A/N: My goodness! I can't believe my last post was almost 6 years ago! O.o It's definitely been a busy time. There were several occasions I'd wanted to get some work done on this story, but something always seemed to get in the way. In that time, though, I've not forgotten about it or my promise to finish it. And over the holiday period I resumed planning out this next chapter and completed the first of several scenes that will be included in it. Rather than make readers wait any longer I decided to try something new with this chapter. This post is of the first completed scene and while you read I'll complete each new scene and update the chapter. *shrugs* Not sure how successful this approach will be so I guess we'll see. If it's not, I can always revert to the original way.
Disclaimer: This chapter makes use of characters and/or locations that are part of the Inheritance Cycle. Except where noted, all characters and locations are owned and copyright by Christopher Paolini.
Chapter 19 - From The Ashes of Ruin:
It was still night, pitch-black when he woke. Murtagh's gray eyes fluttered open as the image of her warm brown eyes faded from view. He clenched into a fetal position on the sandy floor of the camp, a chilling shiver passing through him; the memories of the day before following mercilessly. Mercy or not the end result was the same and the thought left him cold as the desert night. He lay there blinking slowly, expelling a heavy sigh that stirred a small patch of sand just in front of a face furrowed with the dark ashen lines of defeat. His eyes clenched, tears threatening as his belly twisted over the plaintive longing of a life forever out of his reach. Maybe, just maybe there was once a chance of a life with Nasuada, but not now. Not ever! Still, after their parting he'd a life with Thorn to look forward to, a healing comfort knowing that he would be able to embark on a new path of healing and self discovery beyond the poison that the forced servitude under Galbatorix had filled him with. A path not alone, but together with his bonded dragon. A promise of not only comfort and companionship, but above all, purpose. Perhaps in time he could have even joined his half-brother, Eragon; together he and Thorn to help raise once again the mighty order of the Dragon Riders. And now he was left with nothing, utter ruin. All his life the Son of Morzan longed to live with a purpose free of his cursed namesake. Aye, a hard path filled with endless trials had honed his skill, experience and determination enough that he'd been able to cling to that hope. And fate swayed enough at times to promise true freedom within his grasp, only to shift and snatch it away, leaving him to start over from the ruin fate left in its wake. Each time he'd survey the ruin and ask himself if there was enough left over to hold on. The answer had always been immediate. Yes.
Murtagh shivered, surveying this new ruin before him.
"Is there enough?" He whispered plaintively to the cold and silent desert.
He waited only a moment before slowly opening his eyes to stare into an ink-black darkness set beneath a sky of dim stars he likened to hopes and dreams seen from afar; but never touched, never held, never lived. Murtagh took account of the ruin in the darkness and sighed. There remained but one, cold and hard as the darkness around him. Survival.
It will have to suffice.
Murtagh's head lifted, gaze fixating on a rustle –joined by a growl– across the camp from him. Thorn.
Unable to know the dragon's thoughts, Murtagh guessed Thorn was asleep, dreaming fitfully. With the agility and deftness of a were-cat, the ex-Rider rose quietly to a crouch, calloused fingers clenching into sand warmed by his body; eyes fixed on Thorn's tightly coiled bulk across the camp. Dark as it was, from Murtagh's vantage point the ruby dragon's scales were enough to capture the faint light of the stars and reflect it back as a hazy red-black bulk silhouetted against the ink-black darkness beyond. It seemed almost fitting that the Son of Morzan's last image of the dragon would be that of a dark ominous mass silhouetted against a cold dark night. Murtagh stiffened, lips pressed tight. There was nothing left for him here. Moreover he was faced with the disconcerting fact that he had absolutely no idea what Thorn had in mind to do with him, and he was not going to remain long enough to find out. There was no longer any reason to remain and doing so only risked more ruin. Whether this was his way of grieving the bond now broken between him and Thorn, simple acquiescence to defeat or a combination of both he knew not, nor did he care. He was weary of ruin, weary over the trail of ashes behind him, numb to the prospect of trying to start over. Everything he cared for only ended up ashes in his hands. Thorn had his path to follow and Murtagh had his own, such as it was. The Son of Morzan quietly stood, felt around for his pack, bedroll, Zar'roc and water skin; finding them in a bundle against the rock he'd been leaning against the day before. Murtagh strapped Zar'roc around his waist, dawned the pack with the bedroll strapped to it and draped the water skin over his shoulder. He stopped at the edge of the camp before taking a final look over his shoulder, first a sweeping gaze over Thorn peacefully sleeping then a lingering defiant gaze over the stars above, cold and quiet. Taking note of the silence in his own mind, the ex-Rider's jaw clenched with resolve.
No more.
Murtagh turned to face the open darkness before him, stood tall with squared shoulders and trotted out into the open desert. As he moved, he uttered a simple spell in the ancient language and released it, feeling an almost imperceptible drain as the magic left him to sweep clear each footprint he left behind in the sand.