Sorry for not posting for awhile. I went out with friends two days ago and needless to say something quite big came up; I came home seriously pissed and maybe a tad murderous. Lol. I didn't want to ruin this very important chapter with my own messed up emotions at the time. So I waited. Hope you like it. Point out any mistakes.
It was the ringing call of the elven war drums that tore through Eragon's concentration, as he sat mediating upon the harsh stump of a once proud pine; the mournful keens, resonating through the still air, filled Eragon with itinerant trepidation, chilling the flaming desire of naive life forms inhabiting, the once tranquil clearing, with its unwelcome logic. Eragon stood; his thigh tasting the angry sting of the juvenile weeds that marked the supple ground to Eragon's left side. Unease and malignant terror pursued Eragon as he turned his gaze towards the distant elven camp; searching for the tell tale signs of a battle: it was peculiarly calm. Surprised Eragon narrowed his eyes and shaded his vision in an effort to detail the flash of movement at the north entrance: scurrying figures poured from the small gate, resembling the lithe and finesse of desert spectres. The molten cold of winter set Eragon's bones alight, each begging for the dousing presence of movement; startled and worried, Eragon broke into a dead run, heels clicking and elusive pines swaying and jeering as he passed, mocking the abyss separating Eragon from the camp.
A poorly structured step resulted in the backwards pull of his ankle, slowing his already abysmal progress.
Damn!
Gathering his thoughts, Eragon sent tendrils of thought licking through the web of space and time; seeking Saphira with a devout determination. She had forsaken Eragon's company a few hours into his meditation, preferring the verbal trickery and patronizing praise of elven society; and that was where he found her: urgently conversing with a guarded conscious, which could only be female.
"Saphira! Come get me; quick!"
"Eragon!" she roared in response, her afterthoughts paralyzed Eragon, "Murtagh and Thorn approach."
Ice seemed to crawl up Eragon's legs, freezing his fear in place... before the fires of vengeance thawed purpose. Sending her an image of his immediate surroundings and a glint of his haste; he stooped to waiting, heart heavy with the ordeal to come, contemplating each and every blow; confidence in new found abilities overshadowing the musk of previous defeats, faith in Arya and the elves showering the retreating coherence of dismay.
He could do this. He would. Death clawed at its hackles; demanding release, perhaps sensing the death to come and aching to relish the spectacle from the eyes of deliverance. Eragon stood firm: he would not release this spawn of hell, not when breath still lit his lungs. Its hopeless assault soon abating, but not before one last, veiled, threat.
"You will regret this..."
Eragon ignored it: Saphira was steadily approaching, her flight lowering as the distance between them disappeared; fully outfitted for war, the gleaming steel reflected fates designs, tiny droplets, containing purity, clung desperately to each proud plate. Another occupied her back, a familiar, blue-haired male, repelling the attacking light with his thick fur and hide: Blödhgarm. Eragon smiled, chance conspired against Murtagh.
The Sapphire dragoness hovered slightly in front of Eragon, before striking the ground like a heavenly bolt of lightning. Scrambling forward, Eragon gripped the outstretched arm and hauled himself into the saddle. Saphira took flight without wait. Turning slightly Eragon hailed the elf behind him; inquiring after purpose and Murtagh.
"We all thought two would make for advantageous odds," he shrugged as if it was obvious, then craned his neck a point and painted the direction of Murtagh and Thorn's course, "The red pair are quite close now," a clear, resilient hatred laced his words; one Eragon could understand, yet not replicate. Not completely. Not anymore.
The roaring red blur of Thorn was easily distinguished against the blue tinged sky; the red pair's outline seemed to glow with suppressed power, a strange black surge shot from Thorn's left flank before settling back into the jewelled hide; their light caused a unnatural illumination of the nearing background. The odd show soon died away with the weak protest of the wind and Saphira and Thorn raged towards each other: all muscle, teeth, claw and tail. They were so close now; Eragon could describe each and every ripple and scale adjourning Thorn's back, the razor rage of foes imprinting his eyes, the sharp clink as his claws unfurled, like the arms of a dying spider, seeking blood. Hardening his heart, Eragon switched his gaze from dragon to rider: Murtagh; a red haze passed over his vision as he scrutinised the red rider.
A faint, victorious, hiss erupted from within, "Yessss..."
Eragon fought to regain control of his actions as the ever decreasing distance waivered. Murtagh was endowed under heavy armour, his heart produced a cacophony of excitement as each detail sunk in; separate plate of steel murmured in choreographed brilliance, thick, cold greaves covered his shin and, forcing his gaze upwards, Eragon discovered a defiant helm crowning Murtagh's head; Eragon grimaced as he remembered their last encounter.
The difference now minute, Eragon tensed, unspent energy coiled deep within his muscles: tearing for escape.
Eragon loosed a wild roar and connected his mind with Blödhgarm's, who in turn joined with a host of land bound elves: indulging both Eragon and himself in a giddy, euphoric rush of power, its mountainous authority capturing Eragon, transforming Eragon.
A vessel of fate.
The collision came with a rip of power and godly rapture; scales split and bones cracked as waves of pain racked both dragons and both riders; Blödhgarm jolted and crashed into Eragon's back, as the torrent of strength dissipated through the unfortunate bodies of victims. Faces locked in fierce scowls, Eragon and Murtagh drew their swords, displaying keen edges and ravenous appetites that only virgin steel could induce. Brisingr ignited with one word, Eragon hammered it towards Murtagh with crystal intent, each millimetre absorbing his own fear. Zar'roc was raised with a gentle flick of Murtagh's wrist; both blades merged upon impact with jarring energy. Raising it backwards, Eragon once again sliced towards Murtagh only to have it blocked as easily as before. Saphira and Thorn soon disengaged, each harrowing the other with stained claws and flexed tails in one final push towards success. Eragon took the brief respite to steal breaths through clenched teeth. Blödhgarm settled calmly behind him, focusing on the arcane side of their confrontation. Murtagh ignored the blue elf and instead addressed Eragon.
"I see you have a new blade; seems as if your friendship with these forest rats has its advantages," his voice contained a hard edge, taunting appearance; as if he expected, desired a response. The specifically structured insult had obviously been rehearsed; something that confused Eragon. Shaking himself and denying any response, Eragon prepared for their second, bitter, conflict; the metallic hint of blood subjected his throat when teeth pierced flesh. The nicking of blades and clink of armour, married by hard thuds and draconic roars soon drowned the sound of thoughts and wit. Yet Eragon could not fully shake his doubts over their engagement: Murtagh's posture held a contained aura, his fighting had been strictly defensive from the start; a style Murtagh had always loathed, seen as cowardly.
Is he holding back?
Dropping further questions Eragon parried a quick re-thrust towards his ribs with the bare edge of Brisingr. Another bout of swords followed their last and Eragon accumulated a shallow cut upon his thigh, blood soaked his pants; he wasn't the only one dripping blood: Murtagh carried a series of nicks upon his chest, where his mail had been cleaved, a dark stain spread over the tunic underneath.
Retreating from their exchange of blows, Murtagh whispered a short phrase and held his ground as energy lit the wheels of magic. Incorporeal wisps of billowing shadows embraced his form and cloaked him from Eragon's eyes. Whispering thoughts and secrets emerged from the shadowy existence; soon it expanded its rule over Thorn's huge frame, blotting his ruby eyes from prying individuals. Desperate, Eragon slashed through the darkness, almost shouting in victory, as Brisingr burned through skin and flesh; coil and mail split with inaudible snaps as Brisingr continued its journey, leaving white hot pain in its wake. A tormented scream emitted from the pulsating disguise: Murtagh.
Eragon watched: bewildered as the thick, leeching, darkness began to abate.
...
...
...
Then it disappeared... everything... Murtagh, Thorn, shadows, everything.
Eragon's mouth fell open in disbelief; Saphira's own shock fused with his.
What in hellfire just happened?
(Time lapse and different location: Uru'baen. M&T POV)
"It is done, my lord," Murtagh whispered, his whole body humming with slowly receding energy.
"Very good," replied the man opposite him, "Your little brawl has provided us with vital information; I am impressed Murtagh; perhaps there is hope for you yet."
Murtagh bristled at the words and almost replied with his own cutting insults, before sanity reared its head.
Galbatorix had already lost interest in Murtagh and was now reverently watching the midnight black, curious object resting upon the raised pedestal, a frenzied longing drawing his features in a new light.
Murtagh retraced his own gaze: transfixed.
Yeah this is a long chap for me, so what did you lot think? Review please. So Restrained Freedom, what did you think of my Murtagh? Happy or not? I know it is little to go on for now, but any thoughts are welcome. It will probably be an M&T POV next. I did not proof read this; I hope you guys can do that for me. Thanks for reading and reviewing.