MODERN INHERITNACE:
BLUE-BLACK ARROGANT PRICK/JUDGE YOU NOT

Murtagh rolled over, trying to find that one, inexplicably comfortable yet contorted position that would finally let him sleep. He was tired, very tired, after the headlong rush across the Hadarac and had been looking forward to the rest their hard won lead would bring.

But after at least a week and a half of traveling by night and sleeping by day, suddenly becoming diurnal again was not as easy as he had hoped.

He rolled over once more, mentally grumbling to himself when he saw that Eragon was sound asleep. The boy was tucked up next to Saphira, two thirds of his body under her wing and his head resting on a pile of unused clothes and blankets. He looked quite comfortable, his mouth open slightly and even a bit of drool on the side of his face.

Murtagh sat up, suddenly realizing that Arya was no longer stretched out near Saphira's foreleg where she had previously laid down to sleep. The blanket was still there, but neither the elf nor her combat-jacket-turned-pillow were to be seen.

"–rather not go there so soon. I've only been able to teach them how to survive, and I've been having a tough time doing even that." Murtagh whipped his head around as Brom's rough whisper reached his ears. Two dim silhouettes sat on the short, rocky protrusion that hid their camp, keeping watch over the landscape. "Eragon has the uncanny ability to get into trouble the moment he moves more than fifty yards from Saphira. If we went to the forest now, they'd laugh at all of us."

A light scoff sounded as the slimmer of the two figures shifted, pulling a leg up to their chest. "No, they'd sing praises to Saphira and pat you on the head for trying your hardest. Eragon would need a bit more work before they would go crazy for him, but they'd still clap politely, I'm sure."

"...You're probably right."

"Yeah, well, I know my people. Always gotta be polite and proper in the pines."

Murtagh grabbed his rifle and slung the strap across his chest before clambering up the rocks. Both Brom and Arya turned to him as he heaved himself over the edge.

"Can't sleep." He said at their questioning gazes. "Bloody body clock is shot to hell. Mind if I join you?"

Brom gestured with his unlit pipe to an open patch of stone. "Sit yourself down, then." They arranged themselves in a roughly triangular position, each able to take in a section of the area while also carrying on polite conversation.

But, knowing the three distinct personalities arrayed before them, polite conversation wasn't likely to happen.

In the quiet that followed, Murtagh became increasingly aware that Arya was studying him with a disturbing intensity. Her eyes flicked over his face, darting from one feature to the next, and he subconsciously leaned back a bit.

"...What?" Murtagh leaned back a little more, finally breaking the silence. "Oi, I know you're taken in by all this–" he extravagantly gestured to his face and body with both hands, hiding how unsettled he was with his usual sassy smugness, "–like the other ladies, but no need to try and devour me with your eyes, lass."

Still intent on examining him the elf responded offhandedly, "Don't flatter yourself. And what did I tell you about calling me that?" Before Murtagh could protectively grab his rifle to prevent the magazine from being shoved up his nose, Arya suddenly sat bolt upright and snapped her fingers. "Got it!" She looked to Brom, a slight frown on her face. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Brom grunted, clamping his teeth on his pipe stem. With the amount of chomping the old man did on it, Murtagh wouldn't be surprised if it had some magic worked into the wood to prevent it from splintering.

"What's going on?" Murtagh crossed his arms. He didn't like it when the two elder members of their little group shared secrets or their weird little nonverbal signals. "If it involves me, I have a right–"

Arya cut him off and pointed to his right eye. "Blue." Then his left. "Black." Her lip twitched into a surprisingly fierce snarl. "Arrogant, psychopathic, warmongering, traitorous, race-murdering PRICK."

Brom let out an uncharacteristic snort, pulling his pipe out of his mouth. Murtagh realized it was a choked off laugh, and scowled at him. "Why is it that everyone only remembers my father, huh? He's dead. Let me live my life, not his."

"I wasn't laughing at that. I've just never heard the bastard described so...simply." Brom chuckled again. "I'm surprised it took you this long, Arya."

"It's not like I shook Morzan's hand and got to know him as well as you bloody did." Arya tossed her braid over her shoulder and clasped her hands together, her anger fading. "Besides, I never thought he'd have a son." She regarded the aforementioned offspring with one of her signature blank expressions, eyes searching his face again. "His mother must have been the Black Hand, wasn't she, Brom? You must have known."

Just like before, Brom shifted slightly at the mention of Murtagh's mother, a strange light flashing through his startlingly blue eyes. It was gone just as quickly as it had appeared, though, and the old man gave an affirmative grunt.

"Oi!" Murtagh snapped, rage starting to bubble in his gut. He could feel the vein on his forehead starting to stand out, and that made him even angrier. "Stop talking about me as if I'm not even HERE!" Both adults looked to him. "I am not my father's son! So judge me not by his actions! I am my own man!"

A faint smile touched Arya's lips, and she nodded. "Aye. Don't worry, Murtagh. I judge you not by your father but by you alone. Family shouldn't be the sole point on which someone is judged, especially if they were not raised by them." The elf knit her fingers together and rested her chin on them, expression again serious. "Your father was a terrible person, and I'm sure out of all of us in Alagaësia, you know that fact better than anyone. But, unlike some children who would turn their rage against the entire world, you have chosen to take your anger and skills and do what you can to fight against what Morzan and Galbatorix wrought. Unless you're a spy, in which case I'd congratulate you on getting this far, and then promptly kill you."

Brom nodded sagely in agreement, then locked eyes with Murtagh. "Oi. I'm only going to say this once, so listen carefully, whelp." Murtagh's snarl returned at the old man's use of his usual, insulting name for him, but Brom put his hands up. "Peace. Just hear me out this one time. I won't repeat what I'm about to say. Ever."

He took his pipe from between his lips and rolled it between his fingers before again looking Murtagh in the eye. "You've proved yourself quite a bit since you've joined us. I can say with confidence that you are not your father's son, and I knew the bastard since he was younger than you are now. You have a sense of morality and sound judgement that he never had, even if your justifications for that judgement are usually driven by your survival code." Murtagh's scowl fell. As Brom spoke, the young man's expression turned from one of red-faced frustration to disbelief, his mouth slightly open as the old man pointed the stem of his pipe at him. "You've been...invaluable, in helping me protect Eragon and Saphira. And you probably saved the Varden by rescuing Arya while at Gil'ead, as she's the only one who can secure the elves support for the rebellion again.

"What I'm saying is that I judged you prematurely. And I...apologize."

Murtagh stared at the old Rider, trying to find the words to explain the unexpected welling of emotion in his chest. "Brom, I…I don't know how to..." He faltered, and resumed gaping at him.

"You can start by closing your mouth." Brom snapped gruffly. "You'll catch flies like that, whelp."

Arya raised her eyebrows and leaned towards him. "I think you broke the poor boy."

The young man shook himself out of his stupor. "No, no, it's just…. I figured if I could get you, Brom, of all people, to see that I'm not some demon spawn then I could live my life in peace. And now that you just confirmed it, I can't. I have to keep fighting the King."

Brom snorted and stuck his pipe back in his mouth. "Oh, you're a demon's spawn, there's no denying that." He growled. "You're just not acting like a demon. Kudos to you, whelp."

"Lay off him, Brom. You can't just turn around like that after giving him such a heartfelt speech." Arya swatted the old man on the arm, to which he grumbled and pushed her.

Murtagh rubbed his face, feeling even more drained after the emotional joyride the two had just put him on. "Bloody children, the both of you."

Arya smirked. "I'm not the one up past his bedtime."

The young man threw his hands up. "Alright! Alright, I get it. I'll try to sleep again." He stood and moved to start climbing back down to the clearing, then paused. "Thanks for what you said. The both of you."

"Don't get all sappy on us." Brom growled, crossing his arms. "You still have quite a bit of proving to do, whelp."

"Sure, Brom. Whatever you say." He smiled, and for a moment Brom saw a flash of bright teeth and dark hair, a laugh echoing in his ears. Then both the memory and Murtagh were gone, the man clambering down the short cliff to collapse on his sleeping bag.

The old Rider blinked, trying to clear his head, and found Arya regarding him with a slightly concerned expression. "Oh, what? Are you going to start telling me what my father looked like now?"

Arya shook her head, fringes of hair that had escaped her braid flicking about her face. "No. Just thought I saw something." They lapsed into comfortable silence, once again facing out over the land. A warm, dry breeze wafted through the woods from the nearby Hadarac and brushed over them, carrying the scent of the sands.

"It was hell crossing that." Brom muttered, chewing thoughtfully on his pipe again and silently lamenting that he couldn't light it without revealing their position. "But at least we're nearly to the mountains now. Another week and a half or so and we'll be with the Varden."

Arya hummed softly in agreement, her farseeing eyes picking out the distant campfires of the Urgal party following them. They blazed like bright candles to her sight, and she counted twenty before the camp stretched beyond her vision.

They stayed up for a while longer, talking about this and that and hashing out the possible responses the Varden would have to their arrival. It was an hour before Arya looked up at the sky, noting the new positions of the stars, and said, "You should catch some rest, old man. Your watch is over by my reckoning."

"You keep calling me old, Arya. I think my physique speaks for itself; I'm still quite spry, thank you very much. " Brom stood and stretched his stiff joints, pointedly ignoring the chorus of pops and crackles that dampened his previous statement as the elf smirked. "I'll wake Eragon for his watch."

Arya waved him off. "Leave the kid be. Both he and Saphira have earned their sleep. I can take his watch."

"Again?" Arya shrugged. "You can't keep this up. You need to sleep just as much as we do, probably more since you're still healing."

"I'm fine, Brom. Really."

Brom frowned. In the dim light of the stars he could see that she was lying. Her skin had regained its usual tanned tone after trekking through the Hadarac, but over the last day or so she had paled slightly. Despite the cooler temperatures, a slight sheen of sweat was on her brow and she wore her combat jacket zipped all the way up as if she were freezing. "Anything you want to tell me?" She shook her head. "Arya, I can tell when something's up. Did another wound get infected again?"

"No." And she added firmly, "I'm fine."

"If you keep trying to deal with things like this on your–"

"Brom!" The old Rider's eyes snapped to hers. Arya's voice had taken on a sharp edge and held an unmistakable ring of authority that, despite the conversation they had held earlier, reminded Brom that some things were hereditary no matter the differences between parent and child. "Leave it. I'll be fine. We can talk about it later. Just go to sleep."

He regarded her with a steady gaze, keeping their eyes locked. His suspicions were confirmed when it was Arya who broke contact, looking down and away from him. "I hope you're right. And I hope you will tell me when whatever it is gets worse." He said. "Remember what I told Murtagh, Arya. You're the only one who can get the Queen start supporting the Varden again. So for not just your sake, but the entire damn Varden's, I hope you're right." And he started the short descent back to camp.

Arya let out a breath and looked up at the pale stars. They twinkled above her, smugly winking as if they knew, as she did, that fire was burning in her veins.

The Shade smiled, pointed teeth gleaming. "It won't kill you right away, little elf. It won't even start to kill you until I tell it to." Arya gritted her teeth as the clear fluid in the syringe slid into her wrist and rushed through her bloodstream. "My own modified Skilna bragh. You know, little elf, if you escape, and you run fast enough, you just might make it to your people or the Varden before it destroys you." And he winked at her, as if sharing in some private joke.

The elf closed her eyes and let her head fall back. She had to decide. Continue traveling with the others, leading not only the Urgals to the Varden's doorstep, but Durza as well and probably slowing the group down until she succumbed to the poison in her blood, or try to run to Ceris and deliver a dying declaration that would force the Queen to resume aiding the Varden.

No, she couldn't do that. It would lead Durza right to the elvish city.

Her last choice was grim. Leave the group at the mouth of the Beartooth River and turn back to the Hadarac. She could slow the Urgals as best she could, and die a warrior's death. It was preferable than dying of thirst or poison in the sands.

Another swirl of wind flowed from the aforementioned desert. Arya sighed as it ghosted over her skin, her nerves tingling with the first uncomfortable prickles of pain, and looked back to where Brom was kicking his sleeping bag out on the ground. "Yeah, Brom," She murmured. "I hope so too."