Yeah a new chap. College is stopping me from uploading. Anyway an M&T POV; you know how I suck with these, but this is important. So tell me what you'll think. Did not proof read.
Winter was a strange time: for it delivered both fortitude and famine; it was a slaver that chained its victims in affectionate vices but vices nonetheless, each despondent morning brought with it new chills from its shawls and each night brought bitter respite. It was such a frivolous season: its intentions clouded upon the balance of sin and blessing. The thawing ice that clung to treasonous bark in clear shards of frigid swords, only served to add a new layer to nature's complexity; the bracing breeze with its tendrils of thought and gaseous form ignited bracing fires at men's roots, fortifying weak hearts and freezing the beating lay of life. And as Murtagh reclined, comfortably, against the gripping, rough, hide of glazed wood; his thoughts started to wander, aimlessly, without conviction or purpose, darting with the speed of lazing arrows from one topic to another, encompassing both grim winter and coiled war: such resonance formed a splintering confusion that irritated and pained Murtagh with each thud of his brains functions; resulting in a despised headache, that refused his attempts at taming it.
He and Thorn had managed to escape the prison that was Uru'baen and with it the malevolent greed of the Empire's lords and ladies; Galbatorix had been unusually good-willed with their predicament: allowing them free roam for several leagues around Uru'baen. Neither had questioned his benevolence. Neither cared. It was a time for peace and relaxation and the whispering glory of nature was the sweetest of mothers.
Darkness was rapidly gathering at the crux of the world, mixing like the artists vision, a slowly descending shroud of ignorance, blotting the sun like some unhealthy plague. Thorn stirred slightly, his ruby scales catching the now fading light in a bloody thirsty display.
"Would you not agree," her whispered, each word unsure and tilted, "That the night is a curious beast?"
His voice was wounded and seemed to beg for reconciliation. A light frown forged Murtagh's face as he pondered a response, trying to control the sharp stab of remorse at words spoken.
"Perhaps," he finally replied, keeping a cautious lock on emotions, "I have never really wondered."
Thorn seemed pleased at his words, for he gave a reassuring grunt before curling into a large, crimson, ball and muted his speech as to continue in his endeavour of the heavens; leaving Murtagh to flounder in his own insecurities as he thought miracle cures for unknown maladies.
The city was now alight with human creation, the mortal den of delight that sprouted with the night soon took swing; whores and scoundrels would soon purge the streets of honesty, as they made to make profits and vice, The general ruckus of beer and mead soon drowning all else in its boisterous proclaims. Many a murder would extend under the white of the palace walls this night and every night to come.
A familiar, tormented, face flashed across Murtagh's mood.
That man...
Shaking his head as to clear it of any rebellious tendencies, Murtagh returned his wistful gaze back to the stars, each a glinting jewel in the vast expanse of space, each a carefully tendered hope. Yet the darkness always conquered, even the heavens, the balance between light and dark was heavily in favour of the dark, it was a ravenous beast, engulfing stars whole and tainting innocent dreams.
The ache of his shoulder woke him to the world. Eragon's blade had left some powerful residue to coat the wound and even after healing a deep pain persisted. He had been told it was permanent.
Only more pain for me to carry.
Thoughts turning bitter in an instant, Murtagh allowed a brief reminisce, torn images of his mother penetrated his barriers followed closely by the scowling face of Morzan, the red of his blade washing his face in a sheen of diabolical sneer; Morzan was true evil, not Galbatorix. A shade could not compare with Morzan's acts.
And Eragon actually has the nerve to compare me to him.
An uncontrollable rage, directed at his brother, grew to replace the misery. Anger at the wound and at the pain, anger at the coldness and bluff shoulders. His brother did not understand him; Eragon would never have survived at Uru'baen: he was soft, like women; bowing down and licking the elves boots was the reach of his deed. His threshold. Never able to care for his own well being; dependent on others.
Galbatorix would break him within the day; he does not possess the fortitude to survive.
But anger had always been a creation of ignorance. Murtagh could not control his emotions, not his anger or his favour... They were still brothers, no?
Focus came with the intrusion of Thorns, steeled, tail, as it rushed through the air, attacking Murtagh with a storm of wind and dust. The same old quiet settled through the clearing, filtering through the leafless branches of rickety trees and dead brushes. Murtagh shook as biting cold attached itself to his bones, spreading like a forest fire. Forsaking himself to an uncomfortable fate, Murtagh lost his gaze into the riveting sway of their small fire, each licking flame resembling the impatient tongue of a dragon; time seemed to slow, its hand moulding themselves into their desires. The simple beauty of the inferno drew Murtagh into an impassive state and the caressing nature of its dance soothed Murtagh's unruly emotions and dulled his eyelids; Thorn had already surrendered to sleep and the gentle hum of his breathing was a delicious temptation to Murtagh's sensitive hearing, heightened as it was from Galbatorix's mysterious experiments. Nothing of importance passed through Murtagh as he lowered himself across the lower, scalding, bark of his lifeless companion. His beating heart soon slowed in its purpose and the silence stretched. The stars above twinkled mischievously, each an undisclosed secret.
I could live here. Hidden from the world. Me and Thorn.
He smiled. A true, joyful smile, one lost in the future. A future not promised...
Murtagh closed his eyes.
...
...
...
...
...
"Murtagh!" he shot awake, his senses lighting: Galbatorix.
"Yes...?" he replied, uncertain.
Excitement passed from Galbatorix, uncontrolled and contagious.
"I need you here. The prisoner has spoken: he agrees!"
The resilient one.
His eyes widening in disbelief, Murtagh said, "I come."
The man...
Hope you enjoyed. It might be somewhat unrealistic for someone to survive Galby this long, but I have an excuse. So let me know what you think.