Eragon did not sleep that night, plagued by the images he'd seen in his brother's head, and the terrible, blank look on his face when Galbatorix had taken over his mind. It made him think about his own life in the days after the battle of Farthen Dur, after Ajihad had died and Nasuada taken his place.
What had he been doing, while Murtagh was being tortured? Where had he been, the day Thorn had hatched? Was he safe in Ellesmera when Murtagh had been broken?
Murtagh had tried to scry him; the moment he'd learned to do magic he'd started searching, and Eragon had always assumed this was in order to spy and gain advantage, but now he knew better—Murtagh had been trying desperately to reach out, to find a way to contact someone and let them know he was alive, that he had a dragon, that he needed help.
Eragon had thought his own plight was so difficult—when his back had hurt him and he'd suffered debilitating seizures—but when he considered what had been happening to Murtagh at the same time, somehow his pain seemed so small.
While Eragon had been in Ellesmera, learning from Oromis, connecting with Saphira, enjoying the beauty of the woods, Murtagh had been chained in dungeons—burned and whipped and half-drowned. And then, when he'd finally been broken—come to the end of his strength after weeks or suffering—the torture still hadn't stopped.
His mind had been invaded and his identity stripped; he'd been forced to kill, and he'd been used horrifically for Galbatorix's own ends. The memories had been fragmented and foggy and dark, but Eragon understood what they meant: the king had forced Murtagh into relations with his nobles, to curry favors with them. Whether that was because Galbatorix actually wanted something they had, or because he simply wanted to prove to Murtagh that he owned him completely, the reality was disgusting.
Even more difficult to face was the harsh truth that Eragon himself was responsible for some of the suffering he'd seen. He wrestled with that thought all night, tortured by it and unable to put it to rest—what he'd seen in the ornate dining room with the sneering older man had happened because of him, because Murtagh had chosen to let him go. It was Murtagh's punishment for being merciful.
I don't think I'd forgive me either, Eragon said to Saphira the next morning, feeling no better than he had when he lay down the previous night. Saphira rumbled.
If I were Thorn, I might have gone mad with rage, after all they have endured, She agreed. I no longer resent him his anger; he has earned it.
Eragon sighed heavily, leaning over his cot and dreading the long day. He knew he would have to go and face Murtagh eventually, to make sure his brother was—if not okay, at least alive and in his right mind. He also knew Thorn would be furious when he found out what had happened, and he didn't look forward to that.
Thankfully, the inevitable confrontation was delayed when he found Arya sitting around a cookfire near the command tent, finishing up a breakfast, and looking as though she'd gotten as little rest as he had.
Arya nodded to him as he sat down heavily.
"You should eat something," She said softly, noting that he held no plate.
"No appetite," He murmured, and she met his gaze a moment, before nodding and looking away. There was silence between them for a long moment.
"That must have been difficult for you to see," She said without looking at him, her voice gentle. She didn't have to clarify what she meant.
Eragon sniffled in the morning chill.
"For anyone," He dismissed dully.
Quiet resumed again, and they listened to the sounds of the camp around them.
"I want you to know, Eragon, that I do understand how hard this is," She said then, looking down at her plate, "I know I seem harsh and cold sometimes, I suppose it is a sort of armor for me. But I do realize that he is your brother, and he was or is your friend, and he is also the only other true dragon rider in the world."
She looked at him with a rare expression—like she was seeing him as an equal, and not as a foolish boy who stumbled over his words and made silly professions of love.
"This is harder for you than for the rest of us," She said solemnly, "I don't mean to dismiss that. I cannot fathom how you must feel right now, and it is more than reasonable that you would be angry with me. I apologize for being so harsh, I should have thought my words out more carefully."
Eragon looked at the ground, scuffing his boot against the dirt and sighing.
"I'm not angry with you, Arya," He said heavily. "Someone had to say what you said. He's my brother but he's also our enemy—whether or not he wanted to be is beside the point."
Arya nodded curtly, and he assumed that would be the end of their conversation; she was not one to overexplain herself, or to give more than was strictly necessary.
But when she spoke again, her tone was different, and Eragon could tell she had been pondering these words through the long watches of the night.
"What you and him saved me from, Eragon…" She said, "I know torture. I know that kind of pain. It bends you as a person, warps your being, and if you ever return to who you were before, well…"
She scoffed humorlessly, placing her empty plate down in front of the fire.
"I suppose I wouldn't know yet."
She looked at Eragon, and seemed suddenly very young.
"You didn't know me before," She said, "And if you had, I think you might mourn who I am now—what was lost, taken from me by Durza."
Eragon's face pinched with pain, hating to hear her sounding so haunted.
"But you knew Murtagh before, so you know that this isn't who he was. And you and I both saw how hard he fought to keep from being warped. He was willing to give up his life rather than give in—I know how that feels. "
Eragon nodded.
Her gaze drifted then, and she looked down at her thin hands, her shoulders hunching a bit. She seemed to hesitate a moment, before saying.
"I also know how it feels to have someone take your body and make it their own—to use you like you are nothing more than an object."
Eragon felt his chest constricting as her words landed, but Arya continued speaking, still looking down as she said,
"I was not awake, but I have a notion of how the guards at Gil'ead entertained themselves."
Her words were calm, and her hands picked at the edges of her sleeves, but Eragon could see the tightness in her frame and her breath, the way that she sat too still. He, too, remained still, knowing he had only to listen, and wait for her to say what she was trying to say. It was hard, though, when he wanted to comfort and reassure her.
"In truth I do not know which is worse," She said softly, "Not knowing for certain, or remembering every detail."
Eragon winced, hating to imagine what it must be like to live with that, when just a vague glimpse of what had happened to his brother had left him shaken. He understood now why she had stepped in the previous day—asking Glaedr to look away, putting the mission second, which was unlike her.
He had asked Arya once before, if that sort of thing had happened to her while she was a captive, and she'd denied it. But of course he understood why, and he did not fault her for not wishing to tell him the truth before.
"I'm sorry," He said softly, and she nodded, her demeanor still calm and matter-of-fact, though he could tell this was difficult for her.
"I am telling you this, Eragon, because I want you to know I understand. What we saw in his mind proves that Murtagh did everything possible to avoid serving Galbatorix. If I had had a partner like Thorn—someone that could be threatened and tortured—I cannot say with certainty that I would not have done just as he did."
Eragon nodded; he had been thinking the exact same thing that night—wondering how long he would have lasted, if Saphira were in pain and only he could stop it.
"I agree."
"We cannot simply overlook the blood on their hands," Arya said somberly, "Not while they are still bound to serve Galbatorix, and bound to be our enemies. They will have to answer for what they've done—especially with the dwarves, and certainly with some of my people, who will not be inclined to forgive quickly, after what we have lost."
Her gaze turned to him, and her eyes glinted with determination.
"But if there is anything that can be done for them, trust me, Eragon, I will do it," She said, "It may be that the only way to help Murtagh and Thorn is to prevail against Galbatorix, and if we cannot do that, then we will all be dead and it will not matter anymore. But I will do my utmost; I have not forgotten that I owe him my life, just as I owe you."
Eragon did not feel better after his conversation with Arya—if anything his heart was heavier as he walked on towards the prison tent—but he did take strength in the fact that she was in his corner, willing to fight for Murtagh as he knew they would have to. It would not be a simple task, to get the dwarves to forget their fury, or the elves to set aside their desire for vengeance; but he saw more clearly than ever that his brother and Thorn were not the monsters that they might seem. They were victims of the king, perhaps the most victimized of all, and Eragon knew he would not be able to rest until they were free.
Now he had Arya, Nasuada and Glaedr on his side. And that was a start.
"Is he awake?" Eragon said quietly to Blodgharm, who was waiting outside the tent in the warm air.
"More or less," The elf murmured, his eyes sharp.
"Has he said anything?"
Blodgharm shook his head.
"Is he…" Eragon trailed off, not knowing what he was asking, or what he expected Blodgharm to say.
Is he sane? Is he hurting? Does he hate me? Did I break him?
"He is alive," Blodgharm returned, his rumbling voice unaffected. Eragon knew it was distinctly possible that Blodgharm cared little for Murtagh's well-being; it was understandable, given everything that happened. Eragon wasn't expecting any of the elves to harbor sentimental feelings towards his brother, but Blodgharm at least had stood watch and attempted to help.
"Is Glaedr still connected with him?" He asked, delaying just a moment longer, reluctant to go inside and face his brother.
"He pulled his consciousness back when the boy awoke," Blodgharm answered, "He was not wanted."
Eragon nodded, imagining no scenario in which Murtagh would welcome the dragon's presence in his head, even if he was trying to help him keep calm.
"Thank you, Blodgharm. For watching out for him," Eragon said, and Blodgharm nodded somberly. He had not gone into Murtagh's mind with them, but Eragon was sure he had seen enough to understand.
When Eragon ducked into the tent he found Murtagh sitting on the floor again, his head leaning against the center pole and one leg pulled up towards himself while the other lay at an awkward angle.
Eragon could see what Blodgharm had meant by "more or less". Murtagh was awake—or at least his eyes were open and he was sitting up—but his gaze was blank and he did not react to Eragon's presence whatsoever.
He had abandoned the comfort of the cot, seeming to prefer the hard-packed dirt floor, and he looked hunched and limp, like someone had wrung the life out of him.
Eragon breathed calmly, and cleared his throat, just in case Murtagh hadn't heard him enter. When there was still no reaction, Eragon took a few steps into his brother's line of sight.
"It's morning," Eragon said dully. There was no reaction; Murtagh's chest was rising steadily, his hands were limp in his lap, and his head was leaned back; the shackle remained around his ankle, but he wasn't struggling anymore.
"Is the wound alright?" He asked, standing above his brother. There was no blood on Murtagh's tunic, and Eragon trusted that Arya had done good work, but he knew healing magic was among the most intricate and difficult, and the wound Murtagh had given himself would have been deadly without treatment.
Unsurprisingly, Murtagh said nothing. Eragon might as well have not been in the tent.
"Murtagh, please, I just need to know…"
He was going to say 'you're alright' but that was obviously a stupid thing to say. Of course he wasn't.
"...to know you can hear me."
Silence.
Eragon shifted.
"Murtagh can you hear me?"
He felt heat flushing his neck, and he was fearful, worried that this silence wasn't defiance, that something had gone wrong in Murtagh's head and he wasn't here right now, that he really was broken. Eragon shifted forward carefully.
"Murtagh?" He said quietly. He crouched before his brother, trying to catch some reaction, some sign of life from him. Eragon sighed.
"You don't have to talk to me, I just want to know if you need help."
Still nothing. Eragon's heart was beating, he was torn between frustration and fear.
Say something, please, say something.
"Murtagh?"
Eragon touched his shoulder, expecting Murtagh to smack his hand away, but nothing happened. His palm just sat there for a moment, and Murtagh might as well have been a rock. Then Eragon grew truly afraid.
"Please say something," He said, his voice sharp.
"Murtagh?!" He said louder, taking both Murtagh's shoulders and shaking him. This elicited the smallest of reactions, a slight hunch and Murtagh's arm twitched, trying to escape Eragon's grasp.
He let go.
Murtagh shifted just slightly, his eyes moving farther away from Eragon. It wasn't much, but it was enough; he was aware, and awake. Eragon let out a small breath and leaned back.
He might've actually preferred the cursing and spitting over this terrible silence. He was waiting for Murtagh to scream at him and tell him what a monster he was, and that he hated him forever and wished he was never born. That would be something Eragon could brace himself against. But this? This empty behavior? This blank slate of a person sitting before him? Eragon couldn't get angry at that, couldn't push back against it, and somehow it made him feel worse than the shouting and cursing.
"Okay," Eragon managed finally, rising and looking down, a dreadful churning in his stomach.
"...okay."
They would wait for the elves. That's what Nasuada had decided, and Eragon was relieved to hear it—the elves were coming down from Gil'ead and would arrive within the week. They would wait for the elves, and then they would march on Uru'baen together.
Eragon was grateful in a selfish way, because he was not ready to face what was coming; he was not prepared for Uru'baen, for Galbatorix, for what he knew must come. Perhaps it was cowardly, but he was relieved when Nasuada made the pronouncement, and he didn't argue.
He had brought food to Murtagh, and received again the blank shell, the non-reaction. It was worrying him, this catatonic state, and he knew he had to find a way to snap Murtagh out of it. He'd spoken to Thorn, who, unsurprisingly, had nothing but curses and anger for him, but the confrontation had left him with the certain feeling that Thorn was the only one who could help his rider. Eragon knew it from his own experience.
He asked Nasuada, then, if she would consent to allow him to bring Murtagh to Thorn, to let them speak, to bring them back together and hope that it would calm the both of them.
"I don't think there would be anything they could learn from each other that would harm us," Eragon offered tiredly, nerves frayed from his lack of rest, "And Galbatorix has already proven that he can take anything he wants from Murtagh's mind, so I'm sure he could do it with Thorn—it wouldn't make a difference."
"Actually, I'm not sure that is correct," Nasuada said quietly, and Eragon frowned, wondering how she might reach that conclusion after watching Murtagh drive a knife into his own stomach.
"I have been thinking," She continued, "About what he said to you—Galbatorix."
Her eyes flickered with a grimace, clearly avoiding the uncomfortable memory of Murtagh's blank face and wild snarl.
"He called you the son of Morzan," She said, "Last night Galbatorix said that to you; but you told me that you told Murtagh about Brom. You said Murtagh knew that you were not Morzan's son; so why didn't Galbatorix know?"
Eragon frowned, going through the terrifying moments in his mind, trying to remember.
"The dark presence we felt in Murtagh's mind, that was him. That was Galbatorix pushing us out of his mind, but he didn't see us at first, he didn't realize we were there for a long time, or else he would've fought back earlier."
Nasuada's mouth was tight, and it was clear that she, too, had been up all night, pondering.
"I think that Galbatorix doesn't know everything that Murtagh knows. I think he can only see and hear what is happening when he takes over his mind, nothing before or after. That's why he didn't know about your father. Because you were talking to Murtagh when you said that, not Galbatorix."
Eragon wasn't sure what to make of it, what to hope for, whether this was good news, whether he could believe it?
"Are we willing to bet on that?" Eragon worried, and Nasuada frowned.
"No, not yet," She relented, "I'm not certain."
"So should we keep them apart?"
There was silence and Nasuada leaned on her hands.
"Take Murtagh to Thorn," She decided finally, "Let him help; let them talk outside of camp, but don't let him see anything. If we can win some goodwill from them, get them to be on our side…"
She grimaced, understanding what a big ask that would be.
"Well. It can't hurt, anyway," She concluded, and Eragon nodded. So far they had only managed to push Murtagh further away, to convince him that they were just as much his enemy as Galbatorix was. It was worth a try, and if perhaps Galbatrix's hold on Murtagh's mind wasn't as all-encompassing as he wanted them to think it was, then Thorn and Murtagh together might be better than the two of them apart.
So it was that Eragon returned to the prison tent with Arya, and unshackled Murtagh's leg as his brother sat motionless, his head leaned against the tent pole, his expression dead.
"Murtagh, I'm taking you to see Thorn," Eragon said, crouching in front of him. There was no reaction.
"You can come talk to Thorn if you want, I'll take you to him," He repeated. Murtagh's eyelids fluttered just barely, like he didn't even want to blink. Likely he expected some kind of trick, or doubted that Eragon was sincere. Eragon looked up at Arya, who gave a small nod.
"I'm going to put this over your eyes, just until we get outside the camp," Eragon said, holding up a piece of cloth.
No reaction.
"Murtagh, I'm going to put this over your eyes," He repeated, wanting some acknowledgement. But he knew that words weren't going to get through to him, so he had to just do it.
Eragon leaned down and put the cloth around his brother's eyes, and Murtagh pulled back then, not speaking, but struggling, silently fighting as Arya held onto his upper arm.
"I'm taking you to Thorn," Eragon repeated quickly, snatching the cloth back, "Do you want to see Thorn?"
Murtagh was pulling away from Arya's grip, his eyes still unfocused.
"You let me put this cloth on your eyes, and you can talk to Thorn, I promise," Eragon haggled, already feeling terrible, hating himself for manipulating his brother like this.
Murtagh's gaze did not move from the far distant tent wall; his breathing was shaky, and his brow knit, but Eragon could see the words sinking in, and after a few seconds he stopped struggling.
Eragon glanced at Arya, who nodded again, holding firmly but gently, as Eragon leaned forward and placed the cloth around Murtagh's eyes a second time. There was a slight twitch, but nothing else, as he tied the cloth behind Murtagh's head.
"Okay, we're going to help you to your feet, and we can go see him," Eragon said, expecting no reaction and receiving none.
He took Murtagh's right arm while Arya held his left, and they hoisted him to his feet. He struggled only slightly, seemingly torn between the desire to fight them off and the desire to go and see his partner.
As they ducked into the sunlight Eragon met Arya's gaze over Murtagh's shoulders, and she nodded again, silently. They lead him through the camp surrounded by guards, receiving the same angry glares and muttered curses, but they made it outside the last row of tents without incident, and found Thorn and Saphira waiting out by the shimmering lake.
As before, Thorn's neck was raised, craning for a glimpse of his rider as they pushed through the trampled grass. Saphira sat quietly several yards away, watching carefully. When they were within a few feet, Eragon stopped.
"Okay, I'm taking it off now," He said, checking behind him to make sure that nothing could be seen of the camp except the wall of tents. He reached up and removed the cloth from Murtagh's eyes, and Arya and him released their grips, as Thorn shifted his weight on the dirt, letting out an impatient humming sound.
His great head swung forward, pulling close to his rider, as Murtagh blinked his eyes open painfully in the sunlight. Eragon felt a mix of aching melancholy and sentimental joy as he watched Thorn nudge his snout against Murtagh's chest, and his brother reached for his dragon with a painful expression.
Eragon met Saphira's gaze across the field, and he felt her mental reassurance.
He could feel the vibrations of Thorn's humming through the ground as Murtagh embraced his massive head, their brows touching and their eyes closed. It was a thing of beauty, the connection of rider and dragon, and it was something no one else there could fully understand.
He knew it was the right thing, bringing them together; no matter what else had happened, they deserved to have each other, the only steady presence in their otherwise tumultuous lives. It was right.
For a moment, watching Murtagh hold onto Thorn as a look of relief spread across his tormented features, Eragon was hopeful. But then Murtagh lifted his head and met Thorn's eyes, and he winced, and a strange rigidity came into his limbs, a shudder passing through him.
Thorn huffed, and Saphira lifted her head as Murtagh's body began to convulse, taken again by a seizure, even as he stood holding onto Thorn's snout.
"Murtagh," Eragon stepped forward sharply as his brother's legs gave out and fell to the trampled earth, shaking uncontrollably. Thorn shifted and let out a distressed whine, smoke trailing from his nostrils.
"Murtagh?" Eragon said, kneeling at his brother's side again and trying to bring him to consciousness. Arya was on the other side, her face hard with concentration, a hand on Murtagh's brow as his head trembled and his eyes rolled back.
What's happening, what did he do? Eragon thought in a panic, and Saphira came closer as Thorn stamped in distress, a growl rippling from his jaws. He was shouting, Eragon thought—it was like he could feel the echo of Thorn's mental voice as he shouted at Murtagh to wake up, but nothing happened.
For a stretch of seemingly endless seconds Murtagh seized on the ground, his breath sharp and choked, until gradually the seizing turned to twitching, and then he became still.
Eragon looked across at Arya in utter bewilderment, and heard Murtagh intake air sharply, his eyes blinking open once again, as he grimaced and his shaking hands tried to find a steady grip.
"You're alright, we're here," Eragon said, seeing his brother's confusion.
"Thorn…" Murtagh grunted.
"He's here, he's right here."
Arya shifted out of the way so Thorn could bring his head closer as Murtagh unsteadily rolled over, pushing himself up on his hands and knees.
"Th–Thorn…" He gasped, and reached out a shaking hand to touch Thorn's head. Thorn let out a frightened sound, but Eragon had barely gotten to his feet when Murtagh stiffened again, and the seizing took over his body.
He fell against the crushed grass and Arya swooped in to turn him over onto his back.
"What's happening?" Eragon asked sharply, pointlessly holding onto his brother's limbs as they curled against him at an odd angle. Arya shook her head.
Stop this, Eragon-Brother-Murtagh! Thorn's thought came in like a hurricane, and Eragon winced.
What are you doing? He asked the dragon, looking up.
Let him be! Thorn pleaded as the seizure passed and Murtagh once again became still, coughing and groaning as he regained consciousness.
"Thorn, please…" He whimpered, his face sheened with sweat as he tried to find his partner's face again. This time he hadn't even sat up when the seizing began once more, Thorn roared in frustration and pummeled the earth with his claws.
Let us speak! He demanded of Eragon, You bring him here to see me only to play games with his mind?!
I'm not doing anything! Eragon protested, utterly confused as Murtagh's shaking calmed and he groaned awake, growing frantic in his confusion.
"Stop it, Eragon, please," He begged, his limbs searching, reaching for Thorn, "Please, just let me see him, just let me talk—"
"It's not me, I'm doing—"
But the seizure took hold again, and Murtagh convulsed in Eragon's arms.
It's their minds! Saphira put in, her own thoughts a swirl of panic, He's reaching out to Thorn in his mind, that is causing this.
"What?" Eragon was bewildered, as Murtagh took a few awful wheezes of air and his eyes fluttered open.
"Murtagh, don't open your mind to him," Arya demanded, "Don't try to touch his consciousness."
"Thorn…" Murtagh groaned deliriously, twisting to try and see Thorn, reaching his hand out as the dragon growled.
"Murtagh, don't!" Arya ordered, but once again his head fell back and he started to shake.
What is this?! Thorn demanded, his fury and fear rippling, What have you done to him?!
We are not doing this, Thorn, I swear on Saphira's life this is not me, Eragon pleaded.
It is your minds, Arya told the enraged dragon urgently, When your minds touch, he is triggered into a fit. He has to stop reaching for you.
Thorn whined again, shifting his weight.
Why can we not speak? The dragon asked, his large red eyes glistening with terror. Why is he blocked from me?
"I don't know, but he has to stop or he'll hurt himself," Eragon breathed, as Murtagh returned to consciousness once again with a pained groan. Thorn watched his rider on the ground, seeking him out like a blind man crawling towards water.
"Thorn!" Murtagh shouted desperately, but the moment their consciousnesses touched, he fell back into a seizing fit, like a candle being snuffed out. This seemed to be enough for Thorn, who was spewing smoke from his nostrils and stamping his feet.
Take him away, Thorn demanded, He will not stop unless I tell him to, and I cannot tell him if I cannot reach his mind. Get him away from me before he breaks himself.
Eragon met Saphira's wide look, feeling from her the same pain he felt, and immediately he nodded, hooking his arm under Murtagh's shoulder even as his brother shuddered with the convulsions.
He lifted Murtagh to his feet with Arya's help, and Thorn backed away, whining sharply as he watched his rider be dragged back to the camp. When Murtagh regained consciousness again he started to struggle.
"No! Don't take me, please, please let me go, let me see him, please—" He twisted and lunged back towards Thorn, blocked by Eragon's arm around his waist as he pulled him towards the tents.
"Thorn!" Murtagh screamed, flailing against them as Arya held onto his arms.
"You can't, Murtagh, you're hurting yourself!"
Eragon watched Thorn and Saphira take off from the banks of the lake, flying farther away, far enough that Murtagh couldn't reach his partner's mind.
"Thorn! Come back!" He shouted wretchedly, tears and sweat mixing on his face, "Please! Don't leave me! Thorn!"
Back through the camp Eragon pulled Murtagh, eliciting looks of alarm and confusion as he screamed and fought against his grip, pushing and fighting and pounding with his fists, unable to fight past Arya and Eragon's combined strength.
The guards stepped aside as the two of them dragged Murtagh back into the prison tent, still struggling.
"You promised! Let me see him, you promised!" Murtagh pleaded as Eragon wrestled him back towards the cot and Arya quickly placed the shackle back around his ankle.
"Please," Murtagh's voice was cracking and he gripped at Eragon's shirt, half-fallen to the floor as he pleaded.
"Please, Eragon, I'll do whatever you want, I'll do whatever you want just let me talk to him, please," He whimpered, bowing his head in defeat, sobs wracking his body.
"This is not me," Eragon repeated, gripping his brother's shoulders, "Murtagh, I swear on our mother, I am not doing this."
"Please…" Murtagh wailed, unable to understand, his fingers pulling at the fabric of Eragon's shirt like a desperate beggar.
"I'll do anything, I'll do whatever you want, please…"
"We have to go," Arya murmured, "We're making it worse."
"It's not me," Eragon pleaded.
"Just let me go, j–just let me see him—"
"Eragon," Arya warned, a hand on his arm.
With a grimace, Eragon forcibly uncurled Murtagh's fingers from his shirt, and backed away.
"Please!" Murtagh lurched towards them but was tripped up by the shackle on his leg, falling to the ground. His screams were incoherent as Arya pushed Eragon from the tent.
"You can't help, you're only upsetting him," She said, as Eragon felt tears stinging his eyes. He allowed her to guide him away from his brother's frantic shouting, which was now no longer angry and defiant, but pathetic and insane.
What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?
"Eragon, listen to me," Arya's voice brought him back as she gripped his arms tightly, shaking him. He blinked at her in the sudden brightness of the outside.
"You being in there is not going to help him. He can't hear you right now, you have to let it go."
"He's—he's hurt," Eragon managed, his voice shaking.
"I know. And we'll help him, but I'm afraid what will happen to his mind if we try to put him to sleep with magic right now, and he's not going to listen to anyone but Thorn," Her voice was stern and urgent, trying to keep him moored.
"So we have to take a minute, and figure things out. I've contacted Glaedr; he's going to try and help him, but you going back into that tent is not what's best for your brother right now."
Eragon swallowed through a hard lump in his throat, the sunlight too bright in his eyes.
"This is not your fault, Eragon, you didn't do this," Arya reminded, her grip on him the only steady thing in his spinning world.
"But I did," He whispered thickly, "I did do this. I did this–it's my fault…"
"It's not."
"It's my fault," Eragon's voice strained, and he felt the world tilting around him, and the horrible feeling like his chest was constricting, like he was breathing through a tiny hole, like his limbs were going numb.
He gasped for air, and stumbled back, sinking to the ground even as Arya tried to hold him up. Saphira wasn't there, she couldn't help him, she couldn't stop this choking feeling; she was off with Thorn, who was fleeing from his rider in order to save him. She was gone. What if Eragon couldn't talk to her? What if Eragon was kept from her mind too? What if they were separated forever? What if he was alone?
"It's m—it's–it's—" He was gulping for air, feeling his stomach clench, still hearing his brother's broken pleading from the tent.
"Breathe, Eragon," Arya said, kneeling in front of him as he clutched his chest, her voice distant and muffled. Eragon leaned forward until his forehead was touching the earth, trying to force the air into his lungs as his vision flickered.
He could hear the terrible repetition of one thought echo in his mind, as every horrific thing he'd ever witnessed since the day Saphira had hatched for him was replayed in his brain, and the weight of all of them came crashing down on him in one great wave.
It's my fault, it's my fault, it's my fault.