CHAPTER NINE: Shattered

"And I've lost who I am

And I can't understand

Why my heart is so broken

Rejecting your love."

- Shattered, Trading Yesterday

They encountered Mordecai closer to Uru'baen than any of them would have liked. The Shade was travelling on foot, which surprised them. All three were full of fear as they recognised the short crimson hair and malicious maroon eyes of the figure approaching them. Brynja nocked an arrow and Nolfavrell's eyes were gleaming as he drew his sword.

Mordecai ran his cruel eyes over the three of them and chuckled darkly.

"So. The Varden sends children to attack me? How pathetic."

Tynan's eyes narrowed. "We are not children." He made no attempt to stand down and the Shade observed him, his smile fading.

"So be it," he hissed, "Garjzla."

The red light streaked towards Tynan, but he raised a hand and barked something in the ancient language, so that it stopped even before it struck him. Brynja took the opportunity to fire an arrow at the Shade, but he waved his hand lazily and the arrow vanished as if it had been nothing.

Brynja had never thought this to be a clever idea, but as she nocked an arrow, she was beginning to agree with Lady Nasuada's declaration that their mission was suicide. Mordecai drew a curved sword from the sheath that hung at his hip and advanced on them slowly, already savouring his victory. All three teenagers observed him with dread in their eyes.

Tynan didn't exactly know if they could kill the Shade, but he knew of people who'd fought Shades and managed to live. The last Rider's sister, Ashen…she'd fought Durza under Farthen Dur. It was true that she'd only survived due to the intervention of another, but that wasn't the point. She'd held out. So could they.

"Malthinae," called Tynan, raising his hand and curling his fingers. The Shade sneered and struggled, but couldn't manage to escape. However, the young magician's strength was waning fast, despite his experience. Tynan whipped around to face Nolfavrell.

"Go!"

Nolfavrell hurried forward, clenching his sword so tight that his knuckles had turned white. There was a determined gleam in his eyes as he stabbed forward, right at the Shade's heart. By this time, however, Mordecai had managed to break free of Tynan's confines. He lunged forward with a snarl, stabbing Nolfavrell through the stomach.

"No!" screamed Brynja, putting away her bow and arrows and unsheathing her own sword. She charged towards Mordecai, blinded by anger and hatred. Tynan realised that she would be killed and he acted.

"Skolir!"

Mordecai slashed at Brynja, but because of Tynan's words, his sword seemed to bounce off thin air. Brynja took a few staggering steps backwards, realising what had nearly happened. She looked back at Tynan, who knew he had to make a choice. He had the ability to heal Nolfavrell – but doing so would weaken him greatly and leave him unable to defend Brynja. He had to make a decision. He pressed his lips together in a hard line as he knelt by Nolfavrell's side.

"Waise heill."

PARAGRAPH

Ashen had been lost and confused since the evening Murtagh kissed her. He had practically confessed that he was just as in love with her as she was with him. She felt the tears streaming down her cheeks, but they weren't the tears she'd cried before. Once, it had been misery and frustration at being a captive in Uru'baen. Now, however…she cried because of things that had been, things that were and things that never would be.

Murtagh was right. Oh, how their love was wrong. He was an unwilling servant of Galbatorix, she was a warrior of the Varden…his prisoner. Why were things so muddled? Why couldn't it be simple? She wiped fiercely at her tears. If only she'd fallen hopelessly in love with Eragon. Things would have been a lot less complicated then.

Her door opened and she sat up. Murtagh stood in the doorway, but he wasn't the imposing figure she'd always seen. His shoulders had slumped and he looked defeated. There were dark circles around his eyes.

"Is it time?" she asked, fearing the worst.

Murtagh shook his head slowly. "I just wanted to talk to you. To apologise for the other night. I shouldn't have kissed you."

Ashen's eyes widened. "Do you regret it?"

Murtagh tensed. "No. That's the worst part. I should."

Ashen placed a hand on his shoulder, but Murtagh jerked away. He saw the hurt in her eyes and sighed, allowing his dark hair to flop in his face. Ashen drew her hand away, feeling rejected.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, "I just…I don't deserve your sympathy, Ashen. You have said it yourself. The things that I've done…they're despicable and I know it. You have more right than anyone to hate me. I brought you to Uru'baen. Yet you don't. You're just the same as when I met you. You shrug off the pain and move on."

Ashen didn't know what to say. She'd been trying so hard to put aside her pain of losing Colton, the worst pain of all. It was as though a part of her was missing and although it didn't hurt so much anymore, it would never come back to her.

Yet when it came to other things, Murtagh was right. She was willing to push aside judgments and accept people for who they were, not look at them based on the reputation that preceded them.

"I want to show you something." Murtagh's tone was quiet, but full of emotion. He pulled his shirt up and over his head. Ashen admired his well-toned, muscular chest and arms for a moment, before and realising that wasn't what Murtagh had wanted to show her. He turned around slowly and Ashen couldn't quite restrain a gasp at the horrible scar that ran down his back.

"What happened?" she asked, torn between reaching out and touching it and leaving him alone. Touching the horrible, puckered scar won.

"My father," Murtagh's tone was shaking with anger, "When I was three years old, he threw his sword at me in a drunken rage as I passed him by. This is the result of his temper."

Ashen moved towards him, tentatively. For Murtagh, it was more than hating what he'd become. Whenever Ashen touched him, he remembered kissing her, he wanted to do it again… He frowned. Galbatorix and Zander would love that, knowing that Murtagh was in love with his prisoner. He was becoming addicted to Ashen and it was not good for him.

Her gaze was solemn as she reached up and touched his cheek, seeing the pain in his eyes. Murtagh flinched as if she might slap him, but then he saw the sympathy in Ashen's eyes, the hurt that told him she cared about him. He didn't want to see that hurt in her eyes. But more than that was the knowledge that Ashen now understood him. This was better than just pity.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he was running his hands through Ashen's hair and kissing her fiercely. Part of him cried out that this was wrong, that he was only getting into a bigger mess…but he chose to ignore that part.

Ashen found herself pushed back into the wall, pressed between it and Murtagh. One of his hands was still twining through her hair while the other held her around the waist. Murtagh groaned and pulled her closer so that she was pressed against his bare chest and Ashen sucked in her breath as his lips trailed down her neck.

Then Ashen came to her senses, remembering where she was and exactly whom she was kissing. She twisted in Murtagh's grip, pushing him hard in the chest so he was forced to release her. He could have held onto her if he'd wanted to, but he sensed her confusion and let her go.

"I can't," she whispered, turning away from him.

Murtagh felt as though he'd been slapped across the face, but he nodded. Ashen was right. He sighed heavily and Ashen observed him with a distressed look on her face. Murtagh pulled his shirt back over his head.

"Galbatorix has sent me out for a few days," he admitted, looking across at Ashen to see her reaction. "Maybe during that time we can sort ourselves out."

Ashen nodded and, to Murtagh's surprise, embraced him. He put his arms around her too, although for some reason it felt slightly awkward.

"It's not too late to change," she whispered. When they broke apart she offered him a small, sad smile. Murtagh wanted to tell her that it was too late, but then he thought on what Eragon had told him. Changing his nature meant changing his true name. What if falling in love with Ashen could free him?

PARAGRAPH

Tristan was pleased with his progress. It had been two months since he'd left the Varden to train with Delia. Fafnir was now big enough for Tristan to ride – which he spent every free moment doing. Delia didn't discourage this; the bond between Tristan and Fafnir was still new and would be forged through time, battles and experiences. She knew this because it had been the same with her and Aziza.

We grow powerful, Tristan. Fafnir lay down beside his Rider contentedly after an afternoon of flying.

Tristan knew he still had a lot to learn. He knew a lot about magic now and he was improving when it came to sword fighting – but that had always been more Ashen's talent than his. Delia had taught him how to draw on his surroundings to give him energy. Tristan was learning a lot every day, but he knew his training would be rushed. They didn't have the time to give him the years that Riders would once have had.

Delia. That was another issue complicating Tristan's training. He found the young elf attractive and although he tried not to be, he was sometimes distracted by her. It was disturbing to think that despite the fact that she only looked Ashen's age, she was old enough to be his great-grandmother.

Stop thinking about her, Fafnir chastised. You must focus on your training now. Romantic relationships can be pursued.

Tristan snorted. She wouldn't have me anyway.

He began to realise he'd got himself into a similar predicament to Eragon. There was a smaller age gap between Tristan and Delia – but it was still large enough that she would consider him to be a child. He sighed heavily and tried to banish his romantic notions of his teacher. It was stupid, really.

Now is not the time to focus on such matters. You should be thinking about how to defeat Galbatorix, not whether Delia feels the same way you do about her.

Besides, it's most likely an infatuation, Tristan dismissed it as adolescent hormones, I've thought I had feelings for Nasuada as well at one stage. You're right, Fafnir. It's not what matters now.

That wasn't Tristan's only issue. He had been having nightmares of late. A man with a youthful face but silver-white hair, laughing manically as a city burned. A Shade with maroon eyes that glittered with malice. Murtagh on Thorn's back, Zar'roc raised high above his head. Ashen on Fafnir's back, wielding a green-bladed sword.

Tristan thought his dreams were ridiculous and couldn't possibly be true. After all, why would they depict Ashen as being Fafnir's Rider? Fafnir thought there was something of the truth in these dreams, although even he doubted the one about Ashen riding on his back.

Your sister is a wonderful person, Tristan, Fafnir had told him, But it is you who is my Rider.

Delia had presented him with the green sword, which was how Tristan had recognised it in his dream. Apparently, it had once belonged to another Rider of a green dragon. At first, Tristan had refused vehemently, but Delia had insisted that it belonged to him now and the family of the deceased Rider were honoured to give up the sword to a new Rider.

"It is called Sundavar," she told him, as Tristan had admired the green-bladed sword with wonder in his eyes, "It means 'shadows' in the ancient language."

Brisingr, Zar'roc, Sundavar…powerful swords with powerful names.

Fafnir? Do you think I am capable of defeating at least Murtagh?

Fafnir was quiet for a few moments.

Not yet, he finally said, but soon.

None of the nightmares mattered now. There was a smile on Tristan's face as he finally drifted off to sleep.