author's note:this was written for Unattainable Dreams' Prompt Exchange Challenge. My prompt "an enchanted forest" was from finalfantasy13-2lover. This first chapter does take place in a dungeon, but the promise of an enchanted forest plays a big role for the characters. I might write more chapters for this fic since I've been a fan of Eragon since grade 7. I own nothing. Enjoy!
When Murtagh woke up his eyes were immediately met with the sight of the harsh, vertical steel bars a few feet right in front of him. From somewhere high above his right shoulder a timid beam of sunlight pushed through the only miserable window in the cramped room. The light shone on the head of his companion, who rested along the wall on his left.
Arya's head was bowed and the waning daylight cast shadows of her eyelashes over her face. She seemed to be staring down at the floor of the prison cell, though she didn't even appear to blink at the mice scurrying on the hard-packed floor.
"Are you all right?" Murtagh asked, his voice hoarse and cracked. He had been unconscious since the last round of 'questioning' and felt a burning in his side from the series of cuts he had received. He felt dizzy and weak, though he hadn't been subjected to even half the amount of injuries as Arya.
She raised her head to look in his direction and at the sound of his voice, Arya blinked. Her expression was vulnerable. She sat up a little straighter in spite of her arms being shackled to the wall and tried to make herself more comfortable. He noticed the blood seeping down her arms. It was a small amount but it enraged him all the same.
Arya held a small smile in her gaze. It was not one of happiness, but hope. With a single glance, she assured Murtagh that she would never be broken. The secrets of the Varden that she had been entrusted with would remain with her. She would keep them with her even as the last breath left her body, if that was to pass.
Murtagh strained at his own shackles. He ached to reach out and comfort her with the warmth from his own body. But she was unreachable to him. And the thought of that blasted Shade, tormenting her, broke his heart. Their captors enjoyed forcing him to watch Arya as she fought against the shade's demons launching attack after attack into her mind. He heard her screams, the anguish that tore itself from her body, even as she tried to keep quiet for his own benefit. That was truly the worst torture for him, much worse than the physical mangling of his flesh.
Heavy footsteps sounded down the hall and Murtagh's heart sank. Arya's face blanched and even she could not hide the fear in her eyes. Murtagh strained at his shackles, tearing the raw wounds on his wrists open again. He was dimly aware of the warm blood training down his arms but his shoulders burned in their sockets in his relentless attempt to reach her.
Hearing the clink of his chains, Arya looked up at him. Her eyes communicated only one word: don't. Murtagh took deep breaths and tried to calm down. The part of his mind that was still rational realized that she didn't want to make this any worse for him than it had to be—and that was truly selfless. He recognized the princess for what she was: a leader of the Varden, fiercely loyal to Eragon. Her elfin body could handle anything her captors forced upon her. Murtagh was more worried about her spirit. Of course he had heard the stories of Durza's cruelty but this new Shade was even more deranged than the last.
He remembered the promises they had made to Eragon in the Ancient Language and steeled himself for yet another fight. Their campaign was not over yet. Hope had not been lost. The war was far from over.
Arya raised her chin and looked at the guard. She didn't resist as she was dragged to her feet, though she winced when she was forced to put weight on her swollen left ankle—the bone was probably broken. Her eyes remained locked forward to face whatever unspeakable fate waited in the deep dungeon rooms.
Murtagh caught sight of the dark bruises swelling out from underneath the torn collar of her dress. As she stumbled down the hallway to keep up with the guard, he saw layers of bruises on her legs—some were yellow and the ghosts of old injuries, but a great number were dark blue and he knew that those were the result of their most recent capture—and he knew that these were his fault. He shut his eyes but hot angry tears still leaked put from between his eyelashes.
Murtagh sat alone in the cell, seething, and vowed that he would find a way to escape and take Arya something safe. Even in a life as long as hers, she had seen so much. Even though she was already an ancient soul who had seen so much upheaval and pain through the age of the dragons, she deserved some peace. Murtagh decided he would take her to the enchanted forest of Du Weldenvarden and then the pair would travel north towards the unknown lands beyond. Maybe then they would find some peace.
Though wounds may mar the skin, Arya would always be beautiful.
His tortured princess.