Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle belongs to Christopher Paolini. I'm just a lowly fanfic writer.

A somewhat long-ish chapter! If Murtagh's musings end up boring you, you could go ahead and skip to the second half. Thorn's bits might still prove interesting. I'm starting to overly adore the big red guy xD

Chapter 34: Planting the Seeds of Rivalry

Murtagh was exhausted. The day was action-packed. Too much happened for his liking. Thorn hung around his room, though, talking nonstop about what transpired during the day. Murtagh lay on his bed, eyes on the sky. He let out a sigh. "I wish I was as brave as Eragon," he mumbled.

But you are brave, Thorn grumbled. You faced Urgals, enemy Riders, dragons and a Shade. You are willing to throw your life away for a chance to free Alagaesia from Galbatorix and the Forsworn. What greater courage could one ask?

Murtagh sighed. That's one kind of courage. I need the other one. He rubed his forehead wearily. He wished he understand women more. At least, he wouldn't be that afraid of approaching one if he did. I just want to have the courage to actually approach someone in the right way. Not just the staring and bantering that we always did. I couldn't even call her beautiful.

Thorn curled up tightly and closed his eyes. That does not make you a coward.

Idiot, I did not say that.

I did not imply that you did. Why do you not try making small talk, and go from there? You have many opportunities. She is not staring like a lovesick child at any other male. A hint of bitterness crept up the dragon's words.

Murtagh grinned slightly. Sometimes, you need to follow your own advise.

The trapdoor in the vestibule opened with a loud bang, and the soft jingleof mail could be heard as someone climbed inside. Thorn did not uncoil from his position, but he tensed, ready to spring into action at any moment. Eldsvard in hand, Murtagh sat up from his bed. He opened his mind to magic, ready to set his sword on fire if he had to. He stood up and threw back the screen separating his room from the main vestibule.

He set down his weapon again when he saw Orik sprawled on the floor. The dwarf didn't look like his usually alert self. He took a hearty swig from the bottle in his left hand. Squinting at Murtagh, he broke into a massive smile. "Bricks and bones, mine foster brother, where be you? Ah, there you shtand, tall and proud as always. I wondered where you were for a moment there. In thish fine, dolorous night, what are you doing by your lonesome? I thought I might find you here. What shall we talk about, you and I, the two of us? After all, we are together here in this delectable bird's nest."

Murtagh fought the urge to cringe. He felt Thorn's amusement and refused to share it. He grabbed Orik's free arm and pulled him upright. He tried to hide his surprise at the fact that Orik was actually quite heavy, like a miniature, dense boulder. Murtagh removed his support, and the dwarf swayed from one side to another, threatening to topple at any moment.

Is he… Thorn began, not daring to finish the sentence.

As his Rider, Murtagh naturally understood what he meant. Yes. At least, I think so.

"Come on in," Murtagh said in his own language. He closed the trapdoor and nodded to his foster brother. "You'll catch cold out here, you know."

Orik blinked and set his round, deep-set eyes at the Rider. "The leafy exile has been not fun, no it wasn't. I've not sheen you around here, you and our other brother. You and the other Riders. You all abandoned me to the company of those flighty elves. They are miserable company, yesh, indeed."

Murtagh slapped a palm to his face. Guilt suffused both him and Thorn, and he did his best to hide it behind an awkward smile. How could he forget the dwarf in the midst of current events? That was poor payment for Orik's kindness and support. "Forgive me," he began. "I know that we should have visited you, Orik. It's just that… studies have been keeping us busy. Here, give me your cloak." He helped the dwarf slip out of his thick, brown mantle. "What exactly are you drinking?"

Orik smiled pleasantly. "'Tis called Faelnirv, young one. It is a mosht wonderful and ticklish concoction. It is one of the besht, greatest – and tastiest – of the elves' tricksty little inventions. It gives you the gift of loquacion."

Is there such a word? Thorn quipped.

Orik ignored him. "Words flutter out of your mouth, like little butterflies upon a quiet meadow, like flocks of breathlessh hummingbirds, schoolsh of little fishesh and a legion of writhing shnakes." He paused, apparently pleased by his show of wordplay. Following Murtagh into the bedroom, the dwarf saluted Thorn with his bottle. "Greetings, oh mighty Barbclaws. May your shcales shine as bright as the fire in the coals of Morgothal's forge."

The dragon blinked, and opened his mind to the dwarf. Greetings, Orik. He lay curled up on his bed, his eyes sparkling with amusement. What brings you here in such a state? It is unbecoming of you.

"You are asking me about what hash put me in mine state?" Orik repeated. He slumped into the chair that Murtagh slipped behind him. His feet dangled several inches above the ground, swinging irritably. "Red cap, green cap, elves here and elves there! Damn elves and their blasted courtesy! They are bloodless and taciturn bastards. Yesh sir, yesiree." He gave Murtagh a meaningful look. "Wat must I do while you and your friends blunder through your instruction? Shall I sit and twiddle mine thumbs? Must I wait for myself to turn to shtone and join the shpirits of my anshestors, may they rest in peace – or pieces, whichever way they perished? Please enlighten me, sagacious young Rider."

Rider and dragon exchanged an exasperated look. I never took him for one who will drink his lights out for something such as that, Murtagh began.

Thorn regarded Orik. Do you not have any skills or hobbies that can be put into play during your stay here?

"Aye, I do," Orik grunted. "I'm a fair enough smith – if the people judging knew what it is all about. But why should I craft better arms and armor for fools who treasure them not? I am as usheless here as a three-legged Feldunost."

Curiosity aroused, Murtagh extended a hand toward the bottle. "May I?" he asked.

Orik glanced between him and the bottle. He grimaced and gave it up.

Murtagh took a swig from the battle and gasped as he felt the faelnirv run down his throat, cold as ice, stinging and smarting. His eyes watered but he indulged in a second gulp. He passed the bottle back to Orik, who was disappointed by how little of the liquid remained.

"What mischief have you two and your friends managed out of Oromis and yon bucolic woods?"

The words swam in Murtagh's mid. What exactly did "bucolic" mean? He blinked and began to narrate on the Riders' misadventures, laughing and groaning at the tale. Emboldened by the drink, he confessed his strange affection for Nasuada, which was different from what he felt when he first befriended her. He also described his fear of trying to make a move.

Orik shook his head. "The rock beneath you is flawed, but the rock above you is sturdy. Do not tempt fate too much, but you can take it easy. Nasuada…" He took another swig of faelnirv and studied the Rider. "It is too late for thish, and my mind is tired. Who am I to say what is wisdom and what isn't?"

Thorn blinked. Are you married? That was strange. The Riders never stopped to wonder about Orik's personal life before.

Are you mad? Murtagh asked.

You are not the only one allowed to feel curious.

Orik shook his head. "Eta. But I am promished to my fair lady Hvedra, sole daughter of Thorgerd One-eye and Himinglada. We were to be wed thish spring but thoshe blasted Urgalsh attacked and Hrothgar sent me prancing with elves on this accursed trip."

"Is she from Durgrimst Ingeitum too?" asked Eragon.

Orik pounded his fist on the side of the chair, making it creak ominously. "Of coursh! Thinkest thou I would dare marry outside my clan? She's the granddaughter of mine aunt Vardrun, Hrothgar's cousin twice removed, with white, round calves smoother than satin. Her cheeks do not need the rogue that vain women use. They are as red as apples already, and she is the prettiest dwarf maid who ever did exist."

Of course, there would be no doubt about it, a startled Thorn replied.

Orik grunted and squinted at Murtagh. "Do you believe in giants? Tall giants, shtrong giants, thick, bearded giants with fingers as big as your body?"

"Oh, I don't know, Orik…" Murtagh began, remembering few obscure tales that Brom told them about giants. "I've never seen them or heard of them before, aside from stories. If they do exist, it most likely is not in Alagaesia."

Orik cackled, waving his bottle of faelnirv about his head. "Oh, but they do! Then oh wise and sagacious Rider, tell me something… If a fearshome and terrible giant would meet you on the garden path, what might he call you, if not dinner?"

Increasingly bewildered by the second, Murtagh glanced at Thorn, who exchanged an equally bewildered look with him. He turned back to the dwarf. "Well, I suppose he would call me Murtagh."

"No, no! He would call you a dwarf, for a dwarf you would seem to him." Orik laughed, elbowing Murtagh in the ribs. He didn't notice the Rider's wince. "Do you see, now? Humans and elvesh are the giants. The land's full of them, here, there and everywhere, stomping about with their big feet and casting the rest of us in their endless shadowses." He kept laughing, rocking back in his chair.

It tipped over and the dwarf fell to the floor with a solid thump.

Murtagh flinched and helped Orik stand upright. "I think you'd better stay here for the night. No, I command you to." He cringed at the sound of his voice. Never before did he order someone that way. But it was for the best. "You're in no condition to blunder down those stairs in the dark."

Orik agreed indifferently in a chirpy, cheery voice. He allowed Murtagh to remove his mail and bundle him onto one side of the bed. With a sigh, Murtagh covered the lights and lay on his side of the mattress. He could hear the dwarf mutter Hvedra's name as he fell asleep.

Eragon almost burned the buzzing timepiece to cinders when he woke up. Hunting knife in hand, he jumped out of his bed, anticipating an attack. With a gasp, he slumped back to his bed, feeling the abuse inflicted on his body over the past two days.

Eyes watering, he rewound his timepiece and went about his daily morning ritual with a shuffle that reminded him of an old man afflicted by rheumatism. He then descended his tree, followed by Saphira. Murtagh was already there, looking exhausted and stressed out. "You won't believe what happened last night. Have you seen Orik lurking about this morning?"

"Sorry, no lurkers in my home tonight," Eragon said. "What happened?"

Murtagh was about to talk when the others arrived. Roran nodded to them grimly, saying, "I don't think that the elves we will spar with would hold back on us."

"No, I don't think so," Arya said dryly. Even displeased and sleepy, she was a lovely sight. "Many of the younger elves are displeased. They were holding onto meager hope that the dragons would change their mind and hatch for them – and they hatched for me, and five humans, four from one remote village in what you would call the middle of nowhere."

"If I were an elf, I would wonder, too," Nasuada told her.

Arya smiled. "It just means that the changing times have not touched Palancar Valley so greatly, and many of their people still retain the qualities that dragons choose in their Riders."

A small group of elves approached them, led by the youngest – a solemn, black-haired elf whose face did not yet hold the agelesness of his kin. Eragon thought that he looked a bit younger than the Riders themselves, as a matter of fact. If he took a guess, the young elf was closer in age to his younger sister, Aesyr."

"May good fortune rule over you," the elves murmured, touching their two fingers to their lips.

The Riders mirrored the movement. "And may the stars watch over you."

This will not end well, Arya said, her mind touching the other Riders and the dragons. Her mind flickered to the young black-haired elf and his dark brown eyes before jumping to a slightly older elf with light brown hair and deep green eyes. I know it won't.

What are you talking about? Luneria asked.

The elf pursed her lips as the newcomers addressed them. The two that Arya noted ignored them and greeted the dragons first. The other four greeted them most courteously, though. "Greetings, Shur'tugal," a tall, red-haired elf with deep gray eyes said. "I am Randarion, of House Svarthall."

"Well met, Riders," another said. Her red hair fanned around her in wild curls. Her slanted gray eyes watched them with interest and speculation. My name is Aviana from House Marthae."

"And I am Elmyra of House Grethold," the next elf said. She beamed at the Riders regally, her red-gold hair glinting beautifully in the sun. Her icy blue eyes held a strange warmth.

A dark-haired elf with pale, hazel eyes regarded them with a spark of knowledge. "I am Mindeth, descended from House Farluth."

Only then did the two youngest elves directly address them, as the other four turned to talk to the dragons.

"I am Vanir of House Haldthin." The youngest elf looked like he was forced to introduce himself to the Riders, and Arya regarded him with a coolness that reminded Eragon of her mother.

Please, no. The princess rolled her eyes at him. Eragon groaned, forgetting that the Riders and their dragons' minds were still linked together in a fine mesh. Vanir shot them a sullen look that he quickly concealed in a perfect mask of calmness.

"My name is Nidavel. Of the House Drottning." He shot Arya a cold look that he also quickly hid behind a calm mask. "We shall be showing you where you may practice with your blades." He stared at the Riders' swords with a mix of distaste and envy. With a whirl, he strode away with Vanir at his heels, not waiting for the Riders or their companions to catch up.

"Please excuse them," Aviana said with a sniff. "They are not well-versed in courtesy, which we as a people pride ourselves upon. I am sure you would understand, Arya Drottningu."

"I do," Arya said quietly. "But it does not justify their actions." She flicked a thought to her friends. Nidavel is a member of my House – albeit a minor one. He is one of the least pleased elves when it comes to us becoming Riders – especially me.

Envy. The thought came, unbidden, from Askanir. The same emotion bubbled through him in a short flash before he cut off that portion of his mind from them. He envies you for being a major member of your family… a princess of your people. You are second in line for your mother's throne, while he lies far below. Now, you are also a Rider.

He reminds me of Himeria, Nasuada told them forlornly.

But can we trust the other four? And what about Vanir? Eragon's curiosity and wariness fought with each other.

I know the other four, confirmed Arya. I was in good terms with them. I do hope that they manage to keep Vanir and Nidavel in check. She shuddered lightly, and Eragon suppressed the urge to wrap an arm around her.

The sparring yard was filled with elves of both genders training in pairs, some in groups. Their extraordinary gifts in physical strength and speed resulted in bursts of blows that were hard to follow with the naked eye and caused loud, ringing sounds. Under the trees that marked the edge of the yard, some elves performed the Rimgar with amazing grace and flexibility that could rival Ash's.

Don't tell her that,Saphira warned.

Of course not! I don't want to be hit in the head by balls of water.

Everyone on the field stopped and bowed to Saphira, then Arya. Vanir unsheathed his narrow blade and pointed it to Eragon. "You. If you will guard your sword, then we can begin."

The other Riders paired up with an elf, and Eragon noted that Nidavel singled out Murtagh. Why do we have to do this? The red Rider looked as uneasy as he sounded. We will all be humiliated. Arya might stand a chance, but not us.

You will be fine, Saphira assured them. Thorn didn't sound as confident when he echoed her, though.

Eragon warily prepared Kylskada, hands trembling with dread. Warily, the fight started with the young Rider doing his best to fight Vanir from a distance. Mostly he dodged, sidestepped, and did all that he could to avoid triggerign a fit. That wouldn't look good, especially since some of the training elves stopped to watch the Riders' sparring sessions. His evasions weren't good enough. Four times Vanir managed to hit him in rapid succession – one each on his ribs, shin and both shoulders.

Though Vanir did his best to mask his dislike behind a mask of calm, it quickly degenerated into open contempt. With a graceful lunge forward, he slid his blade up Kylskada's shimmering blue side and twirled the blade in a circle, wrenching Eragon's wrist painfully. Eragon release the sword, and it flew out of his hand. That would still be better than resisting the elf's superior strength, of course.

Vanir lowered his sword, the sharp tip pressed lightly against Eragon's neck. "Dead," he said with a cold glint of his eyes. Eragon went off to retrieve Kylskada. "Dead," the elf repeated. "How do you and your friends expect to defeat Galbatorix if five of you are only this strong? I expected better, even from a weakling human."

Saphira growled. Whether it was a warning to Vanir or to Eragon was unclear.

The Rider's temper flared up. "Then why don't you fight Galbatorix instead of hiding deep in Du Weldenvarden?"

Vanir's eyes widened, his body stiffening with unbridled anger. "Because," he said, reverting back to his cool and haughty demeanor, "I'm not a Rider. If I were, I wouldn't be such a coward as you."

No one moved or spoke on the field. The other Riders and their elven partners stopped what they were doing. Murtagh was sprawled on the ground with Nidavel's blade pressed against his chest. Vanir's hatred was mirrored by the other elf, but it seemed more directed toward Vanir instead of Murtagh.

"Vanir, you forget your place," Randarion barked, knuckles white against his sword.

"Tread carefully," was Nidavel's warning, though he seemed to be egging the younger elf on.

Vanir seemed emboldened. "Coward, I say! Your blood is as thin as the rest of your race's. The dragons may have been confused by the passage of time and made wrong choices for Riders." His dark eyes flickered to Arya. Some of the elves gasped at Vanir's words and muttered among themselves with open disapproval. After all, time and time again, the Riders were reminded that elves had standards for etiquette and courtesy. And the young elf breached them. "And choosing an elf soleley for her bloodline? Preposterous!"

Silver flashed as Katrina brandished Skymning. "Insult us all you want, but do not dare insult our dragons," she said in a dangerous voice that was uncharacteristic of her. Even when she was mad, she always kept her sweet demeanor.

The dragons seemed ready to pounce at the next hint of provocation. Pent-up frustration, fear, and pain exploded from deep within Eragon and he whirled around, Kylskada's icy blue edge glinting threateningly. He would have killed Vanir if the startled elf did not block it at the last second. His eyes widened at the ferocity of the attack. Keeping no technique hidden, Eragon poured all of his knowledge and strength in his blows. Bit by bit, Vanir was driven to the center of the field, blocking the mad jabs and slashes. Eragon's ears still rang with rage, and he was determined to inflict as much pain as he could on the elf. He managed to nick Vanir's hip with enough force to draw blood, even with the protective spell that dulled his blade.

"Eragon! Control yourself!" yelled Roran.

At that very moment, pain erupted on Eragon's back. It was a mix of agony and hatred so intense, he could feel it with his five senses. He had felt that just once before – when Durza just laid open his back. He fell on the ground, noticing Vanir and Nidevel standing over him with identical sneers.

The seizure passed, and Eragon stood up, wiping the blood from his mouth with his free hand. The other one was clenched tightly around Kylskada's hilt. He showed the blood to Vanir. "Thin enough?" The elf ignored him, turning his back while sheathing his sword. He began to walk away, followed by Nidevel.

"Where are you going?" snarled Eragon. "We have unfinished business."

"You are in no fit condition to spar," the elf scoffed.

Saphira spread her wings and leaped high, landing right in front of him. She touched him on the chest with the point of her ivory talons. Dead, she declared. Vanir went white.

The other elves – even Nidevel – edged away from him slightly. Mindeth stepped away from her sparring partner, Arya, and addressed the Riders. "Your assigned hour is almost over. Take your rest, and be on your way to your masters. On behalf of Vanir and Nidevel, I apologize for what happened today," she said. She blinked. "Not all younger elves share their sentiments," she added.

You do give more effort when you have an opponent – a rival, Saphira noted. Though that elf is not one that I would like you to face. He is… nasty.

Eragon pushed back his hair. Nasty is too kind a word, Saphira.

Aesyr and Vanir both share a theme in their names. Even Ash's brother, Jotnar, somewhat shares it. What do you guys think is their connection? XD

The Blood-Oath Celebration is still a bit far-off, and I'm really upset that most of my recent chapters are starting to look like fillers but hey, Eragon's lessons from the original books also felt like fillers to me. Anyway, to make things quick, I'll be glossing over certain events in the book especially since none of us need the info dump on things that we already know, and we'll be seeing the fairth incident in the next chapter (if it could still be called that). And as I've mentioned time and time again, the Riders will share equal power after the BOC, but they'll be enhancing different skills aside from the standard elven strength and speed.

Glad you guys liked Ash's take on the lessons, I feel like she's a warm patch of sunshine in the midst of the stoic adult elves in Ellesmera. Should I spare her and Serylda? Or shall she share Oromis' fate?

Nope, Starry Glade from the original book won't happen that way here, and I think some of the Riders are close to breaking point regarding their feelings. Or it could just be me. Huh.

We'll be hearing more about Saphira and probably Askanir soon.

I'm planning to write a Harry Potter fic in addition to my PJATO fic and this series. Would you guys give it a read when it's up?

Read and review, as always! I'm on a roll and might update soon!