Murtagh's mind was heavy with thought when he went to sleep, but he woke up to the soft sunlight in the treehouse, having passed the whole night without haunting dreams. An elf arrived with a note for him from Arya, telling him to visit Rhunon if he wished, giving him instructions on how to reach her smithy, and saying that he and Thorn could come to the crags in the evening.

He was nervous as he strapped Zar'roc onto his belt, not knowing what to expect from the ancient swordsmith, but she didn't strike him as someone with whom you canceled plans. He donned the elven boots and made his way down the wooden stairs to where Thorn waited.

He did not feel so tired as on the first day, and was able to better appreciate the woods as they wound through the little paths, trying to keep Arya's directions straight amid all the intertwining walkways.

He had gotten himself and Thorn both sufficiently lost, because he'd had to stick to paths that were large enough for Thorn to fit in comfortably, but just when he was considering retracing his steps, or else hopping on Thorn and flying above the canopy—a figure came around a bend in the path, her curly hair bouncing and a basket full of mossy clumps hung over her arm.

Murtagh didn't have enough time to decide whether he wanted to avoid the woman, when she raised her hand in a cheery greeting and said loudly,

"Well I was just hoping I'd run into you two," She grinned as she approached, and her werecat companion sidled up behind her, blinking widely.

"Hello, Angela," Murtagh managed, already dreading what the witch was going to say, and wondering why Arya hadn't mentioned that she was in Ellesmera.

"Oh look at you, 'Hello-Angela'-ing me as if we were childhood chums. Haven't you heard of a proper introduction? Suppose they don't teach manners in Uru'baen do they? Well that's alright, I'll forgive your rudeness—won't even turn you into anything unnatural, so long as you do me one little favor."

She then reached into her pocket with one hand, and pulled out the largest, knobbiest frog that Murtagh had ever seen.

"Tell me… what is it?" The witch demanded, and Murtagh blinked.

"It… a frog, I suppose," He managed, frowning as the bulbous creature blinked up at him.

"You suppose?! Well that won't do at all; this here is the closest thing to a toad as I've ever seen–only I don't believe there is such a thing as a toad, so it'd be the closest thing to nothing. Only thing is, if this is a toad, then toads do exist after all, and everything I know is a lie. And you come at me with an 'I suppose'?"

Murtagh found it hard to keep up with the woman's rapid-fire speech, and he wasn't entirely sure he liked or trusted her, so her antics—which Eragon seemed to find amusing—didn't charm him.

Why don't you ask the creature itself what it is? Thorn asked, bringing his snout low to peer at the lumpy mass, It would know whether it is a toad or a frog more than any of us, would it not? Surely one such as yourself knows how to communicate with the minds of lesser creatures.

Angela blinked at Thorn, her open face looking amazed for a moment, then she looked down at Solembum, and at the toad, and back up at Murtagh, her eyes beaming.

"You might just be onto something," She breathed, gazing at the creature with a hungry amazement.

"A great mind you are, Thorn-of-the-Wild," Angela said with a bow, "Though I don't consider any creatures 'lesser' really. To some beings, you and I would be considered lesser, so it's best not to be too proud I think. If this plan of yours works, I shall be forever in your debt."

Thorn looked at Murtagh, just as confused by the witch as he was.

"Now I am the one being rude." She said warmly, "You may call me Angela, pleasure to meet you at last," She offered, placing the toad/frog on her shoulder and reaching out the same hand that had just held the slimy creature.

"We know who you are," Murtagh countered, reluctant to take the handshake.

"Well of course you do, and I know who you are, but that's beside the point," The witch said with a roll of her eyes, "If I don't introduce myself, then when someone asks, 'Oh, have you ever met Angela'? You'll have to say no, or else you're a liar, because you've never met me, in the formal sense of the word. But of course you do know me, and there'll be no end of confusion when they find that out, and they'll think you're a liar even though you told them the truth!"

Murtagh was starting to have a headache.

"So let's just make things simple, and get the thing over with," She said with a grin, holding her hand out again,

"You may call me Angela, pleasure to meet you at last."

Murtagh took it, and allowed a brisk shake. Then, seeing that she wasn't going to let go of his hand until he reciprocated, he said,

"Murtagh. A pleasure."

Angela shot a quick grin, but her sharp eyes told Murtagh that she was aware it was not a pleasure for him.

"Excellent. Now we know each other, I can properly ask: what are you fine fellows up to on a day like today?"

Murtagh shifted, he didn't really want to tell her, because he was afraid she might invite herself along, and he preferred to meet with the swordmaster alone.

"Exploring the city," Murtagh said, technically true.

"Ah, a worthy endeavor, and one that could keep anyone busy for a few decades, at least."

Murtagh just nodded, hoping to end the conversation and be on his way, but then Angela said,

"If you have the time after all your exploring, I'd be happy to read your fortune for you—free of charge, of course. You know I read your mother's, and your brother's."

Murtagh frowned sharply, his defenses going up. He had known about Eragon; his brother had told him about the role Angela's prophecy–and later Solembum's words–had played in shaping his path. But he had not known that Selena had encountered the witch, and it immediately raised a dozen questions in his head—questions which he had no interest asking of Angela, who would likely be only too delighted to answer.

"I'll pass," Murtagh said flatly, "I've no interest in being forced out of Alagaesia."

"Oh," Angela tutted, "Your brother is perfectly at liberty to go anywhere he pleases. The boy I gave a prophecy to in Tierm is hardly the same man who now lives at Mt. Argnor—perhaps his fate has changed, I could not say for certain. And besides, a person is only controlled by prophecy if they allow themselves to be."

Murtagh crossed his arms.

"Then it's all a bunch of nonsense, your 'prophesying'. It's meaningless."

"No, not nonsense," Angela shook her head, "And certainly not meaningless. But the future is never set in stone. If it were, my life would be intolerably dull. Your history alone proves that our paths are never set in stone."

Angela's eyes glittered, but Murtagh didn't like the knowing way she always spoke about his life—as if she had been watching him.

"Well. Thorn and I will accept our path when it comes. We don't need to know it ahead of time," He decided, squirming under her gaze but trying not to show it. Thorn ducked his head close in agreement.

Angela seemed unsurprised by this answer, and just grinned again.

"Ah well," She said, "Can't blame me for trying. I'm sure it would be an interesting one, knowing your life. Thwarted any assassinations lately?"

Murtagh had to work hard not to scowl, but Angela saw his disdain anyway. Of course the bloody witch knew about the incident that had happened in the middle of the night not even three weeks previous, and had been kept secret among only the palace guards. How did she somehow always know about everything?

Murtagh's shoulders hunched, and before he thought about it he snapped,

"Poison anyone's stew lately?"

Instead of offense, Murtagh saw amusement quirk at Angela's lips. She tilted her curly head, and observed him for a moment.

"I like you," She said with an unbothered smile, "Got a bit more sting than your brother, it suits you—I imagine your wife thought so too; you're a fit match."

Murtagh blinked in surprise, distracted from his anger for a moment.

"Oh don't worry," Angela picked the frog off her shoulders, "Secret's safe with me. Nasuada and I may have our differences, but I'd hate to see the kingdom toppled because her marriage was revealed too soon."

Angela flashed a grin and said,

"Well, enjoy your time with Rhunon. She's a barrel of laughs."

Before Murtagh could recover his thoughts, Angela had bounced past them and continued on down the road, whistling to herself as Solembum padded along behind her.

Then her voice rang back at them:

"It's straight ahead, then take a right at the old willow!"

Rhunon lived in a modest, unadorned dwelling that was dwarfed by the size and complexity of the forge that sat attached to it. The clearing was quiet, and out of the way, and shaded over even in the midday sun.

Murtagh could hear the ringing of metal long before he saw the structure, and he could smell the heat and the tang of the melting pot shortly after that.

Her neighbors must have dull ears, Thorn thought, listening to the noise of the hammer and watching the curling smoke.

I don't know that she has any neighbors, Murtagh said in amusement, as they came to a stop several yards from the glowing forge, where Rhunon stooped over the glowing fire, utterly focused and unaware of the presence of a massive dragon in her clearing.

They watched silently for a long time as the elf worked, her moves focused and seamless, like she was moving through the stages of the rimgar, every muscle employed in the task at hand. It was artful to observe, and Murtagh found himself holding his breath for fear of disturbing the air around her carefully-molded fire.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and the elf had set aside the breastplate she had been working on, before Rhunon took note of their presence. She betrayed no surprise when she turned to them, sweat sheening on her brow, but her eyes sparkling with exhilaration. She simply nodded and said a gruff,

"Hello."

Murtagh bowed a quick greeting and said,

"Atra esterni ono thelduin, Rhunon-Elder."

"I thought we decided we were above such niceties," Rhunon retorted as she scrubbed soot from her arms. Murtagh merely smiled.

"Well come on over, the forge won't swallow you up," Rhunon jerked her head to summon the two of them, and Murtagh allowed himself to step into the overhang of the structure, while Thorn settled on a patch of grass close by, his nostrils twitching at the sharp smells.

"So let's see then," Rhunon said, turning to Murtagh, her eyes immediately latching onto Zar'roc, which hung at his hip. Murtagh took the cue, carefully undoing his belt and slipping the sword and scabbard off of it.

He held it out to Rhunon wordlessly, not knowing what to say. The elfsmith took the weapon, her eyes wandering up and down its length, as though taking stock of every detail that she herself had put into it, and how her work had withstood the test of the centuries.

"May I?" She asked coolly, her hand on the hilt, as if to draw. Murtagh nodded, and listened to the clear ring as Rhunon pulled Zar'roc from its sheath. He watched the red of the blade reflect the red of the flames and the red of Thorn's scales, as Rhunon held it aloft and tilted it this way and that.

"Your brother brought this to me, the first time he was here," Rhunon said, her voice distant, "He wielded it out of necessity; you wield it out of choice. Why?"

Murtagh swallowed tightly, caught unawares by the sudden question. He had expected Rhunon to focus on the sword, not on him.

"It was my father's," He offered after a moment, his shoulders shrugging, "And I suppose it's always been a reminder to me—of who he was. And who I could become, if I were to follow the wrong paths."

"Great evil was done with this blade," Rhunon reminded, "Not all of it by your father."

Murtagh felt his throat tighten, but he nodded. Rhunon's statement was a calm fact, hollow of emotion and dispassionate, but as always mention of his father and mention of his own past made Murtagh feel a clenching in his chest.

"Yes," He agreed, "But now it has the potential for great good."

"Swords cannot be good," Rhunon countered, "They are weapons. Their only use is killing. Would you call killing good?"

"I would call it necessary, sometimes. For achieving good."

"Then say what you mean. You have the potential for great good—not the sword."

Murtagh took a moment to digest her words, trying to sort through the gruff tone and the sharp looks to see if Rhunon meant to chide him or praise him or something in between.

"Aye, I suppose so," He offered.

"And this?" Rhunon quickly turned the blade to show the white dwarfstone that was fastened to the hilt by thin wires, "You decided my craftsmanship was not fit enough for you?"

"No, Rhunon-elder, that…" Muragh had forgotten about the stone, it had become a natural part of Zar'roc to him, ever since the Blood Tears Trial almost five years previous. He wasn't sure if Rhunon was offended by the change or not.

"That is a dwarfstone–"

"–yes, obviously."

"–it was… it was gifted to me, by Duart of Durgrimst Ingeitum, after I–I completed the Blood Tears Ritual to atone for my actions against King Hrothgar."

For the first time, Murtagh seemed to have caught Rhunon by surprise. The demonstration of this was one raised eyebrow. She obviously knew what the Blood Tears Trial was, and understood the actions to which he referred, and now she looked again at the blade and the stone, as if appraising it in a new light.

"Another reminder?" She said calmly, her eyes flicking back to him.

"Yes," Murtagh said after a moment, "I suppose it reminds me that… I have done what I can to heal the past. And that my choices now are what matter."

"For such a young person you must be very apt at forgetting things, to need all these reminders," Rhunon said, and Murtagh could hear the humor beneath her dry affect. Murtagh only smiled, as the older elf turned the blade over in her hands, swinging it through the air and testing its movement.

"Throws the weight off," Rhunon pointed out matter-of-factly, "The dwarfstone."

Murtagh had not felt the difference, but he supposed someone with elven senses might notice something he did not.

"It still works alright for me."

"I did not spend months laboring over this weapon so it could work alright," Rhunon retorted with a frown, bringing Zar'roc's tip to rest on the ground. She squinted at Murtagh for a second, then looked back at the blade.

"Leave it with me a day or two," She said, a question, not a command, startling Murtagh by its suddenness. His eyes flicked to the blade, and he felt himself hesitating.

What does she want with it? What's she going to do?

He had images of Rhunon lowering Zar'roc into her molten furnace, melting it to a puddle of metal and destroying the blade that Morzan had tarnished by his evil use.

I do not think Old-Elf-Sword-Woman intends to harm the blade, Thorn offered, sensing Murtagh's unease, She could toss it into her liquid-fire-pot now if she wished; we would not be quick enough to stop her.

Murtagh supposed this was true, and by the look on Rhunon's face he could tell he wasn't going to get any better of an explanation from her, so he just nodded and said,

"Very well. You may keep it for a while."

He tried not to look worried when he said it, but an amused glint in Rhunon's eyes told him he hadn't succeeded.

"Alright then."

In clear dismissal, Rhunon turned her back to Murtagh and tromped back over to the forge, disappearing into the shadows of the building, Zar'roc still in-hand.

He and Thorn lunched with Selena, before heading back to the crags and finding Kellan there working on his poses for the rimgar, while Tilyah lounged in the sun, snapping occasionally at a butterfly that danced around her head, though not actually trying to kill the thing.

Kellan was only too eager to show Murtagh the new series of movements he was practicing, though clearly the boy was new to the art, and his lanky limbs did not look so graceful as when Arya or Eragon did it. Still, his eagerness was endearing, and Murtagh was obliged to do the poses alongside him when asked.

Afterwards they sat together on the edge of the crags while Kellan worked on making a fairth, and asked Murtagh all manner of questions about Mt. Argnor, and the other students who lived and worked there.

"I've seen some Urgals around, but I've never talked to one before," He admitted, clearly a bit nervous and trying to hide it.

"Kharnine is very kind, intelligent and has a humor I think you'd like. She may pretend to be scary, but she's not."

Kellan nodded, swallowing tightly and looking determined.

"I just don't want to look weak in front of them," He admitted with a little laugh. "I know I'll be the youngest—and I met Dusan's sister here in Ellesmera, she's really smart, and I bet he'll know just as much stuff as she does. And I'm not so good with the fighting, or the rimgar yet, even though I try a lot."

Murtagh smiled.

"It is true that Dusan is very well-learned—he's had his whole life to study magic and the Ancient Language is his native tongue, but even he has his weaknesses, and things he must work on. There's nothing wrong with being weak, and there's no shame in being the youngest. It only means you can rely on others to teach you and help you grow."

Again, Kellan nodded, but Murtagh could still see his hesitance and worry, knowing he was young, unlearned, untrained, and a human—all no doubt terrible weaknesses, in the boy's eyes.

"There is a wild dragon who lives among us at the mountain," Murtagh offered, "Her name is Finanua, and one of her wings is deformed, so she can't fly on her own."

Both Kellan and Tilyah looked surprised, and listened intently

"But Duart and one of the elves have worked to make her a… a sort of false wing. Something that can tie around her, and unfurl as if it were her real wing, to aid her in lifting off the ground. And Thorn has been helping her learn to fly with it."

Murtagh nodded, and Thorn blinked his lids with a hum, looking at the young rider and his partner.

Friend-Finanua needs my help to get off the ground, Thorn explained, But the weakness of her wing does not make her a lesser dragon. And it is an honor for me to be of help to her. If ever you find that you need to rely on a friend for help—know that you, too, honor them by doing so.

Kellan stared for a moment, and nodded, understanding the point they were trying to make. After a moment he stared at the row of wildflowers he was trying to copy, and, with a look of new determination, murmured the words to make a faith, squeezing his eyes shut as the colors rippled across the tablet he held. When the boy cracked one tentative eye open, there was a blurry, abstract row of greens and yellows, implying the existence of flowers, rather than showing.

"Maybe next time try looking at the thing you're copying," Murtagh suggested with a smile as Kellan huffed in disappointment, "Instead of closing your eyes."

Kellan nodded with a doleful smile, trading his blurry picture for a clean tablet. Murtagh himself had never been much good at fairths, as they were a topic about which Galbatorix did not bother to teach him much, and he found it difficult not to let other images or thoughts influence the way the picture looked in his mind.

He hoped the boy would discover his strengths, and go to Mt. Argnor with a healthy mix of confidence and humility.

Perhaps that is why Arya wishes you to accompany him, Thorn pointed out later that night, So you can prepare him well for what is to come. You know what it is like to feel at a disadvantage, and to overcome weaknesses.

That night as he slept, Murtagh was startled into consciousness by another nightmare, though it, too, had been blurry and abstract, leaving him only with the implication of fear, and not any clear image of what he'd been fearing.

He curled up next to Thorn on the balcony under the clear stars, and let his partner's heartbeat lull him back into a sense of calm.

Arya came to their clearing the next morning, and told them she was going to take Kellan and Tilyah to the Stone of Broken Eggs, and that he and Thorn could come along, if they so wished.

"It is a sacred and solemn place for your race," Arya told Thorn, "And it would be our honor to take you there."

Thorn had agreed, and Murtagh felt an eagerness mixed with trepidation from his partner, as they journeyed from the crags towards the ancient battle-ground. It was quiet, among the plateau, and Murtagh felt as though he had to take shallow breaths, or else risk disturbing the lingering spirits of the dragons that had once lived there.

They walked among the disheveled nests and scattered shells, their movement the only sign of life on the desolate rock, and Murtagh felt Thorn's aching melancholy, despite the centuries that passed since the terrible attack on the dragons there.

Arya's voice passed softly over them, as she explained to Kellan the history of the dragon nesting grounds, and Du Fyrn Skulblaka, and the origin of the riders. Murtagh heard her words, but mostly he listened to Thorn's thoughts, knowing that his partner needed his comfort in that moment, when the past pressed so heavily upon him.

As the sun set that evening, they stood at the edge of the nesting grounds, watching the last rays of light catch the pieces of egg that still glinted among all the wreckage, unfaded even after millenia.

I do not know whether to be comforted or to despair—that evil has always been in the world, Thorn thought solemnly, There was a time I thought that our lives must have been the most beset by troubles, and dragons who lived before had the better hand of fate. I wished I might've been hatched then—when there was freedom, and adventure, instead of war and heartbreak.

Thorn's great sides heaved with a sigh.

But it seems all times are wrought with evil. Whether that is a boon or a weight on my heart, I do not know.

Murtagh put his hand on Thorn's neck, and leaned his head against his scaly jaw.

I am glad you hatched in this time, He offered softly, The world would be a much sadder place without you in it.

Thorn hummed.

And I too, am glad you were birthed at the same time, He returned, twisting his head towards Murtagh, My world would be a much sadder place without you in it.

Murtagh smiled, no longer feeling the desolation of the place, which, for at least this one moment, was once again filled with the beauty and strength of dragons.

The next morning, Murtagh and Thorn made their way back to Rhunon's forge, paying attention this time so they didn't lose their way. They found the old elf in much the same position as before, and this time were obliged to wait even longer before she finished the task she was set at, and turned her attention onto them.

"Ah, has it been two days already?"

"We can… return at a later time if—"

"No, no. I had it finished the night you left," She dismissed, tromping into the shadows of her forge and returning with Zar'roc in its sheath. At first Murtagh saw no change to the sword, and he wondered why Rhunon had bothered to keep it. But when she turned it over on her palms and handed it to him, he was amazed to see that the white dwarfstone—which before had been crudely tied into place with metal strands—was now set into the pommel as though it had been there from the beginning. It was somehow blended into the lay of the sword, snug below the red gem that had originally sat alone on the pommel.

Murtagh lost his breath for a moment, taken by the changed beauty of the familiar weapon. Rhunon had taken the stone that he kept as a reminder, and had worked it into the very fiber of the weapon—never to be removed. It nearly brought tears to his eyes, and he was speechless as Thorn leaned close and observed the weapon with similar awe.

"Rhunon-Elder, I…" He began after a moment of shocked silence, "It's beautiful," He said, knowing of nothing else to say. Unable to resist the urge, Murtagh pulled the sword from its sheath, hearing the sharp ring of it and for once not flinching at it. This sword—which had given him his first wound, which had been used to slaughter dragons and riders alike, which had symbolized his fall into the same path his father had walked—was somehow remade. It was the same weapon, it balanced in his hand perfectly, as it always had—but somehow now it felt lighter, it felt like it finally, truly belonged to him, not to Morzan, or Brom or Eragon… but to Murtagh. A true rider, with a true rider's sword.

He swung the sword through the air, listening to the whip and feeling the easy way the blade turned in his hand. He hadn't noticed any problem with the weight of the white stone before, but now he noticed the difference, the ever-so-slight imbalance corrected by Rhunon's masterful work.

He moved across the clearing as though in a dance, feeling for the first time in years the old sensation of exhilaration—the thrill of wielding a sword with skill and grace, the artform that Tornac had taught him, whose joy had been slowly chipped away by the terrible blows of war.

Sword fighting had lost its appeal to Murtagh when he'd been forced to kill his friend Aberfell, when he'd been forced to duel his brother, when it had become a brutal means of survival rather than a practice of discipline and skill. Now he began to feel it again, the nerves coming alive once more, the old bones creaking to life.

He didn't notice how much time had past, before he turned back to Rhunon, panting for air, eyes blazing with the fresh feeling of a new morning, while Thorn and the old elf watched him passively.

"It's magnificent," He said, lifting up the sword once more, and admiring the way the light caught its length—had it always been this beautiful?

Rhunon only nodded her confirmation, as though she knew it was a work of art and did not require his confirmation.

"Well, what'll it be called?" The old elf asked, handing him back the sheath—which, he noticed, had new curving lines of white metal laid into it, echoing the dwarfstone set into its pommel.

Murtagh turned to her with surprise.

"It's… name is Zar'roc," He said, confused as to why she of all people would not know this fact. But Rhunon merely pursed her lips and squinted at the weapon in Murtagh's hand a moment.

"No, I don't think so," She said matter-of-factly, "Not anymore."

Murtagh turned his eyes to the sword, looking at it with a new wonder, as the ancient elf's words settled on him. She was right—of course—misery did not fit this work of art that he held. Perhaps it had not fit for a long time, perhaps he had been carrying around a sword with the wrong name. Perhaps it—like he and Thorn—and taken on a new name; had changed.

What would you call such a thing? Thorn asked, hanging his head low, blinking as the light from the nearby fire glittered off blade, the white and red gems mixing to create a beautiful rose-colored glow. It reminded Murtagh of a day a long time ago—a day both beautiful and painful, when he had walked in the gardens of Uru'baen with Thorn perched on his shoulder, before his partner had even had a name, before he could fly or speak or breathe fire or make poetry, when they were both helpless and captive, but still together, and still unbound by their names.

Thorn had sniffed the roses, and they had discovered his name together.

Thorn protect.

The beauty of the blade before him almost masked its deadliness, but he recalled what Rhunon had said when he'd first brought it to her,

Swords cannot be good. They are weapons. Their only use is killing.

However, looking at the firelight dancing in the rose-colored metal, Murtagh now saw another side—a sword could be used for protecting, if the person wielding it was doing so for the right reasons.

With a weapon, one could defend beautiful things, precious things, delicate things—like life, and innocence, and justice, and truth. Like the flickering candle of hope, and the soft petals of love.

Zar'roc had always been a reminder to him of the past, and what he needed to avoid. But now this blade would be a reminder to him of the future, and what he needed to fight for. The words settled in his mind like dew on grass, appearing there, without conscious thought, revealing themselves just as Thorn's name had revealed itself, a fact falling at his feet.

Murtagh lifted the blade up, and watched again as the firelight danced along its length, the red and white gems mixing their colors together.

"It's name," Murtagh said calmly, "Is Feonndr."

He felt a quiver in the air, and a vibration from the weapon as the light seemed to pulse from it for a moment, before returning to its soft flicker.

The sword had cast off its old name, and accepted a new one:

Roseflame.