A/N: Well, holy crap! When I was updating , I clicked on the wrong document! That was something else I was working on, so I'll delete that. The other chapter MIGHT fit into this story, but it's not it. So, yeah. This is chapter 8. It took me longer than I intended it to, but oh well. It shorter than I wanted, too, but I realized it would be too long if I went on, and I wanted to get it out as quick as possible. READ AND REVIEW, PLEASE! Tell your friends!

The tear that slid down Nasuada's cheek infuriated Murtagh. His muscles ached with excruciating pain.

How can you do this to her? He contacted Eragon with his mind. His half-brother did not even recoil.

This isn't about her.

Do you really want to break her like this? I swear by it, Eragon, I am not in league with Galbatorix any longer. He swore in the Ancient Language. I recognize my faults, Murtagh continued in the elves tongue, I would let you do with me what you will, if it were not for Nasuada and Thorn.

"We need to play the role of authority over him, Nasuada. How can we do so when we let him get away with unlawful misdemeanor? We won't kill him, just…" the rider sighed. "Just make sure he won't make the same mistakes again."

Thank you.

Arya spoke, but Murtagh could not make out her fleeting, bell-like voice.

"Are you holding something over him, Arya?" Nasuada's voice was clear and warm to the red rider's ears. "Why did Eragon give up his position so easily? He seemed rooted against Murtagh, but then he just… gave up."

"It was you," Murtagh said compulsively. He was having trouble blocking Thorn form his thoughts now, but he felt it was still necessary, considering the pain he was in, physically and emotionally. His vision flickered.

The next thing Murtagh knew, he was being dragged onto his knees by Nasuada, and his head was somewhat cleared. He staggered against Lady Nightstalker. "Can you walk?" she asked. He nodded, his weariness, he realized, still lingered.

Thorn?

Murtagh?

Are you alright?

I am now. Eragon has just seen to it that I am to be made comfortable. He says we shall be reunited soon.

Good. He severed the connection with his dragon, not willing to expend the miniscule amount of energy it took for the both of them to converse.

As the elf Arya swung the door open, the frigid air stung his face. He remembered saving her life only a year ago. Or was it longer? What had gone wrong since then?

The twins. The Twins had caused all this misery, confusion for Murtagh and now Thorn.

We can blame whomever we like for all the wrong that has occurred, but where would we be without all this strife? You wouldn't have me, and I wouldn't have you. The thought unwanted thought reverberated in Murtagh's head. Thorn was right, obviously.

Of course I'm right, Little Misery.

The red rider paid little attention to the commentary Nasuada provided on the chilly walk to her tent; he was just too tired. But he loved to hear the sound of her voice, sweet and clear, like a gurgling stream, or the peaceful hum of a mockingbird. And best of all, it was familiar. His last memory of the Varden, before he was spirited away by the wretched Twins. He remembered the last time he heard her beautiful voice like yesterday, mostly because it was often the final strand of his sanity. He'd only been happy and content a few times in his life: When he was sparring with Eragon, the only opponent that would ever match his strength and skill besides an elf; his time in Farthen Dûr with the Varden, short as it may have been. Even during his imprisonment his spirits had not dampened; the rush of being on the battlefield and fighting for a good cause; and being with Nasuada, who seemed to understand all of his problems, and everyone else's, for that matter.

Murtagh's reverie had caused him to pay little attention to his surroundings until Nasuada sat him on a bed. Dazedly, he fell onto it and closed his eyes, wishing nothing more than to sleep forever.

When Murtagh awoke, his mind was sharp and clear. Too clear. He could feel every ache, every pain, every cut and every scrape in high definition. He realized again that he was in a bed. Nasuada's bed, he supposed.

"Where are you going to sleep?" He asked, finding his voice.

Nasuada, who was sitting in front of her fire, leaning over something that was obscured by him because her back was turned, let out a startled squeak.

Murtagh!" Nasuada screeched. "You half startled me out of my wits. Well, I figured that, due to your condition, you should have the bed. I'll make do on the floor."

"No," Murtagh insisted, looking around the lavish tent for the first time. Well, lavish compared to the conditions he was now accustomed to. He felt embarrassed to be reduced to such a state. He supposed the red fabric was to make the structure stand out. The bed he was laying in was the only one in the tent. There was desk, from which the chair was absent nestled in the corner. The rug looked like it was of elfish make. "I've been sleepin' on the ground for as long as I care to recall. And I don't think sleeping on this rug would be much of punishment." He smiled, his chapped lips cracking.

"I'll sleep on the floor. Or rather, you'll sleep on the bed, if the wording makes any difference. That settles the matter. You must be famished. I'll have whatever you want sent right away."

Ten minutes later, a servant appeared.

"What do you have?" Murtagh croaked. Two minutes later, he regretted this inquiry, for the list had gone on and on. Finally he asked, "Will it be any trouble if I just have one of everything you've got?" The servant shook his head.

"No trouble at all, sir." He seemed almost leery of Murtagh, and he spoke rapidly.

When the servant departed, Murtagh went back in the tent.

Why haven't you contacted me, Thorn? He thought to his dragon.

Why should I be the one to break this cursed silence? The red dragon's thought had a sour air. I have been sitting here, worried and helpless, being doted upon, but still miserable, because you cannot extend the courtesy of letting the barriers around your mind down, or even notifying me of your whereabouts and wellbeing. If you will not let me into you mind, Little Misery, then I shall not let you into mine. Thorn broke the connection between them.

That went well, The rider observed to himself.

"Is your dragon alright?" Nasuada asked.

Murtagh sighed. "I suppose."

"Are you alright?" Her tone was laced with genuine concern, something Murtagh had heard expressed toward him a limited amount to times.

"I suppose," was his aloof answer again.

"You don't look alright."

Despite himself, Murtagh let a twinge of annoyance color his voice. "If you must know, I am not alright. Would you be "alright" if you were subject to Galbatorix' manic experiments for months and months?"

Looked down. "I… I can't imagine. What did he do to you, might I ask?"

Murtagh took a deep breath and braced himself.

Thanks for reading! :)) I have a dillemma (if that's how you spell it). I can't decide whether to use "alright" or "all right". Apparent both are correct. Leave me your opinion in your REVIEW! (Please) Again, I appologize for the shortness.

-Seastar97