after scraps of knowledge, but the deeper in they got the more hopeless it seemed—every memory that wasn't blurred or distorted was just some horrible, painful thing that Murtagh was trying to hide from himself.
Whatever secrets the King had bestowed upon him, they were clouded by magic, and the more Glaedr tried to push into the distorted memories, the more unsteady they became.
Murtagh was standing in the throne room, and Galbatorix was speaking, but his voice was a garbled mess, and Glaedr tried to tear away at the layers of sound to get underneath, to pick out the words, to find the meaning. But as he pushed in and tore at the memory, Eragon began to sense a rumbling in the ground beneath his feet, the vision seemed to shudder, like lightning splitting the sky.
We have to stop, Elva said, her voice tight and strained.
Glaedr, it's no use! Eragon cried finally, watching the memory begin to crumble around him, as Murtagh's mind collapsed in on itself. Glaedr was tearing through the memories like a man pulling at rubble, trying to salvage something, wrapped suddenly in his own grief, triggered by the cacophony of pain that he'd received from Murtagh's mind.
Glaedr, please! Eragon shouted, and he felt Arya pressing into the old dragon's thought as well, trying to stop him before he utterly destroyed Murtagh. Elva had promised that Glaedr wouldn't kill him, but she didn't say he wouldn't drive him mad.
Something dark was bubbling up underneath them, a growing shadow, an unwelcome presence that threatened to overwhelm them.
Finally Eragon felt Elva press her own consciousnesses towards the dragon, and whisper something unintelligible to him. The vision of the throne room flickered and crumbled around them, and they began to ascend, pulled towards a pinprick of light above as the shadow-presence chased them and scraps of distorted sound leaked through,
This is mummy's friend Neal…
…I don't think believe you.
I'll start trying when you make it necessary…
…A masterful sword-arm and a stout heart.
Careful, that's a thorn. See? They protect the rose…
…I would've helped you, but your dragon wouldn't let me close.
Look at the world, Murtagh, so beautiful, and so big…
Eragon's eyes snapped open and he stumbled back, barely catching himself from falling in the dirt. Suddenly he was back in the tent in the Varden camp, and Elva was saying,
"Lay him down!"
Eragon immediately saw why, because Murtagh was being held by the two confused guards, and he was seizing uncontrollably in their arms, his head fallen backwards as his body shook.
The guards quickly lay him on the dirt floor as he continued to writhe, and Eragon scrambled over, holding his hands out to keep Murtagh from hitting his head against the center pole.
"What's happening?" He asked Arya as she knelt quickly on Murtagh's other side. The seizure reminded Eragon of himself—of his back, of the episodes he had where pain shot up his spine and his body lost control.
Arya shook her head and closed her eyes, whispering magic over Murtagh as Eragon held his shoulders. Murtagh's eyelids were fluttering and his arms were clenched against his chest, twisted as they seized and Eragon tried to hold them down.
What have we done? Eragon thought desperately, looking to Elva, trying to read on her face something that might be comforting. But Elva was throwing up in the corner and Murtagh's body shuddered in his arms, and he couldn't get those images out of his head, those memories that Murtagh had been trying to hide from them.
His eyes met Nasuada and she looked gray and gaunt, holding her breath as Arya whispered over Murtagh's shaking form, joined now by Blodgharm as they tried to stop whatever this seizing fit was. Eragon felt Saphira's mental assurance, his own mind fractured and confused.
You are here, you are safe, Saphira assured, but Eragon felt sick.
He barely had time to register that he was back in his own body, before Murtagh's seizing stopped and he lay very still. The tent was deathly silent for a long stretch of moments. Then Eragon turned to Elva.
"Is he g—"
Before he could finish, Murtagh's eyes snapped open and he lurched up, snatching Arya's knife from her belt and rolling away as Eragon lunged forward.
"No!"
Before they could stop him, Murtagh had scurried backwards and lifted the knife to his own throat, a mad expression on his gaunt face. Eragon had only a moment to be confused before Murtagh spoke,
"You think you can sneak your way into his head and steal my secrets?" Galbatorix sneered, holding Murtagh's body up as it teetered unsteadily, "You think any of you are strong enough to overcome my magic? You should know better, Glaedr."
Murtagh's face was a disdainful glare, facing the Eldunari that sat on the tent floor.
"You could not even escape my lieutenant, pathetic and weak as he is. Your rider met his death because you are weaker still, and now you try to best me?"
Murtagh laughed, but the sound was hollow and empty, his eyes utterly devoid of life. Eragon was breathing hard, gaze flicking from Arya to Elva to Nasuada and back to his brother, watching the knife rest against Murtagh's throat, one twitch away from death. Would Galbatorix do it? Would he have Murtagh kill himself?
Glaedr's voice rippled outwards, undeterred in his fury.
You are a coward who uses hatchlings to do his bidding, and cowers in his den like a frightened mole. We do not fear you, Usurper, and your hold on this boy will not last.
Eragon's head was vibrating from the force of Glaedr's rage as he tried to stay upright.
I know whose blade killed my rider, and I know on whom my vengeance will be taken.
Nasuada's face was tense and frightened, clearly worried that Glaedr would goad Galbatorix into meeting them in battle himself—an event that they could not survive.
Murtagh laughed again, and Eragon winced to see a trickle of blood running down his throat as the knife pricked his skin.
"Your words are as weak as you were in life, and soon I will add you to my collection, to be my servant, as the elder Son of Morzan is."
Eragon's hand was on his sword when Murtagh's dark eyes turned towards him, his face gleefully haunted.
"And as for you, Eragon Shadeslayer," Galbatorix taunted, "You have seen how I broke him. Surrender to me willingly—you and your dragon—or you will face the same.
"I will never bow to you! And you will not take him!" Eragon shouted back, sounding braver than he felt, gripping brisingr and feeling Saphira's strength.
Murtagh smiled.
"I told you before, young Morzansson," The hollow voice spoke with Murtagh's mouth, "Your brother is mine, body and soul; just as you will soon be. Perhaps you thought me a liar—I will prove it to you."
Before Eragon could work up a response, he watched Murtagh lift the knife from his throat, and, with a wild look, plunge the blade into his own stomach.
"No!" Eragon and Arya lurched forward at the same time, as Murtagh crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut, landing on the dirt floor, blood soaking his abdomen.
No, no, no, Murtagh, please, Eragon slid to his knees and tried to lift his brother's limp head from the ground. Arya removed the knife in a flash and was already whispering healing spells as Eragon felt Murtagh regain consciousness and try to sit up.
A terrible wail of pain left his lips as his eyes shot open, and Eragon knew he was himself again—disoriented and confused and bleeding.
"Murtagh—"
Murtagh clutched at his stomach, eyes wild with fear as he groaned and tried to stem the blood in a panic. Arya swatted his hands away, and Eragon took hold of them as Murtagh struggled, not understanding what was going on.
"Just a minute, hold on, just a few more seconds," Eragon urged as Murtagh screamed and tried to push them away. One of the guards held down his feet and Eragon tried to keep his torso still as Arya's magic worked.
"Keep him still, Eragon," Arya barked, her brow tight with concentration. In desperation, Eragon put his hand against Murtagh's sweat-drenched forehead and said,
"Slytha!"
Murtagh's cry died in his throat as his head fell limp again and his eyes rolled back, asleep.
Arya finished her murmuring, and Blodgharm knelt to lend his strength as the wound Murtagh had inflicted on himself healed over. When Arya straightened back up, there was a terrible silence in the tent, all of them breathing hard, adrenaline pumping.
Eragon met Arya's eyes as he held onto his brother, looking to her for answers and seeing none. His wide gaze turned to Nasuada, who was gray-faced and near tears. Elva stood in the corner hunched like a feral cat, and Blodgharm's fur was bristled.
None of them seemed to know what to say, or what to do. But then Glaedr's mind touched them all, and he spoke, heavy and solemn,
I have kept myself attached to his mind, and am shielding him from any dark dreams that we may have stirred up. If the Usurper tries to take him again, I may be able to fend him off.
Eragon swallowed tightly, looking to Glaedr's Eldunari with worry.
Fear not, Eragon, Glaedr rumbled, answering Eragon's questioning thought, I have seen for myself what the accursed king has done to this hatchling and his partner.
The dragon's voice was a swirl of sorrow and anger and deep regret, but it was calm and in control now.
Their bodies may have been used to kill me and my rider, but they are not to blame—I know this now. I will not waste vengeance on those who are undeserving; Galbatorix is the one I will tear apart from the inside out—your brother need fear no harm from me.
Eragon ducked his head, feeling himself trembling from the terror of the last hour.
"Thank you, Glaedr-Elder," He managed shakily, looking back down on his brother's ashen face.
Eragon was in the tent for almost an hour more as Murtagh slept soundly; he knew he should remove the spell of sleep before too long, but he was reluctant to do so, knowing what he would face once his brother awoke.
Elva left, followed by Blodgharm, and Arya carried Glaedr's Eldunari to the command tent, which was close enough that he could stay shielding Murtagh's mind from any attack. Eragon changed Murtagh's torn and bloodied tunic, and one of the guards brought in a cot, which he lifted his brother onto, before carefully dripping water into Murtagh's parched mouth and brushing aside his sweat-drenched hair.
Eragon nervously removed the sleeping spell after about an hour, but Murtagh didn't stir, his breath changing only slightly. He remained in sleep, for which Eragon was selfishly grateful, and before too long, Eragon himself rose on heavy feet. He turned to find that Nasuada was still in the tent, standing close to the opening and gazing down at Murtagh's form with a painful expression.
Eragon shuffled over tiredly, and took her hand, drawing her out of whatever trance she was in.
"We should go before he wakes," Eragon said, knowing their presence would not serve to calm Murtagh when he awoke again. Nasuada nodded tightly, and gave one last strained look towards the cot, before ducking out into the starlit night.
Eragon walked with Nasuada in silence, going where he couldn't tell and didn't care. He was too exhausted to think. They passed the command tent and walked until they were beyond the last row of the camp, looking to the northeast—towards Uru'baen.
Nasuada's guards lingered behind as they both stood in silence, and Eragon could feel her taking deep breaths in the night air. The chill felt comforting, after the confining heat of the tent, and Eragon tried to let the nighttime mist clear away his muddled thoughts—the terrible images that kept flickering into his head.
"I had made up my mind to kill him," Nasuada said hollowly, as she stared out into the darkness of the plain.
She shook her head, swallowing tightly.
"After the Burning Plains, when you told me…" She looked down, "...I convinced myself that he wasn't a good man. That… whatever I saw, whatever I thought he was before… that it had been a lie."
Eragon watched the grasses swaying in the gray moonlight, his heart tight and aching.
"I knew if it came down to it, we would have to kill him. And it would be easier… if he was a monster."
Silence stretched between them for a long moment, heavy and anticipating, and when Nasuada spoke again her voice was so low it barely rose above the sound of the breeze.
"All those terrible, awful images that are stuck in my head, and you know what stood out the most?"
She finally turned her head to Eragon, and he met her shining eyes, seeing his own pain reflected in them.
"He could've run. That day in Farthen Dur, when the Urgals were attacking…" Her voice cracked, and she shook her head, "He was on his feet, and there was nothing but open plain between him and Tronjheim. He could've run."
She swallowed tightly, and took a shuddering, damp breath.
"...but he went back to help my father. He went back."
She gestured helplessly.
"And look what he got for it."
Her face was questioning, pleading with Eragon to have the answers somehow.
"A monster doesn't do that. An evil man, a selfish man…"
Nasuada looked down, stopping short for a moment. But when she spoke again her voice was hard.
"Galbatorix tried to beat the goodness out of him, but when it came down to it, he still let you go. Even when he knew what he would get for it, even when he knew it would cause him more pain, he let you go and he gave us a chance."
Nasuada's eyes now had a spark of furious determination, like a wounded lioness defending her den.
"He's a good man, Eragon. We have to save him."