Hey, so if you're reading "This And Every Lifetime", I'm still working on that, but this side-story got stuck in my brain so I'm writing it out and I thought I'd share it here to tide everyone over until the next chapter of TAEL. :) Thanks for reading as always and please forgive my tardiness!
Saphira shot out over the ramparts of Dras Leona, as Eragon gripped tightly to her saddle and to Brisingr, his heart still hammering from the massive flow of energy he'd just expended.
It wasn't depleted yet, though, and even as his eyes spotted the crumpled form of Thorn several hundred yards out of the city, he fed more energy into himself and Saphira, knowing that they had to finish this now. Thorn was severely injured–possibly dead–and they had only moments before Murtagh would recover himself and turn his rage on them.
Murtagh is not there, He heard Arya's voice in his head. She and the elves were running towards the dragon's crash-site, weapons in hand, ready to kill or capture Murtagh and Thorn.
Murtagh is not with him, She repeated, and Eragon began to scan the ground.
He must have jumped off, He said to Saphira, his mind working frantically, still reeling from the invasion of Dras Leona, To avoid getting crushed, he must have jumped.
There! Saphira responded, and he felt her mental nudge direct his eyes to a spot about three hundred yards away from Thorn. Eragon saw a long brown gash in the earth, and at its end was the small struggling form of a man. Eragon's heart was hammering.
Set me down and go to Thorn, He told Saphira.
We cannot sep–
Set me down! I have to stop him getting back to Thorn and the Eldunari, you have to keep Thorn pinned.
Thorn is half-dead, Arya and the others can–
We don't have time, Saphira, please! Eragon was desperate, knowing that if they did not get control over Thorn and Murtagh immediately, people were going to die.
Saphira huffed her disapproval, but dropped in altitude, and when she touched to the ground Eragon immediately leapt off her back and began hurtling towards the spot where Murtagh had landed.
As he ran, he noticed a glint of red in the dirt, and recognized Zar'roc, lying about ten feet in front of Murtagh—the sword must have flipped out of his hand when he'd skidded to a stop on the ground.
As Eragon channeled more energy from Aren, he closed the distance between them, watching Murtagh stir to life and start crawling towards the sword. Part of Eragon's heart felt relief—he'd been aware of the possibility that the rubble cascade and the crash had killed Murtagh, and was, despite himself, relieved to see that it wasn't true.
The other part of him cursed the fact that Murtagh was conscious, knowing he would not give up without even more of a fight.
"Ganga!" Eragon shouted, drawing from Aren and sending Zar'roc flinging farther out of Murtagh's reach as his own feet pounded over the dry ground.
Murtagh wheezed, on his hands and knees, covered in dust and blood as he watched his weapon flip away from him. The black-haired man coughed, blood dripping from his mouth as his arms threatened to give out. Seeing Murtagh's injuries, Eragon knew that his wards had been worn down by Saphira's relentless assault, the rubble, and his violent crash into the ground.
"Letta!" Eragon spat, and Murtagh's body froze, his frame quivering despite the spell.
As Eragon came within five feet of his brother, he felt a sudden mental attack, but he deflected easily, as Murtagh's mind was scattered with panic and pain. Eragon flipped Murtagh over on his back with a spell, prevented him from speaking with another, and placed his own foot on his brother's chest, putting Brisingr against his neck in threat.
For a moment there was silence, as both of them heaved for breath. Horrible coughs wracked Murtagh's body, and blood was splattering from his mouth. Eragon stared down at him, heart hardened by the terrors he'd just endured in the tunnels under Dras Leona, and yet still feeling a pinch of worry for his brother, whose injuries were almost as horrific as his dragon's.
Eragon saw Murtagh's eyes flicking to his left, trying to search for Thorn even though he couldn't move his head. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, smoke rising along with screams from the city far behind them, and terrible noises coming from Thorn, hundreds of yards away.
Eragon felt a nudge from Arya, and opened his mind to her, satisfied that Murtagh was too distracted by his partner's pain to try another attack.
Saphira has him pinned and we are holding him with magic; we seized the Eldunari and Blodgharm is taking them far away. Thorn is gravely injured. If we do not heal him, he will bleed to death.
Eragon breathed, his mind racing, his eyes flicking to Murtagh's desperate, blood-smeared face. Kill or capture. Those were his choices. Murtagh was helpless right now–his Eldunari were gone, his wards were broken, his partner was near death and his sword was out of reach. He was exhausted, and had no way to fight back. All Eragon had to do was press down with Brisingr, and Murtagh would be dead. Thorn would follow soon after.
Kill or capture.
Another cough wracked Murtagh's body, and blood rolled down his chin, his face contorting in pain as his body convulsed. Eragon's chest tightened.
Eragon, he's going to die, Arya said in his mind, What's our decision?
Eragon panted, staring down at his brother, his enemy, the man who'd saved his life several times, and killed Oromis and Hrothgar. He knew the arguments—he'd gone over and over them in his head—knowing that Murtagh's servitude to Galbatorix was unwilling, but also knowing that he would be their biggest obstacle to reaching the King.
Still, Eragon looked down at Murtagh's broken form. his hair streaked with dust and his clothes torn, and he could not deal the killing blow. He could not do it. He could not end his brother's life.
But they had to be controlled.
Hold on, Eragon said to Arya, then he turned his face hard and released the silencing spell on Murtagh.
"Blast you!" Murtagh snarled, his voice cracking as he lurched against the magic bonds that still held him. His movements made him wheeze and shake, clearly in terrible condition.
"Thorn is dying," Eragon returned coldly, "We can save him, but not until you swear that you will not use magic against us."
"You son of a bitch!" Murtagh tried again to pull his way free from the magic that bound him, but he was weak and wounded, and the energy from Brom's ring was standing strong.
"Swear to me now, in the ancient language, that you will not use magic against me, or the Varden or any of their allies, and that you will not attempt to escape us."
Eragon hardened his expression, knowing that Murtagh had to believe him, or it wouldn't work. Murtagh had to believe that Eragon was willing to kill his dragon, or he'd call his bluff. And was it a bluff? Even Eragon wasn't certain. Could he stand by and let Thorn die? He didn't know, but he didn't want to find out either.
"Either you swear," Eragon panted, his voice dead and unfeeling, "Or we let Thorn die. And then perhaps I'll be kind, and kill you as well."
Murtagh thrashed again, a desperate cry emanating from his throat. He was wriggling like an animal in a trap, and tears joined the blood and dirt on his face. Eragon felt each heartbeat in his own chest, fear and pain twisting together.
Eragon, hurry– Arya interjected in his thoughts, Thorn is fading.
Wait. Just wait.
"He's dying, Murtagh," Eragon reiterated, shifting his grip on Brisingr and staring down harshly. Murtagh's thrashing had ceased, and now he was shuddering, his breaths coming uneven and shallow.
"Murtagh…" Eragon repeated, the name a warning, his face like stone. He watched Murtagh's eyes drift back towards where Thorn lay in the distance, no longer howling, his great red form lying terribly still.
Stuttering and uneven, Murtagh spoke the words that Eragon needed to hear, crippling himself against any chance of escape. As soon as the last words left his lips, and Eragon knew it was safe, he said,
Heal him, And felt Arya's acknowledgement, And send whoever you can spare this way.
After a moment, Eragon released the spells binding Murtagh, and sheathed Brisingr. He stood looking down at his brother, whose head had fallen to the left, watching Thorn from afar, his expression desperate.
Eragon knelt down and moved to address what looked like the worst of Murtagh's wounds—a long gash along his leg. He knelt and placed his hands there, but Murtagh lurched up.
"You bastard!" He screamed, trying to tackle Eragon and punch him at the same time. But Murtagh was weak from blood loss, and Eragon had better reflexes. He caught Murtagh's wrist and forced him back as Murtagh tried to land another blow.
"I'm trying to heal you–"
"Don't bloody touch me you son of a bitch!" Murtagh thrashed and pushed, "I'll bloody kill you! Take me to him now, you take me to him right now!"
"I'm not going to do that," Eragon gritted, pressing his weight down on Murtagh's arms, and putting his knees on Murtagh's legs. "He's being healed right now. He's fine."
"You bastard!" Murtagh spat blood and saliva, which splattered the already-gory front of Eragon's tunic. Eragon winced away, gritting his teeth and barely restraining his anger. He had gone through hell in the last twelve hours, and was at the end of his rope.
He heard someone approaching and looked back to see Blodgharm and one of the other Elves.
"Are you going to calm down or do I have to force you unconscious?" Eragon demanded, pressing his weight in harder and causing Murtagh to cry out as his wounded leg felt the pressure.
"Let me see him," Murtagh gritted out, his red-rimmed eyes furious, but even as he spoke he coughed again and spitting up more blood.
"No."
Eragon knew they had to be kept separate; Murtagh had sworn not to use magic, so they were crippled, but Thorn could still wreak havoc if he wasn't contained. The Elves couldn't restrain him with magic forever, and Eragon could not let them escape.
Murtagh had fought against his healing, so he decided to leave him bleeding for now–and use it against him.
"Blodgharm, watch him," Eragon bid, as Blodgharm and the other elf took his place kneeling next to Murtagh.
"Don't let him die."
Eragon cast an angry look down at his brother, who was pulling away from the Elves' grasp and flinging curses at them all. He was helpless, though, and Eragon had a dragon to deal with.
When he ran the distance between the two crash sites, he found Saphira pressing her weight down on Thorn's chest as the rest of the Elven spellcasters stood around him and Arya worked on healing his horrific wounds.
Thorn was conscious again, clearly trying to fight his captors off, but the magic of nine elves working against him was more than he could overcome, especially in his weakened state. He was trembling with anger, just like his rider.
"Thorn," Eragon said aloud, his voice hard and commanding, "We have your rider; he has sworn oaths preventing him from attacking or escaping us. We demand that you do the same. If you do not, we will leave him to his wounds, which he will most certainly die from. Open your mind to me now and swear oaths, and I promise no harm will come to your rider."
Thorn let out a furious roar, kept from killing Eragon only by the strength of the elves' magic and Saphira's hold on him.
"Now, Thorn–he has no time."
It was cruel, using them against each other. It was the most cruel thing, Eragon knew. But it was also the only alternative to killing them—the only thing that would keep them from attacking and killing Varden would be oaths in the Ancient Language, and the only way they would swear oaths was if each other's lives were in danger.
Thorn thrashed and resisted for several long moments, but when Eragon made his demand once more, he felt the dragon's hot fury turn brittle, and heard a low, concerned whine from his chest.
Then Eragon touched the red dragon's mind, feeling a strange melody, a depth and beauty—all covered over with seething rage.
You will pay for this, Eragon-rider-Saphira, The dragon's voice rippled in Eragon's mind, causing his whole body to vibrate. He stood his ground, though, and felt Saphira's strength in him, as Thorn, too, swore not to attack any Varden or their allies.
Eragon opened his eyes to meet the depths of the dragon's red gaze, as Arya stepped back from his large bulk, the worst of his wounds healed and his wing righted. After a nod from Eragon, Saphira slowly crawled off of Thorn's body, and the Elves released their spell.
There was a moment of quiet, the distant sounds of the assault on the city–which was undoubtedly nearing its end–echoing over the plain. The great red dragon shifted his weight, the ground rumbling beneath him as he got onto his feet. He gave a shake along his whole body, as though ridding himself of a fly, and then he crouched low to the ground, and swung his head towards Eragon.
A terrifying growl emanated from his throat, as he glared Eragon down with rage-filled red eyes. Eragon had to work hard to keep his expression calm. Thorn did not open his mind again, but the message was clear:
You'll die for that.
Murtagh Morzansson was dragged into the Varden camp by his arms, an Elf on either side holding him up and his wrists shackled behind him with magic-reinforced manacles. Eragon strode before him, hand on Brisingr's hilt, watching warily.
The assault on Dras Leona was long-since over, and those who were not left behind to hold the city had returned to the Varden camp for food and rest. They all gawked now, and glared, as the red rider was escorted into the camp, bound and helpless, but still seething with fury.
Curses were flung Murtagh's way, and Eragon had to order several soldiers to stand down, threatening to pull Brisingr as they seemed ready to cut Murtagh down in the street. One man hurled a gauntlet and struck Murtagh in the face, drawing blood, but there was no one to send after the rogue soldier, so all Eragon could do was get his brother out of sight as quickly as possible.
Eragon's shoulders were hunched and his whole body on-edge. He was tired down to his bones, but he knew this never-ending day was far from over.
They brought Murtagh to the tent designated for camp prisoners—which had been emptied—and chained him to the center pole, sitting down. Eragon stood staring down at him, wincing at how terrible his brother looked.
"Are you going to let me heal you, or what?" He demanded. Murtagh had nearly been choking on his own blood by the time Eragon returned back from Thorn's side, so Blodgharm had restrained him while healing the internal damage his body had taken from his violent crash.
He'd still refused to let them touch his other wounds, though, so he was left with a bloody leg and a face that looked like someone had scraped half the skin off. He had the appearance of a mad man.
"Let me see Thorn," Murtagh spat, his breathing haggard.
He'd said nothing else that whole afternoon, as they had sat in the field waiting until it was safe to bring the prisoners back to the camp. He'd refused water, even though he was caked in dust from the collapsed cathedral and had practically drunk his own blood.
When he'd watched Thorn rise and follow Saphira and the Elves to the outskirts of the camp, he'd tried to lunge after his dragon, but his leg hadn't taken the weight and he'd fallen almost immediately. After that he'd tried to scratch Blodgharm's eyes out, so they'd had to restrain him with the shackles.
Eragon knew he should've made him swear oaths not to attack them at all—Murtagh could still do plenty of damage without magic.
Now they sat in the tent, sound muffled around them, and Eragon stared down at him, feeling so many things he couldn't figure which emotion was screaming at him the loudest.
"Murtagh," Eragon said quietly.
"Let me fix your leg."
"Blast you," Murtagh spat at Eragon's feet, but it triggered another fit of coughing, and he hunched over, trying to catch his breath with his hands shackled behind him to the tent pole. Despite Blodgharm's healing, Murtagh was still in bad shape.
"You being hurt isn't going to help Thorn—"
"–don't you bloody dare talk about him!" Murtagh snarled, straining against his bonds, which were digging into his wrists.
"You're going to hurt yourself–"
"Like you care," He spat, but he was wincing.
Eragon sighed, seeing that he wasn't going to get anywhere with that tactic.
He turned to the water bucket that sat in the corner of the room, and ladled out some water. He held it up to Murtagh's mouth—not saying anything, knowing he'd only making it worse by trying to convince him.
After a long stretch of quiet, Murtagh finally took a sip of the water, but when he tried to swallow he started coughing again, spluttering out the water.
Eragon waited a moment, and then offered the ladle again. This time Murtagh was able to drink, and once he'd had a taste he leaned forward, desperate for more to quench his parched throat.
After Murtagh had emptied the ladle three times, he leaned his head back, glaring at Eragon as though angry that he'd had the audacity to give him water.
"Will you let me heal you?" He said tiredly.
Murtagh spit at him again.
"Alright," Eragon sighed, and rose with the ladle gripped in his hand. Murtagh flinched against the pole, averting his face like he thought Eragon was going to hit him. Eragon stopped, and stared down at his brother with pity.
"If you don't let me heal your leg, you're going to pass out from the blood loss," Eragon said dully, unable to deal with his feelings right now, "And then I'm going to heal it anyway. So can we just do it the easy way?"
Murtagh wasn't looking at him, just breathing tightly and staring at the tent floor.
"Are you going to kill me?" He asked raggedly.
Eragon's brow knit.
"Is that what you want?" He said quietly, afraid of the answer.
Murtagh lifted his glare back to Eragon for just a moment, and then he looked away, his expression deadened.
"I want to see Thorn," He murmured again, and Eragon sighed.
"You can't right now. But he's safe and healed, and no one's hurting him," Eragon assured, "And the more you cooperate with me the more likely I'll be able to give you some time with him."
He waited, watching a flurry of emotions flicker over Murtagh's exhausted face.
Wordlessly, Murtagh straightened his blood-caked leg out, still not looking at Eragon, but sending a clear message. Eragon nodded, and knelt over his brother, beginning to whisper words of healing.