"Here, drink this."

Hal cut her eyes at Giles, then abruptly looked away again. Because now that her shock and confusion had worn off, there was nothing left in her heart but blind fury. In fact, she was so infuriated that she couldn't stop crying. She knew that if she saw Murtagh right now, she would choke the life out of him. He had planned this. He had lied to her face and sent her to hunker down with a stranger while he galloped his way into the castle. How could he not tell her he meant to turn himself in? How could he completely exclude her from this new plan? She would never forgive him for this.

Then her rage briefly turned to despair as she let out a choked sob. What if she never saw him again? People had been throwing food at him. Rocks. What if he wasn't pardoned? Could he receive execution as punishment instead? Would he?

Hal let out a wail of pain, holding her head in her hands. She didn't know what to do. He hadn't told her anything? What was she meant to do? She could not get into the castle now. Was she supposed to simply hope for the best and wait for him to come out? That could take weeks, months — time they didn't have. Hal didn't know this city, this land, or its rules. And she didn't know Giles. How Murtagh could do this to her, she would never understand.

"I understand you're upset—" Giles began, sitting down at the small table across from her.

Hal's head shot up, her tone turning bitter and ugly. "You don't know how I feel. Don't even pretend to understand how I feel. I don't know you and you don't know me or what I've been through to even get this far. And now Murtagh has abandoned me —"

"He didn't abandon you."

"Well, he's not here, is he?!" Hal shouted, rising to her feet. "I don't know what I'm meant to do. Sit on my hands and wait? I came all the way here to avoid doing nothing and that is exactly the position he has put me in! If I ever see that dragon rider again…"

But she choked on the words, unable to fathom that she wouldn't. She had thought her future was uncertain before…Overwhelmed, Hal collapsed back into her seat, letting her face fall into her hands. "I don't understand," she cried, not meaning to speak aloud. "Why would he leave me? Why?"

Giles didn't have an answer for her. Not an immediate one, anyway. But Hal had a sudden thought and raised her head to look at him. "The letter. What was in the letter he wrote to you? Tell me!"

She shot to her feet as a means of intimidating the man to giving her what she wanted. Giles just shook his head. "That letter's not what you think it is —"

"I don't care, just give it to me!" She would take anything at this point. Even a shred of logic that would satisfy the helplessness crushing her.

"Okay, okay." He stood up and shuffled back over to the sitting room they were in earlier, returning with the unfolded letter in his hand. Hal snatched it before he can hold it up properly and her eyes scanned over the page with such intensity, that she had to read it several times to ensure that she's actually reading everything correctly. Because she had not expected the letter to be addressed to her:

My Dearest Halen,

If you are reading this, I imagine you must be furious with me. I'm so sorry that I have deceived you like this. When I realized what I had to do, I knew it had to be this way.

By now, I have already turned myself and Thorn over to the crown. We talked about this at length during our travels to Ilirea, and we both agreed this was the right thing to do. I want to earn my pardon, Halen. But the gesture needs to come from me and Thorn alone. I cannot ask you to fight this battle for us. I cannot ask you to give up more than you already have. You said that you would stand on your own two feet, even if I was too cowardly to stand by your side. Halen, all I want is to stand with you. But I cannot do so proudly if I continue to have you fighting my battles for me.

Please, Halen, do not take my actions as a personal reflection on you. You are the strongest person I know, and you inspire me to want to be better. If I wish to be even half as amazing as you, I must bear all of the grief and rage and mistrust that I have caused. I cannot ask you to bear my name and my burdens for my sake. I will not do that to you. I would not deserve you if I did.

There is so much more I wish I could tell you, Halen. But not here. I will see you again — and believe me Halen, I will see you again — and I will explain everything then. Just lay low and stay with Giles. When I am pardoned, I will come and find you.

And I will do so as a free man.

Please, my love, wait for me. And do not take your anger out on Giles. I alone did this, and I alone will face your wrath when I see you again.

Thank you, Halen, for giving me the strength to do what I should have done long ago.

I love you, with all my heart and all that I am.

Forever yours,

Murtagh Morzanson

…

Giles gave Hal a spare bedroom on the second floor, and Hal didn't leave it for nearly a week. Murtagh's letter was clutched tightly in her hand, and already she had read it enough times to have it memorized. But it didn't bring her the comfort she had been hoping for. It hadn't really answered her questions. All she knew was that this was something he had to do on his own. Which she understood. But what she didn't understand was how that journey excluded her from knowing. Was she that unreasonable that he thought he couldn't share something like this?

No, the marriage wasn't an ideal plan — she hadn't been thrilled about it either. No woman wanted to marry for such an ulterior motive. It wasn't exactly romantic. But Hal couldn't believe that this was honestly better. She was completely in the dark about everything and could do nothing to help. She was useless.

Giles did his best to console her, checking in on her every so often with a plate of food, tea, snacks, and the like. He even offered, and went, to grab the rest of Hal and Murtagh's things per the separate instructions Murtagh had left for Giles directly. Hal was glad, as they also referenced Levi, who was now comfortable in the stables with Shadow. But she remained in bed, staring at the wall. And it wasn't until the end of the sixth day that Giles knocked and walked in, carrying more than just food.

"There's been an update from the castle regarding Murtagh. I thought you might like to know that they are, apparently, planning on moving forward with the pardoning process. A select group of individuals have been chosen by the queen to serve on the council overseeing the affair. They will be given a chance to confirm their attendance and travel, which gives us more than enough time to figure out a plan."

That last part made Hal take note, and she slowly turned her head to peer over her shoulder without having to move her entire body. "What plan? You read the note: Murtagh wants me to sit on my ass while he figures out his own mess. He doesn't want my help. And to that, I say, fine."

She turned away and Giles sighed with a bit of irritation. "Heavens you warned me you were worse than he is." Hal ignored this. "As you so kindly reminded me, I was the youngest person to serve on the Court of Requests; I probably know the law better than the queen herself."

"So?"

"So? The pardoning process is not as simple as it sounds. Nasuada is executing the first part, which is bringing in high-ranking officials to assist. If they have to give them time to travel, we can assume that they are not located here in Ilirea. If I had to guess, she would resort to members of the Varden. It's what she has done for all of the other pardons, even mine. Although Murtagh is a bigger factor so there's no telling who she might —"

"Giles," Hal interrupted. "As someone who rambles when they're thinking, I can grasp the complexities of your thoughts right now. But I need you to find the point and make it."

"Err, right, where was I? Oh, yes! We could put in a formal request to have you speak as a character witness. Someone who could, say, speak to his growth as a changed man."

Hal was sitting up now, thinking hard when her anger reared again; she defiantly crossed her arms over her chest. "I have half a mind to let him rot behind bars, the selfish ass."

Giles chuckled. "I wouldn't blame you; it was unfair, him springing that on you."

Hal felt a pang of guilt at the man's tone, and for her initial outburst days before. "I'm sorry I snapped at you," she told him. "You were not the cause of my anger you should not have been on the receiving end of it."

"No harm, no harm." Giles came and sat down on the edge of the bed. He gestured to the letter in Hal's hand. "The man who wrote that is not a man I know," he explained. "However, he is someone I would like to. That is the letter of a man who, as you said, is learning who he is, after years of being told by the world exactly who they thought him to be: cruel, evil, dangerous. Someone unworthy of love, opportunity, and dignity. And he began to believe them. The way he went about this wasn't fair to either of us. But this matter he is facing, the decisions he is making — they are not about us, Miss Halen. They are about him, and what he needs for himself. I think we can both agree that only he should be allowed to make those kinds of choices."

Hal felt her face go hot. She had not thought of it that way. So much of their conversations and plans revolved around doing something "together" that she had unwittingly forgotten that they were both their own people. She was still furious with Murtagh, but perhaps, as Giles said, she could understand a bit more of why he did not include her in this decision. In this matter, as she had told him before, she had not been a part of his life then.

"I still wish he had thought enough to at least tell me. It is not my decision to make but I'm allowed to care about what happens to him."

"Of course, you are. No one is saying otherwise. But the Murtagh I know, and the Murtagh I see in that letter, is someone who needs to try something on his own, just to see if he can do it. By asking your opinion, it could lessen the validation that he himself needs to feel. He needs to prove to himself that he can make the right decision for the right reason. Turning himself in took more heart and more courage than we could possibly imagine. That alone will go far in earning him the freedom he has always deserved."

Hal's face twisted in anguish. Because now she felt like an ass for not having come to this conclusion herself. Giles' words made so much sense that she could not fathom how she hadn't thought of it before.

"I'm still gonna hit him when I see him again," Hal warned, wiping her face after she finally calmed down.

Giles grinned. "Good. Hit him good for me too. The bastard."

Hal quickly wiped her face, smiling for the first time. She slapped her cheeks a few times to decompress then said, "Alright, what do we do first to ensure I'm allowed to speak at his hearing?"

Giles made a face. "Well first, we get you cleaned up. You haven't bathed in a while, Miss Halen, and you stink."

…

Before Thorn had hatched for Murtagh, there was a form of torture that Galbatorix was particularly fond of. After a whipping or a beating or an attempt to break his mental shields — which wore Murtagh down until he felt like a shell of himself — he was left completely and utterly alone. He would sit in his chains, exhausted and in pain. And no one would come for him. There was no help. Because, as they would remind him, the world thought he was dead. And no one bothered to look for the dead.

At first, Murtagh hadn't cared. It had meant very little to him. But the days had become weeks, and the silence, the darkness, of his cell was…maddening. He would be left with only his thoughts, which would begin to spiral out of control in loathing: at himself and the world. His hate began to fester in that silence. That no matter what he did, no matter what he had done, this was what he got for his trouble. He hadn't even wanted to go the Varden, but he had stayed with Eragon because it was what Eragon had wanted, not Murtagh. And he was the one in chains, while Eragon was out doing gods knows what.

How easy then, it had been, to inflict suffering on others when he was finally unleashed onto the world.

He felt that same silence now, that same maddening stillness. His cell was tiny — for all he knew, it could've been the same one Galbatorix left him in. It had always been so dark, he would have no true way of knowing. He was chained to the wall by his wrist and ankles, stripped of his shoes and much of his attire except for his leggings and tunic, after they had searched him for weapons. There were no windows, no bars. Just a high ceiling, thick stone walls, and an iron door. The kind of room for magic users. So even if he chose not to eat or drink the food that was obviously tainted to suppress his abilities and knowledge of the Ancient Language, the room itself was made to restrict him as well. But he ate as a sign of good faith, even though it was often burnt, stale, or showing signs of expiration. And he could not afford to lose his strength now. Although he hated that it meant he could not communicate with Thorn either, that was also probably for the best. Even if he could reach his dragon beyond this room, spellcasters might be on guard for any sort of contact between the two of them. They had prepared for this though, and both knew better than to try to touch the mind of the other until they knew it was safe or circumstances became…dire.

The only thing getting him through this moment of solitary was thinking about what he would do once he was free. Even if people were wary of him, the idea that, for the first time in his life, he wouldn't have to look over his shoulder all the time was…dammit, it felt almost too good to be true. The most security he had been provided was under Galbatorix's thumb. It was no way to live and it had smothered him almost out of existence. This was his second chance. And he knew the first thing he would do when he was out.

He closed his eyes, trying to escape the darkness by filling his head with memories and fantasies. Things he remembered and the things he wanted. He didn't come this far to fall apart, not when there were people depending on him.

He was unsure of how much time was beginning to pass, but it was getting harder to keep up the happier thoughts with each crushing moment. He could go crazy in here if they didn't get him out soon.

He wondered if it was intentional that the guards had suddenly stopped bringing him his meals.

He focused his thoughts and energy on Hal. She would be furious when she saw him again. The thought of her anger gave him comfort. She would probably hit him. Tell him she would never talk to him again. He would welcome that rage for the chance to see her beyond just his imagination. Welcome it, because he knew it meant that she cared.

Delirious with hunger, disgusted by his own smell and the smells around him, and out of his mind with boredom, Murtagh's head shot up when he finally heard movement on the other side of his cell. He grew tense, unsure of what to expect. He heard the locks on his door being undone, and, when it swung open, soldiers filed in, their weapons already drawn on him. He blinked, his eyes irritated by just the torchlight from the hallway outside. At first, he would have assumed the guard was here to finally restock his food supply or clean out his waste bucket, but not with these numbers.

A tall, broad man stepped forward, his dark eyes glinting with hatred as he looked down at Murtagh. He sneered, and Murtagh flinched as the man spat at him, the saliva hitting him in the cheek. Of course, Murtagh could not move to wipe it off, even if his hands weren't bound, knowing they would use it as an excuse to strike him. So, the spit remained on his face, which burned in anger and humiliation.

His chains were removed. His arms dropped to his side, having long since gone numb, his wrist rubbed raw from how tight the iron cuffs had been. His legs were weary with lack of use, and he was forced to his feet by a hand gripping his elbow, pulling him upright. His freedom was short-lived, however, as new shackles were placed around his ankles and wrists before he was suddenly pushed forward, as if being told to walk. However, whoever had shoved him must've known he'd have no balance with the tight chains around his ankles, which made it impossible for his feet to move fast enough so that he might catch himself. All he could do was twist, his shoulder bearing the brunt of the fall rather than his face.

He grimaced as the shock reverberated throughout his entire body, the hard stone providing no comfort. Just as he relaxed, thinking he had been able to minimize the worst of the damage, he only had a moment to register the boot coming towards his face before it connected with his nose. He cried out at the feel of the bone giving way, blood gushing from the injury. He heard a few of the men snicker.

He wasn't given a moment to recover — why would he have been? — before hands were heaving him to his feet once more. He was weak from hunger, now delirious from pain, wincing as he was shoved forward once more. He managed to remain upright, blood dripping down his lips and chin. He held himself with as much composure as he could muster, not wanting to make the mistake of letting them think they were getting to him. Compared to Galbatorix, this was nothing. But he did feel inferior as they escorted him out.

Murtagh was surprised to be led to the main part of the castle, guided through the long tunnel underground until he was in the familiar hallways and passages. From there, he began to figure out where they were taking him. He was surprised at the surge of emotion he felt to walk such familiar grounds again. The same anger and despair that had flooded him at Morzan's estate hit him tenfold now. Along with a piercing shame. The dread of Morzan's estate had been a fear of facing his father's legacy. Here, Murtagh only had his own.

All the while they walked, the castle staff and guests stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Their looks were not kind, but it was the ones who looked afraid that really bothered him. It made him feel guilty. There had been a time when he would have relished in such frightful expressions. He lived in fear of his life every day when he served Galbatorix — even before then, he had been afraid. Why should no one else know what that kind of emotion did to a person? Why should he be the only one suffering? That had been his reasoning, and now, facing the consequences of his actions, after having been with the Tenari, with Hal, he felt even worse about himself. He had not wanted to be anything like his father, and yet hate and anger had led him down the same path.

Murtagh recognized the double-doors that they stopped in front of as the private throne room, small in scale and often used to handle more sensitive affairs like disputes between nobles and other members of allied royalty. He was acutely aware that there was an increase in the number of guards in the area, all eyes watching him carefully as the doors were opened. He hated that he could not communicate with Thorn, desperately needing and wanting the dragon's calm reassurance that he had made the right choice and had not doomed them both. But with Thorn still below ground, his mind remained unnaturally silent.

However, when he walked inside, the throne room he remembered this place to be was no more. Instead, it had been converted into what appeared to be a private office. High shelves had been stacked against either wall, filled with books and scrolls. The room seemed impossibly bright from the large window ahead, morning sun pouring in. The low carpet was soft under his bare feet. And centered back by the window was a desk, at which Nasuada stood.

Murtagh balked in surprise, not having expected to suddenly find himself in her presence. "Nasu —" he began, then kicked himself for being so informal. "Your majesty." He tilted his head. "I would bow but your soldiers may not take too kindly to any sudden movements." Then he quickly and quietly chastised himself for letting the informal quip slip from his tongue.

"I dare say they wouldn't," she agreed, but her gaze was not kind. However, Murtagh was surprised to see that it was not he upon which she narrowed her eyes, nostrils flaring with disdain. She looked at the guards behind him. "Undo his restraints. Then leave us."

"But your majesty, he's dangerous!" It was the man who had spat on him that was bold enough to protest.

"I assure you, I will be fine." When the men still did not move, Nasuada added, "That's an order, soldiers," her voice growing hard. Murtagh stood still as his chains were reluctantly removed. As the guards turned to go, Nasuada called out, "And do not think it escapes my notice that he looks worse than he did going into the cell. I will discuss that with you later, Brigadier General."

When the door slammed shut behind them, Murtagh felt oddly uncomfortable. He was alone with Nasuada for the first time in nearly six years. And while he had anticipated this happening at some point in the quest of receiving his pardon, he had not actually thought about what he might say to her once he saw her again.

The initial silence was excruciating. It felt like it would never end, with Murtagh staring at the ground, feeling Nasuada's pointed gaze on him. But the shame and fear he felt made it impossible to face her. Not after what he had done.

"If I may ask: is Thorn okay?"

"Of course, you may ask. I think he's restless. Actually, I'm sure he is. And I'm sure he's worried about you. But my staff has tried to keep him as well-fed as we can manage, and he has not caused any trouble. I think he's okay, Murtagh."

Murtagh breathed, relieved to hear it. "Thank you for telling me."

"You're welcome." He could hear the rustling of her skirts as she moved, and it wasn't until she spoke that he realized how close she was standing. "Do you simply refuse to look at me out of shame? Or is it cowardice?"

"Both," he admitted. "And I am not so proud that I won't admit even that much."

"You once were."

He grimaced at that, even though he could hear the softness in her voice as she said it. "That is also true."

There was a brief pause. Then Nasuada spoke again. "Murtagh, look at me. You owe me that much."

It felt like he was trying to lift his head while it was being weighed down with stone. His body shook with the effort, his mind exhausted from wariness. But he raised his head just enough to see her face. Her eyes were full of compassion, her smile genuine. A smile he did not deserve. But there it was all the same. And tears burned his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, his voice choked with emotion. "Nasuada, I'm so sorry. For everything. What I did to you — I'll never forgive myself for it."

She sighed, gesturing for him to sit down in one of the nearby chairs. He did, relieved to have something that wasn't stone at his back. Nasuada sat in the chair beside him, leaning forward before speaking. "I know your actions weren't your own, Murtagh. And while I admit that seeing you again so suddenly is hard…" She smiled again. "I'm so happy to see that you're all right. Well," she gestured to his nose, "mostly, that is. And I owe you an apology. I told my guards to treat you with decency. It seems they cannot follow the most basic of orders."

"You cannot fault them after the damage I have caused."

Nasuada reared back. "I can and I will. I am their queen and I gave them a direct order, which they disobeyed. Therefore, I will be dealing with them later."

Murtagh could not help but smile at her, which she returned. "You look well," he added.

She grinned teasingly. "Normally I would say, 'So do you,' but…"

"Is it the beard?" Murtagh retorted, knowing full well it was the grime on his skin and the filth stained into his clothes. "Someone once told me that it makes me look like a wild man."

"Well that someone was right," Nasuada laughed. "I almost wouldn't recognize you with it at first glance." She looked at him, then shook her head, as if still disbelieving that he was here. The feeling was certainly mutual. "I can't believe how long it's been," she said. "There's so much I want to ask you. I don't know where to begin."

"I will answer what I can. I owe you that much."

Her smile softened, but her eyes grew sad. "No. Now is not that time." She clapped her hands together. "I assume there is a reason you have suddenly turned yourself in."

She didn't phrase it like it was a question, she stated it like she knew it to be fact and was simply waiting for him to fill in the blanks. He nodded anyway. "I am tired of running. I am tired of living in the shadow of my father and of my crimes. I wish to earn my pardon, if you will allow it."

She sat back, studying him carefully for a moment. "I imagined it was something like that, although I couldn't be sure. I had to hear it for myself."

"To be honest, I had not really said it out loud until this moment."

"But I must admit, turning yourself in was a good way to start. Not many people would do what you did. You would never have allowed yourself or Thorn to be that vulnerable five years ago."

"No," he agreed.

"You've changed," she said with a proud smile.

"I had help," he said humbly. "A lot of help, actually. And to be honest, a few weeks ago, I still did not want this."

"Then what changed in just a few weeks to convince you to hand yourself over at risk of your safety and Thorn's?"

His cheeks grew faintly pink. He did not want to mention Hal and get her into trouble. But he owed Nasuada the truth. "It's rather personal," he said. "But I made a promise, to myself and to someone I care about. She's waiting for me. At least, I hope she is. And all I want is to go home to her a free man."

Nasuada's brows shot up. "Oh."

He had no idea what her tone meant. Was she surprised? Happy? Disappointed? Indifferent?

The woman smiled. "That's good, Murtagh. That's really good. I'm happy for you."

"Thank you. Truly."

"Well, we shouldn't keep her waiting, should we?"

"No, no we shouldn't." The sooner he could see Hal again, the better. "How long has it been anyhow?"

Nasuada grimaced. "Three weeks."

Murtagh stared, stunned. "Three?"

"Aye. Your appearance caused a bit of an uproar, so I had to put out those fires. Then word got around to neighboring towns and cities, false rumors of an attack. It has been a bit of headache. I also had to cancel a banquet so those letters had to be written."

"I'm so sorry —"

She held up a hand to stop him. "Murtagh, I wear a crown on my head as a symbolic reminder that my days are filled with last-minute emergencies, disasters, cancellations, and upheavals. If I could not manage this, this country would have fallen into chaos within the first week of my ruling." They shared another knowing look. "But we should get down to business. In regards to your pardon —"

"Is it possible?" he asked, not meaning to interrupt. But the last thing he wanted to hear was that there was nothing that could be done and he had needlessly turned himself in.

"Yes, it is possible. But we will have to do everything by the book. There will be a lot of eyes on you, Murtagh. You cannot afford to make a mistake. Many will already be calling for your execution, we cannot give them any excuse to legitimize such a claim." He nodded quickly in agreement. "I will be holding a special hearing to oversee your pardoning process. I have called in four outside members who will serve with me on your council to discuss your options."

He was nodding as she spoke, taking in every word carefully. "And when will my hearing be set?"

"Once the rest of the council arrives. Until then, I will look into having you moved to a new location. And I think we can also have Thorn relocated somewhere he can stretch his wings. I trust him not to leave while you are still here."

"You don't have to do that, not for us."

"I know," she assured him. Then she shot him a faint smile, tilting her head towards him as she added, "Consider this a show of my good faith." Nasuada then rose to her feet. "The soldiers will have to escort you back to your cell for now. But I should have an update for you soon regarding your hearing within the week. In the meantime, I will send for a healer to take a look at your injuries."

"Thank you," Murtagh breathed, grateful. "I cannot thank you enough, but thank you."

She stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward. "You still have many enemies. Stay strong, Murtagh. I will do what I can for you. But if you are here, it means you are prepared to face the long road ahead. They will not forgive and they will not forget. Do not let that dissuade you. Whatever or whomever got you this far, hold on to it tightly. You will need it now more than ever."

And with that, she straightened up before calling the soldiers back in.