Chapter 3: Trance
Blasted dragon. Blasted rider. Blasted sword.
Murtagh lay on his bed, listening to the rain pit-pattering outside his window. Normally, it would have calmed him, and soothe his emotions until he could finally drift off to sleep, away from his troubles.
Normally, that is. He sipped some water from the water jug beside his bed.
They could have helped him. They should have helped him. But what did they do? Cower in Du Weldenvarden until now like a pair of frightened rats. Did they know what pain and anguish he had gone through? Did they know how much of a torture it was to hear his dragon wail, every single day? Did they? Did they?
The water jug crashed into the wall, and shattered where he had thrown it.
"Curse you, cowards! What were your names? Oromis? Gleadr? Two bumbling old bastards who didn't even care—"
The rider clutched his head, breathing hard. No, it would not do to be shaken over something like this. His life would go on, with or without them. They were dead anyway. Killed mercilessly by Galbatorix in a blink of an eye.
Laying down on his bed again, Murtagh fought the tears swelling up in his eyes. He had been used to fighting alone for as long as he remembered. He had always cleaved and carved a path through the worst of his life, and never had he given up hope. Never once glanced back at the carnage he had caused, never once mourned when someone dear to him had died.
But now, he had Thorn. Snuffling, crying Thorn…
"Ah, blast it." His scar was beginning to itch. Rolling to the side, he cleared his mind and tried to meditate.
But then someone started to tap on his mind. Murtagh smiled tiredly to himself.
What is it, Thorn?
My tail… it hurts where he bit it off. Could you…?
Sure, sure. He got up from his bed and smoothed down his clothing before walking out of his room. Numerous servants bowed to him as he passed, and Murtagh tried to ignore their fear. It was a pain in itself to walk in the palace halls, with a never ending scream of frightened souls following him wherever he went.
But to his surprise and amusement… sometimes he reveled in it.
As he opened the door to the dragon hold, he sighed as he looked at his shivering dragon. No matter how fierce and reckless he was in battle, he was still a child. For a child to see what he had seen at so young an age—
Murtagh… Thorn rumbled.
Alright, alright, you little fool. He walked over to where the tail was and inspected it. Placing his hand over it, he loosed a steady stream of magic to mend the torn flesh.
It seems that I did not do a complete job earlier. I am sorry for that.
Thorn hummed quietly to himself. It was in the midst of the battle. There wasn't more that you could do.
Murtagh chuckled. It is interesting to see you like this, so gentle and so polite while you are a complete terror in war. A berserker, more like.
Thorn cocked his head to the side. That is the way of the dragonkind.
"I don't see—"
Thorn stiffened. His flesh clenched and loosened. His scales, once like the embers of a dying fire, had turned into a crimson so incredibly bright it was almost as if they were a flame themselves. His claws dug deep into the ground of the Imperial dragonhold.
Thorn!
The dragon's bones were slowly cracking apart, then melting together as they expanded. The scales were torn, then slowly mended together as the magic healed it. Blood leaked out of the wounds that were not yet closed.
Ignoring Thorn's weak protests, he shoved himself into Thorn's mind and forced the dragon to share his pain with him. Gritting his teeth, he smirked to himself. Least I can damn do. He thought wryly.
It continued to go on. Tendons and muscles stretching to near breaking point, while growing all the while. Flesh tearing apart, then knitting back together. Again. And again. And yet again. Galbatorix's spell showed no mercy. The spell that was the reason for Thorn's unnatural growth.
Finally, it was over. But not before the pair were on the brink of collapse.
Thorn was shivering uncontrollably, crouched on the ground like a frightened kitten. Murtagh was panting beside him, sweat beading his brow.
Thorn? Thorn!
The dragon growled and shifted to the side, hiding his head under his wing as he tried to quell the continuous shuddering. See this was like a knife thrust into the Shur'tugal's chest.
A blasted halberd, more like. He thought wryly.
It was no use now. He would have to leave Thorn alone, lest the dragon mistake him as an enemy in his state. Sighing, he walked back to his room.
What had ever happened to his life? Though he had never been happy with it, at least it had given him rewards if he worked hard enough. And then, when the gods seemed to have grown weary of plaguing him with troubles and actually given him a future, he was dragged down into the deepest depths of hell.
And damn, they were still dragging him down.
Looking down at the shattered water jug by his door, he repaired it with a simple wave of his hand and a word of power. The rain continued to fall outside.
Blasted annoying noise, he thought glumly.
And then, before his eyes, the scene changed.
Blood fell from the sky in drops of scarlet. One after one, splashing against the stones of the castle courtyard. They splattered against his window, slowly flowing down alongside the glass.
A face appeared on the other side of the window. He was wearing a Varden uniform, and a huge gash in the middle of it exposed a horrific wound. Numerous arrows covered his torso.
More faces began to come. Dwarves, men, elves… staring at him with hollow eyes. There were no emotions, nor any hint of accusation. They simply looked back at him. Back at their murderer.
Something was flowing down the side of his face. Tears?
He wiped a bit of it with his fingers, and raised it up to his eyes.
It was blood.
The window was cracking. Hands started to press against the glass. Their eyes weren't empty now.
They were screaming, shrieking, the hollow orbs conveying what emotions their sealed mouths could not. Yelling, wailing, for him to die.
Die. Die. Die. Di—
"Lord Murtagh!"
His eyes slowly opened. A hand moved to his cheek.
There was nothing there. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Sitting up on his bed, he frowned. When had he fallen asleep? He himself had no memory of it. And that in itself was an odd thing, as he had never remembered his nightmares before.
Yet, he did now. Very strange indeed. For many weeks, he had been bothered by uneasy sleep and tormenting dreams, but they were always gone, vanishing the moment he opened his eyes.
"Lord Murtagh! Are you in there?"
And who in the name of hell was this persistent person?
"Door's unlocked." He grunted.
The door creaked open, and a maid stepped in and bowed. Murtagh rubbed his head.
"Make it swift." He groaned.
"I had heard noises from your lordship's room as I was passing by. As our oaths and orders, we must seek to know the cause of disturbance if there is one." She still kept her head bowed.
Poor lass probably too scared to face me. "Noise?"
"You were screaming, sir."
Murtagh raised an eyebrow. "That so?"
"Yes. And I have been instructed by the healers to bring this to your lordship." She bowed even lower, and held out a small, corked bottle. "They have heard of your troubles sleeping, and would like to aid you."
Cautiously, he took the bottle and secretly probed it for poisons. Finding none, he examined it suspiciously.
"And what brings about their sudden act of kindness?" his eyes narrowed.
"I do not know, my lord. But it seemed to have been made by a man called Cesim."
Cesim. Ah, so that was why.
"How has he been doing?" asked Murtagh, who pocketed the bottle with no further doubt. If it was Cesim, his only friend in Uru'baen, then there was no need for caution.
"I have not met him in person, but I have heard that he fares well." She glanced up for a fraction of a moment, and the rider thought he saw blue eyes. "But how do you fare, my lord?"
Murtagh was surprised. Usually, people avoided speaking with him unless extremely necessary, and almost none of the servants ever talked to him at all if it could be helped. Despite that…
"I know not." He answered briefly.
"For weeks, you have been screaming in your sleep, my lord. If it were any louder, I fear that the entire castle would have awoken." A hint of humor entered her voice.
Murtagh forced a laugh. "That so?"
"That so." The maid confirmed. It was unmistakable now. There was a shade of barely concealed mischievousness in her words.
Murtagh smiled. "Thank you, and you are dismissed."
She bowed deep, and left. Shaking his head slightly, he slid the bottle out of his pocket and uncorked it.
It had an astonishingly sweet and gentle smell. The scent of crushed berries, mixed with tea of the highest kind. A slight tinge of lavender, and several other herbs that the Shur'tugal could not name.
Without hesitation, he drained it in a single gulp.
The effect was immediate. For the first time in months, he dropped down into dreamless sleep.
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Yeah, he's here. As CP left him out to be a mystery character, I thought I'd bring him back. Bit by bit, anyway.
A tiny view on how Murtagh's life is like. More to come, but not until a few chapters later, I think. We'll be returning to Eragon.
Thank you all for all of your great reviews! I'd love to reply to them all, but I'm close to the brink of dreamland myself, so sorry. Midnight is the only time I can write, after all. I'm nodding off as we speak.
Remember to review!