TW: Philosophical discussion of torture and sadism, description of imprisonment in a small, dark space, implied off-page torture, implied/discussed self-harm/attempted suicide [not explicitly clarified which, but treated in context as the latter.

This one is probably the darkest chapter yet, depending on your personal triggers. As always, I do my best to handle these subjects with appropriate respect, but I understand completely if those who'd be most affected sit out for this one. Feel free to Comment to request a plot synopsis if you would like to jump back in, OR if anyone notices something that is not listed above that should be.

Stay safe out there.

Impending circumstances require me to pontificate on a subject that many— myself included— find distasteful. Those who have experienced it firsthand will neither want nor need to explore its greater context here— including a very particular friend. He and any others may, in all dignity and practicality, excuse themselves from the following.

Torture, it has often been said, is for the benefit of the practitioner. In pursuit of truth, it is worse than useless; frequently delivering only increasingly compelling falsehoods. If repentance is the goal, then the subject's insincerity is triply assured— nothing absolves the conscience of guilt quite like martyrdom. Why then, would any authority choose torture? Well, in the hypothetical case of a mad dictator holding control over a public that despises him, it serves primarily as a deterrent (and a potent one at that). Death is easily rationalized away by the truly committed, but a lifetime of agony for them and all their loved ones is… shall we say, "less pallettable," to any but a true zealot. The guilt or innocence of the victim no longer matters; their function is to be seen. The second reason is simply to feed their own bloodlust in a way their subjects cannot reject. (Whether this be through falsifying the subject's guilt or implying dissenters would take their place matters little.)

I will give a reader precisely one guess as to which of these motives best encapsulate Galbatorix. It's a mockery of the term "sadist" to apply it to that man. I would go so far as to say that "hurting" people holds no more enthrallment for him than slicing a roast would for anyone else. The satisfaction comes from the meal in its entirety— preparation, presentation, and consumption. Galbatorix's end goal is harm— potent, lasting, insufferable damage to the mind body, and soul. [The distinction is best described in terms of contrast. Some people don't mind being hurt (masochists, for example), but no one in a safe, stable state of mind wants to be harmed.}

Galbatorix's keenest joy and most frightening skill is breaking people apart in the way that will most damage them. Most of his victims last no more than a day or two. Once they are broken beyond repair, they're often put out of their misery. In some respects, these victims are lucky. Those to which he devotes time and energy are then pieced back together, slightly more cracked each time. He's like a ceramicist: never quite satisfied with the shape of his newest piece, crushing the clay so he may craft it anew. Nothing gives him pleasure quite like parading around his newest attempt at reconstructing a broken human; practically shouting to all the world, "Look what I did!"

All of that to say, I was a lifelong favorite for this process.

When I was still young enough to be truly malleable it was a matter of pragmatism. The older I got and the more we understood one another… the more personal the attacks became. By the time of this most recent betrayal, he understood so much of me that it was easy for him to find the cracks in my sanity, slide them open, and raise hell in my head. Unfortunately, nothing disappoints the man like a lack of challenge. It became an arms race of my fortitude and coping skills against his cruelty and imagination. Pain was easy— I dissociated from physical sensations faster than he could inflict them. But the mental… that battle in particular was hard fought. I regret to say that I made a poor showing this time around.

The final victory came when he uncovered a morsel I'd been concealing for decades— the residue left behind by my time in Tronjheim. I spent indeterminable time inside a stone tomb (eerily similar to the one Mahkek used to visit once per week; and likely now occupied as well).

This process broke me down so much that I had nowhere left to sink. And, quite unexpectedly, I hurtled back to something resembling sanity. Though, as my tor-mentor so insufficiently put it, "madness never truly leaves us."

In. Out.

Cold, damp air passed miserly through the latticed wood grate somewhere above and behind my head. A strip of black fabric further stifled the flow of breathable air and light. If I strained my neck back until my chin brushed the lid above I could just discern the dim, brown ghost of unwavering magical light through the cloth— four-thousand individual threads in a loose enough weave to not suffocate me. I'd long since abandoned the effort; the discomfort was hardly worth a fleeting fancy of false light.

Everything else was darkness.

My eyes, keener than most, could discern the sharp angle where my prison's walls met its roof. Days ago, I'd nearly broken my nose with an unexpected sneeze it was so close to my face.

Or has it been weeks? Time was most commonly defined by motion; as I was all but immobilized, the passage of time no longer mattered to me. At first, this had been maddening— the periods of blank panic interrupted by Ebrithil's faux kindness— but, the more of my senses I relinquished, the more I took the situation in a different light.

It was, in some strange way, similar to Katana's existence. Her mental landscape never showed her despair to me directly. Still, I felt her pain at losing her autonomy and freedom every time a cardinal called in a tree, every time the first tingle of spring entered a breeze, every time I complained of a body ache. She'd turned from a practically unfettered force of nature to being trapped in her own mind. These days she bore it with patient dignity… but that did not mean it came easily to her.

Or to me.

My bruised and sore limbs suddenly urged themselves to twitch into the walls. I'd taken to calling these sudden, self-inflicted attacks the "death throes" of my fear. My brain could only rationalize so much of my situation at one time; now and again, little dregs of it seeped through. My body, so long bereft of any impulse at all, drank these up greedily and expelled them in brief but frantic fits. Aggravating my old wounds hurt, but not nearly as much as receiving them. A spiral of tangential memories threatened to pull me into their depths—

Blankness. Darkness. Quiet.

In. Out.

Despite these occasional spasms, I was cognizant— proud, even— of my progress. In the early iterations of this process, I'd mostly languished in old nightmares. Now I was, with great effort, able to retain awareness. At least I was spared the horror of not knowing which kind of blackness would greet me when I next opened my eyes: coffin lid or that scum-sucker's disgusting eyes.

Our eyes.

Every so often I'd reawaken from total mental collapse and find myself coiled like a frightened child in the arms of the one person I least wanted to hold me. On and on and on it went like this— nightmare, relief, disgust, renewal. One of my lowest moments was surely clinging to his shoulders so hard that my fingernails splintered against his wards. That was the ultimate cruelty; my only respite from my prison was his presence. I would never willingly choose the latter, but panic is an irrational emotion. Every rabbit would willingly evade a fox in a butcher's arms; that didn't speak to the butcher's kindness or mercy.

As if in response to my musings, I heard the king's approaching footfalls. [I know his step from any other, even in a crowd: the length of the stride, style of sole on his favorite boots, weight, pressure, and tempo— like a dancer marching to war.] No amount of forced calm could ease the adrenaline that surged in response to his approach; I swore I could taste blood sheerly from the pressure of my heart beating its way through my ribs and my lungs straining to contain it.

The lid ground against the tomb as he pushed it aside.

I sat up before he could reach for me. That glimpse of autonomy was sweeter than any drug. My back muscles spasmed from the unaccustomed movement, but I held in a cry and turned a wary stare on my captor. He locked eyes with me, his face a grim, unreadable mask. More punishment, or further imprisonment? Judging by his mood, it could hardly be anything else.

I really should have known better than to try and predict this man. He'd made it his mission in life to surprise me; always and in every way. He dropped to one knee and placed a battle-roughened hand on my cheek. I didn't have the strength or speed to flinch. He'd neglected the maintenance of his beard since he'd locked me up, and yet the overgrowth was not as significant as it should have been by my measure. The bastard must have altered my perception of time. That or my brain did it all on its own. His eyes projected an image of perfect contrition, but the delicate smile spoke to his satisfaction more than his regrets. "You see me, finiaril?"

I swallowed hard, shutting my eyes and nodding. If I'd been any more hydrated I might have cried— an action sure to warrant even more punishment. Through the paralyzing shame and pain I managed the reply I knew would be expected of me. "Yes, ebrithil."

In the pseudo-protection behind my lids, I didn't realize his intentions until I felt his arms curl beneath my knees and back. He lifted me, gently as a midwife lifts a newborn, and cradled me against his chest. I relinquished any interest in where he might be bringing me for most of the journey, but I couldn't help recognizing the path to my quarters— a lengthy walk I'd made alone hundreds of times. For half a moment, everything about the position was so familiar that it gave me chills. I neither knew nor cared who saw; my humiliation was already total.

I didn't open my eyes again until he set me on my bed. The light pouring through my balcony windows was agonizing after the blackness of my tomb, but I endured it gratefully. Torix took a step back, crossed his arms, and examined me more closely. "It seems the damage old Hrothgar caused was temporary."

My teeth clenched until my jaw groaned from the strain. "I am not so easily broken."

He chuckled to himself, obviously catching the double-boast of the statement: neither the dwarven king nor the human one had managed the feat. "I'd expect nothing less of my prized possession."

I spat on the floor and smirked at his curled lip. "I take it you're finished with your tantrum?" It was the falsest confidence I'd ever shown him, but the uncertainty of this interaction was worse than torture. If angering him returned us to a predictable exchange, then it would be worth the pain.

He smiled— the visage of an imp encountering a rogue soul. In a heartbeat, my chin was in his hand. The bruising grip lifted me to my straightest posture, his hooked nose alongside mine. His breath was hot and bore the distinct trace of wine. "As charming as I find your antics, I am in no mood to entertain them."

"Sir." It was an apology and promise in one.

He released me and straightened, glowering. "After your treasonous little escapade, I should let you rot in that dungeon another decade." He sighed, broad shoulders easing to a borderline-defeated posture. "But, much as it pains me to admit it, I need you."

That alone was an unsettling thought. He had dozens of capable agents; few things required my level of training and experience. And, even then, he could easily send Durza or the Ra'zac to tend those things as he had every other time he'd put me out of commission.

"Durza is dead." The words seemed to taste foul as he ground them out. "Killed by the same yuppy pup you were aiding."

I blinked. "He escaped then?" Torix lifted a hand to strike me but paused when I rested my fingers on his wrist. "Forgive me, sir, but I'm behind on the latest gossip. Last I heard, he'd been captured in Gil'ead." That news reached Uru'baen before I did, proud as Durza was.

In a surprising show of restraint and patience, Galbatorix recounted the abridged version of the events I'd missed. I'd been imprisoned a total of fifteen days— only a third of the quantity I'd estimated. In that time Eragon had escaped with the aid of Murtagh and Saphira, crossed the Hadarac, and joined with the Varden. Galbatorix had decided to throw the enslaved Urgals (led by Durza, as I'd suspected) at Farthen Dur in a last-ditch effort to obtain the rider before he could be trained any further. Somehow— the stories still varied wildly in the particulars— the sixteen-year-old farm boy had managed to not only evade but slay one of the deadliest creatures in Alagaesian history. I whistled on my exhale. "I can't say I'm grieved by the news, but it certainly causes problems for," I almost said 'you' but quickly corrected it to, "us."

"The understatement of the century." He took the chair from my dressing table and dragged it to my bedside. "The Urgals have broken rank entirely and are fleeing back to their nests. They've left chaos in their wake."

Probably nothing next to what Durza left in Yazuac. The hypocrisy was staggering, even for him. Still, I held my tongue. "Are you sending men to deal with them?"

"With any luck, they will mostly deal with themselves." He reached down and lifted my ankle until it rested on his chair. The euphoric blossom of a healing spell shot up the limb to my hip. "The Varden were bolstered too much by their petty victory." A wicked grin replaced his brooding expression. "So we've taken it upon ourselves to correct their arrogance."

It didn't take a psychic to understand how dangerous those words really were. "We still need the rider alive, yes?"

He pushed the first leg aside to begin on the second. "Obviously."

I released a pensive breath. Moments of tense silence slipped by uninterrupted— me fearing and him triumphing over that fear. I shelved the anticipation long enough to ask, "What are my orders?"

He seemed pleased by my directness. "You are to meet with these agents and ensure their package reaches Uru'baen in one piece. Consider this a redemption of sorts; proof that you're still worth your keep."

I couldn't stop a grim chuckle. "How long are you going to sing that same tune?"

His expression melted into a glower potent enough to curdle a shade's blood.

Exasperated, I put my freshly healed foot on his knee. "You don't want to kill me. I've given you ample excuses to do so over the years." He lifted a brow, not in surprise at the words themselves but at my openness of observation.

He reclined in his seat, pushing my leg aside and taking an arm instead. The tug was rougher than a healer would normally deem prudent, but then he was never much of a medic. "Fine. I won't deny that you have made yourself, for lack of a better word, irreplaceable."

"You made me that way— Agh!" I shouted as an improperly healed fracture separated and righted itself. Panting I grumbled, "with some help from Katana."

He smirked, as much at my yell at the words. "True enough." Torix's neck cricked to the side— I knew exactly which muscle he'd just strained by the face of dissatisfaction he made. Even so, he purred, "You of all people must know there are worse things than death." The velvety tone in no way distracted me from just how earnestly he meant the sentiment. He took my left hand, the one bearing my gedwey ignasia, and rubbed his thumb over the mark. "If you persist in bucking your restraints, I'll be forced to declaw you permanently." He kissed the back of my hand, his own palm glowing against mine. "And what a waste it would be to turn my little shadow into a chachki." The warm rush of healing energy did not remotely ease the underlying chill this time.

I tried to communicate all of my outrage into a glare (since I could not hurl a few choice curses and fists into his smug face). "When do I leave?"

Galbatorix rose to his feet, brushing a stray lock of hair from my face. "Eat, dress, and then be on your way. You may direct any other questions to your attendant." He gestured with his free hand and a familiar face came into view: Harold.

Guilt sucked the rage right out of me at the sight of him.

He was truly an old man now, even as I was myself a crone by human standards. But where I'd been spared much of the hardships associated with aging, Harold had entered the final stages of it. His skin was wrinkled and spotted, even his eyebrows had turned snowy white, and his right eye did not stay open properly. The lattermost was exacerbated by a purple-yellow bruise swelling around it. Also new to his appearance was a makeshift cane wrapped at the top in old rags, that seemed to support a wounded leg. Even in such a state, he shifted his weight to his better side and gave a stately bow. "Will the usual fare suffice, Highness?" In private he might refer to me in more familiar terms, but he dare not take such liberties in front of the king.

It took me a few floundering attempts before words emerged. "What happened to you?"

"I took it upon myself to question your servants, of which Harold is the best informed." Torix adjusted a ring as if the subject bored him. "Of course, he knew even less than I did in the end, but I would be a poor monarch if I didn't bother to check."

New, more potent malice surged within me. "I could have saved you the effort. You trained me not to confide in anyone!"

"I also trained you to be obedient— how was I to know which lessons you took to heart and which you flouted?" His obvious mirth at the whole situation was more than cruel; it was evil to the point of pettiness. "In any case, I return him to you in a more-or-less usable state. Be grateful; some of his underlings did not fare so well."

Agony crossed Harold's face, but he wisely bowed his head to conceal it. "I am happy to still be of service."

Torix clapped his hands together— Harold and I both jolted at the sound. "Damnation, I almost forgot. I have two more things to return to you." A seam opened in the air beside him. From it, he drew a glimmering blue-black eldunari. Katana's core of purplish light was dimmer than it had been, but her mind seemed to be resting rather than injured. Even as the rift sealed again— dozens upon dozens of her kin still trapped within— he reached a hand into a vest pocket. He then uncurled a heart-shaped pendant on a silver chain with all the deftness of a street performer. He gave me no opportunity to refuse the adornment, fastening it around my throat like a hunter collaring his favorite hound. "Better," he whispered, humming his satisfaction.

I swallowed, already hating the familiar weight. "I assume that the previous resident has been evicted?" It would not do to discuss sorcery directly in front of anyone— not even dear Harold. Even so, I preferred to be informed if he'd just leashed a time bomb around my neck.

"Re-homed rather, but yes. That matter has been handled for the moment."

I released another sigh. As much as I wanted to pick apart every single interaction of the past hour, I was still too exhausted to process it all. Also, I was far too aware of how dangerous it would be to stall any further. "If that is all, I will dress and be on my way."

Torix nodded, satisfied for the moment. "Report to my office one more time before you depart; I have a few more specific orders to administer." He then departed my rooms with nary a farewell.

Harold took the empty chair as soon as the door closed behind its previous occupant. "Please don't think of going until you've eaten something, Ms. Lilly."

It was heartbreaking to hear him still worried about me in his current state. "I fear that I won't be able to keep anything down. However, if it will soothe you, I will try." I held up a finger, "if you let me see to your injuries."

"Ma'am—"

"No arguing; it's my fault that you're hurt." My palm was aglow before he could raise another objection. "Besides, I owe you more apology than this for breaking my promise to you." It may have been decades since I last disappeared, upending Harold's life in the process, but his steadfast support upon my return was still firmly in my mind. Almost as firmly as my oath to not disappear on him again. "I didn't even have the decency to warn you—"

He accepted the healing; he knew how much I loathed wasting time once my mind was made up. "If you're in a mood to make amends, there is a favor I would ask of you."

"Speak. If I'm able, it shall be yours." I wouldn't agree blindly to almost anyone else in the world, aside from Murtagh, but Harold had more than earned at least that much.

"My family," he licked his lips, "they weren't swept into the machinations this time, but we may not be so lucky if it happens again." He chewed his cheek, his left eye darting around my face. "I apologize for asking—"

"Don't you dare." I rested a hand over his bruised eye. Healing spells for this part of the face were extremely specialized and took a great deal of concentration. We sat quietly as the bruise pulled back and faded into his normal, splotchy complexion. "Perish the thought; me resenting you for protecting your family from mine!"

"Neither of us consider that bastard your family."

The blunt statement had me blinking at the younger man. "Hate him or not, we share blood."

"You're not anything like him; no matter what he says." Tender warmth for this man— for everything he represented in my life— nearly squeezed out the tears I was still too spent to shed. He continued, "Someday, I'm sure you'll find a way to separate your history from his."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and kissed the man's brow in blessing. "Your kindness has meant more to me than almost any other's. For one thing, it is uniquely unmotivated. It pains me to agree with your concern; Uru'baen is no longer safe for you or yours."

He bowed his head, concealing a mist of tears. "I can't just forsake my duties, ma'am. It would betray the very honor of my station."

I couldn't resist an ironic smile, "Honor?"

He sat up straight and looked into my eyes. "Personal servants take on the well-being of their masters— we are bound to protect their interests and comforts, as well as safeguard their very lives. I could never just abandon you!"

It had never occurred to me that Harold held to such lofty ideals. By this little speech alone, he considered his office just as dignified— perhaps more so— than any knighthood. "Of course, I should have suspected you'd be stubborn about things like that." I continued with a grin, "I ask only that you help locate and train a suitable replacement before you leave me. None will ever be able to fill your shoes completely, but someone with enough potential and gumption will suffice."

His shoulders eased and he stood, reaching for a bell-pull to summon me some sustenance. "I have someone in mind; one of the maids I helped train was just transferred to the royal wing."

I shivered; gaining that kind of access to the king took considerable screening. Not only that, but the fatality rate for those inflicted with such closeness was… above average. "I'd love to meet her when I return."

Harold bowed, "I will arrange everything."

I stood, resting my full weight on my legs for the first time in two weeks. "I know you will, old friend."

Eighty-odd years of Galbatorix's tutelage has not gifted me his ability to invoke every emotion at once. I was glad to be liberated— who wouldn't be?— but I dreaded what his next set of orders could entail even more. Then he healed the wounds he gave me with a few whispered threats and revealed his treatment of Harold (only possible because of my negligence). Joy, dread, relief, disgust, rebellion, anger, guilt. I stomached the few bites of food I swallowed through sheer willpower; my whole body was boiling with conflicting urges.

Regardless, I had orders to fulfill. I soaked some of the energy out of my precious pendant— much depleted after the spirit's temporary residence— and reported as asked. He layered new oaths on top of the first; contingencies to prevent another show of defiance. If, for any reason, my orders became untenable, I would report to him immediately. He also laid out a flat ban on communicating with his enemies without his express permission— clarified to mean the Varden, Surdans, Elves, Dwarves, or any of their supporters. The only exception was to enable the capture and delivery of any wanted fugitives: particularly Eragon, Saphira, and Murtagh. Finally, to solidify my assignment, he ordered me to ensure that the "package" reached Uru'baen whole, expediently, and by any means necessary.

I eased myself from my pony's saddle gingerly. The animal was unbothered by my antics; he was a sturdy and mild-mannered beast even by the standards of his kind. Normally such steeds were used for little more than teaching youths saddlecraft and the joyrides of timid ladies. In a "surplus of concern for my frailty," Galbatorix had told the stablemasters to allow me no other option. Technically the poor creature belonged to a nephew of Lady Antebellum, but I knew she'd forgive the imposition. My transportation sorely limited the ground I could cover— twice I'd been forced to plod through the night to stay on schedule.

Despite my best efforts, I was still hours late to the pre-designated meeting place. The sparse outer forest east of Petrovya was sub-optimal for hunting or hiding, but there was hardly a fairer place in the Empire for late afternoon strolls. I took advantage of the pleasantly warm evening to stretch my legs in the last quarter mile— a balm to ease the ragged edges of my nerves. Besides, my walking pace was hardly slower than the pony's. Golden light kissed the leaves of the under-canopy as it filtered between thin trunks. Here the trees grew many paces apart; the underbrush its own tangled topography between each of them. I picked my path carefully, though I still almost put my foot directly into a burrow. A loud chittering warned me of the hazard; I froze just in time to spare a family of flustered chipmunks the inconvenience of my bootprint.

Katana, thoughts intertwined with mine until we were almost indistinguishable, broke her meditation to comment on my pause. You aren't watching your surroundings.

I could tell she was more concerned with my mental state than my physical safety. I purposefully addressed the latter. Brom and Durza are dead, the Ra'zac are licking their wounds in Helgrind, and Torix is still in Uru'baen. Nothing else poses enough of a threat to warrant the effort.

A flicker of contradictory examples sprinkled the back of Katana's mind, but she didn't bother manifesting them into words. As had become her habit in recent days, she sank once more into a soothing presence; weaving our thoughts until they were no longer disparate. Her presence banished the shadows of what had been and might yet be; an act for which I could never be grateful enough. For the rest of my walk, I shared my observations more fluidly with her: the warmth on my skin, the bitter-sap bite in the air, and the calls of frolicking birds. I couldn't give her a body of her own, but I needn't be miserly with my own experiences.

Our collective quiet shattered with a chorus of cackling laughter. My skin prickled— a near-century of dealing with maniacs left me no doubt about the demeanor of the source. I sank into the silence of creeping death (the movements of a masterful assassin) without conscious effort. A few more steps brought me close enough to a dense thicket to discern hissed whispers between chuckles. The dialogue implied two speakers, though the voices were so indistinguishable that they blended at the seams.

"... half as humiliated as we were after your antics."

"Ajihad paid in full for his disrespect, but you…"

"You, we can play with."

Those words were more than sufficient to confirm their affiliation with the Empire. My contacts must have decided to use my lateness as an excuse to torment whomever they were here to deliver. I expected such foulness from Torix's pets, but it never made for a pleasant interaction. Already eager to have the matter done, I took the last yards between myself and their hiding place at a brisk stride.

A pair of bald men—one in a dingy purple overrobe and dark trousers, the other in a mismatched but otherwise identical ensemble— were bent over a fallen log. Two bare feet, bruised and sore from the road, connected to dark grey breeches. The rest of the person was concealed behind the curtain of their captors. The dark-robed one held a bloodied cheese knife in his left hand.

"Am I interrupting something?" My clipped and imperious tone made both of them jolt upright and twist to face me. Neither reached for a weapon, and even the drawn knife remained stiffly at its wielder's side. Two impressively uninteresting faces squinted at me in suspicion— round jaws, collapsed brows, widow's lips, and beady beetle eyes. I took a few extra steps toward them just to test their knowledge and their nerve; neither so much as blinked. "You are expecting me." It was not a question.

"Yes, Princess." The purple-robed one offered a smooth and insolent bow.

His mirror image mimicked him in synchronicity too perfect to be coincidence. "Your father—"

"His Majesty to you." As much as I enjoyed disrespecting the king, hearing one of his expendable maggots refer to him as anything less— to my face!— was a step too far. Any title would be better than referring to him by his relation to me.

"Of course."

"Our apologies." Their way of alternating phrases was less the harmony of a dragon and rider; and more the mockery of unruly children. "His Majesty told us to wait here for your arrival."

The obvious contradiction of this being a half-hour's walk from the original meeting place seemed a pointless objection to raise. I was already more than sick of this duo. "What is all this noise about anyway?" I gestured for them to make way. Saccharine grins spread over their too-flat faces as they complied, sweeping aside to reveal— "Murtagh!" The undignified shout escaped me before I could think better of it.

He'd never looked worse. A tattered sack shirt was torn and stained with blood from the wounds it barely covered. Ropes circled his ribs and, judging by the angle of his bend, bound his wrists to the stump beneath him. He was writhing against the bindings like a dying animal, teeth working against a rag and rope gag.

He stopped dead at the sound of my voice. Silver eyes— wide with confusion, shock, and shame— met mine. The rest of the world fell away. Nothing else mattered. Reality honed to just those eyes; just this man.

Somewhere, beyond the haze of my muddy thoughts, I heard the voice of the vermin who'd put him in this condition. "...invite you to join our traveling party."

Hate flooded me in a white-hot rush; hate for these two, for this situation, for the man truly responsible, and most of all for myself. "Join you? You should be begging on your knees for me to spare your worthless lives." Not that I would if the choice were entirely my own. I've killed for less.

Death would be too easy. Katana was equally enraged, though her anger ran frigid instead of molten. If I still had my flesh, I would swallow them whole.

Perhaps Shruikan will be amenable. I

The pleasant thought couldn't withstand the reemergence of their whining voices. "Spare us?" They said in unison. One carried on, "We have followed our orders to the letter!"

"You were ordered to torture him?" I forced a calming breath before I snapped completely and tested just how much my oaths would let me hurt these two weasels.

The black-robed one twirled his knife, back arrogantly straight as he declared, "There were no orders to leave him unharmed."

The second added helpfully, "Capturing him without injuring him or allowing ourselves to be detected would have been complicated."

"Then your brutality is perfectly aligned with your incompetence."

"We must bow to your infinitely superior experience, Princess."

The other took up the first's thread devilishly. "Perhaps in many," He slowed his words to a condescending crawl, " many, many decades, we will come to a better understanding."

It was beneath me to acknowledge the toothless, petty insult, but neither could I leave it unanswered. We could sit here exchanging ill-mannered barbs until winter froze us all in place, but every wasted moment drained more of Murtagh's strength and dignity. I decided it was prudent to invoke the only threat that was worth a damn in their eyes. "I wonder how pleased Galbatorix will be after he learns what you felt entitled to do to his godson."

The shift from eager malice to defensiveness was marked and swift. The purple-cloaked one hastily tried to defend them. "Punishments are standard practice—"

"Punishments administered by his ebrithilar, not his underlings." The words cut to the core of their— obviously quite considerable— egos. "You took liberties with a Lord— a member of the royal family!" This was technically an exaggeration, but that was none of their business. "As soon as he has been restored to Uru'baen, his authority would be third only to Galbatorix," I let a purr of satisfaction (that I had not truly felt in many years but could easily imitate) enter my voice, "and myself."

Finally, the pair had no reply to offer.

I dusted my palms with two quick claps. "Worry not~- I'm sure we can all move past this unpleasantness." To Katana, I added, Until I have the time and privacy to slow roast you over Shruikan's jaws.

They bowed in unison again, one of them grinding between tightened teeth, "We thank you for your mercy."

I replaced any feigned mirth with a more authentic snap. "Don't waste your breath." The pair straightened again, suitably more subdued. "He will be handed into my full custody immediately. Your incompetence has already put him in enough danger."

"Yes, Princess."

I marched to Murtagh robotically, prying at the knots specifically keeping him in place and lifting him over one shoulder. I knew he'd never forgive the dehumanizing treatment, but I wanted distance between us and them before I tended to him.

-:- -:- -:-

The ropes proved a bitch-and-a-half all on their own; the damn things must have some magic woven into them to make them more resilient than they appeared. I was forced to pick at the knots instead of severing the fibers. It was night in all but name when I finally finished the fiddly work. My "prisoner" sat on his own power with his back to a tree, sore limbs stretched out in front of him. My cloak was draped over both of our laps, his right arm resting in my lap while I worked on him. Most of his wounds were superficial, but almost all had been placed in particular to maximize his discomfort and slow his healing— creases of elbows and knees, corners of lips, anywhere that would rub and chafe as they forced him to walk.

The only notable exception was a jarringly deep and jagged wound on the inside of his left wrist. Aware of the delicacy the subject must entail, I had no choice but to address my patient. "It would take a dimmer medic than me to misinterpret this cut." I resolved that, if he played dumb to my inquiry, I would let the matter rest for the moment.

He grunted and shrugged. After a moment of the night woods serenading our awkwardness, he relented. "Not my proudest moment."

"It's not a matter for shame." Unfortunately, I had to re-open the injury to properly knit the flesh within and cleanse it of infection. As carefully as I worked, he still flinched and twitched in my hold. "I understand why it might occur to you— plenty of men have chosen similar paths in your position. Even so, I never want to hear of you attempting it again."

He seemed appropriately meditative for the subject, if unconvinced. He fixed his eyes on his opposite hand and whispered, "I'm sorry."

I rubbed the repaired skin with my thumb, feeling only the vaguest trace of a crooked line. "I accept your apology this time, but only because you're alive to give it."

"No," He flicked his gaze up to my face but flinched from my stare. "I mean, I'm sorry for that too, but that isn't what I meant." He coughed, trying to clear his throat. "I'm sorry I didn't listen to you." His hands flipped up to the clearing at large. "I'm sorry we're in this mess again."

I knew of what he spoke: his assistance to the newly-dubbed Shadeslayer. I floundered for a light-hearted reply. "You shouldn't listen to me too closely! I'm just a jaded, antisocial, old woman." I gripped his hand. "You tried. It may not have lasted but dammit at least you tried!" I forced a smile. It was easy; I had to.

His mouth twitched.

"At least you made a friend?" I wasn't sure if bringing up the new rider would make him feel better or worse.

Apparently, the answer was worse. The twitch dropped and he looked away, mumbling. "He knows who I am now— and he was just as suspicious as everyone else." He fell into a choppy summary of their entrance and admittance to Farthen Dur.

I was equally grateful for the youngling's defense of my dear friend and Ajihad's discretion in keeping him safe from Hrothgar. "It seems like he overcame his knee-jerk reaction. That at least gives us something to hope for."

"Hope makes you weak—"

"Don't." My tone was sharper than I meant it to be. He flinched like a scolded child. I did not apologize. "You are too young to start talking like me. Hope is not something you should give away; it should be pried away from you only on death's grim door. Do you hear me?" Seeing that my speech had not fully reached my audience, I poked him in the ribs and turned to face him straight-on. "Galbatorix can do anything— everything— to you, but only you can choose to give up. Your hope, no matter how insignificant and small, might be all you have someday. It's more precious than you know." I settled the matter with a nod, rose to my feet, and walked toward the idly grazing pony.

An excellent performance. Did you mean a word of it?

I tugged my fingers through my hair. Of course not; hope is the gateway to disappointment. Still, I need him to hang onto something other than suicide fantasies or he won't survive this.

Is it that serious?

More so. Even I've never seen Galbatorix as murderous as he was when Murtagh left... except maybe when I returned from Tronjheim. Her hum of acknowledgment even felt melancholy. The bizarre parallel of the two events struck me with a bout of dark humor. Two servants, one sent to Tronjheim on a secret mission and the other driven there fleeing for his life. One returned of their own volition and then punished for treason anyway, the other guilty of said treason.

Fate's jests grow crueler with every iteration.

The mention of the subject reminded me of some newly returned information— Eragon's other tie to the man behind me. If I tell him now, it will be all the easier for Galbatorix to discover it.

Would that be so terrible?

I struggled to explain my misgivings. Honestly? I don't know. I do know that Brom took his relationship with Eragon to his grave, and Selena gave her life to distance him from her mistakes. Besides, Murtagh's burdens in the coming weeks will be hard enough to carry without an added layer of distraction.

Katana's reply was direct and all the more brutal for it. He deserves to know.

I let the matter lie; my feelings on the subject were irrelevant to her point. I mechanically fetched my pack from the careful pile on the pony's rump and returned to Murtagh's brooding position. My hand frisked through the sloppily assembled contents, only half aware of what I sought. My fingers brushed something smooth and cool— a tiny bottle by the shape and weight. I pulled it free and checked my scrawled label; a tiny portion of snake venom. It was best applied in combat to keep wounds from closing or in medicine to bleed out infection and prevent clotting. My exhausted brain had likely just grabbed a handful of miscellaneous vials from my collection.

Inspiration bloomed in the shadowed memory of my packing. One vial in particular could prove useful in our current situation: the drug used to pollute a mage's mind.

Katana caught my intention faster than I did. Why?

I am not permitted to release Galbatorix's prisoners. If they escape on their own, I will be compelled to hunt them. If I am for some reasonable unable to do so. I must report to him immediately. But what if I cannot do any of those things?

You would still follow him, magic or no magic.

Unless I couldn't. My free hand snuck toward the coil of magically enhanced ropes.

I could tell that Katana did not wholly agree with my interpretation of my orders, but she very kindly kept her arguments to herself. Loopholes, however disingenuous, only worked so long as one could convince oneself of their authenticity. A pity Murtagh won't open his mind to hear all of this; he's going to get one hell of a shock.

He'll be fine, as long as he keeps his wits about him. I cut contact with Katana's thoughts— as much for her safety as for the integrity of my calm. The ropes would be easy— Galbatorix had never expressly ordered me not to tie myself up— but once I took the potion I would lose any chance of executing the flexibility of thought required for my plan. Nothing for it then. "Murtagh, turn around."

He obeyed without comment. I wanted to think that spoke to his trust in me and not just timidness in the face of my previous admonishments.

"In a moment, I am going to ask you for a favor that you cannot refuse; both of our lives might depend on it." My request earned a concerned cock of his head. I stared at the tree trunk we'd both been sitting against, counting individual bumps in the bark. I knew that, for this bout of madness to succeed, I needed to avoid thinking about my actions beyond the subconscious mechanical movements. My fingers fumbled clumsily with the process but, eventually, I was satisfied with the integrity of my work. A deft tug of my wrists shifted the knots to a point where I could no longer reach them. "You may turn back now."

He obeyed at once. Whatever he had been expecting to see, it wasn't his 'captor' bound to a tree.

I began my next order before his expression distracted me further. "I need you to go into my pack an—"

"What the hell are you doing?" He had an overwhelmed, frantic cadence to his tone.

I sighed. "Sitting, for the moment. As I was saying, in my pack there is a light tan colored clay bottle, about the size of two fingers. I need you to find it, put it to my lips, and pour. Make sure I get the full dose—"

"What will it do?"

"So many questions!" I wouldn't normally conceal something this important from him, but if I ruminated too much on the particulars I'd trip over my conclusions. "It's a potion that I need for this to work." His mouth opened again but I cut him off, "You must not refuse." He hesitated, but, in the end, rose to his knee and dug through the same pocket I'd just been examining.

I opened my mouth. The whole thing felt so bizarre, like a baby bird begging its mother for regurgitated worms. In any other situation, I would have found the worms a more appealing option than this particular brew.

The awkward feeding went without a hitch. When the last swallow was free and clear I smiled. "Thank you. Now, I have a hypothetical situation for you to ponder. Say that someone— very like you, in fact— were to suddenly find the person holding them prisoner incapacitated. What might they do?"

His expression darkened. "I don't like this game."

"Oh, I promise that it's no game. In a few moments, the drug you just administered will take effect. I'll lose access to magic and much of my strength with it." An unpleasant numbness coiled up from my gut. The all-too-familiar wool-batting-suffocation feeling rolled into the edges of my mind like a storm front. I quirked an ironic smile, "Races have certainly been won with less promising headstarts."

The whole situation had quite undermined any calm Murtagh might have donned. "You want me to escape?"

No amount of rationalization could avoid the treason present in that sentiment. Torix may not have explicitly forbidden tying myself to a tree or imbibing a power-suppressant drug, but releasing a prisoner I'd been ordered to escort was another thing entirely. Every piece of my body independently jumped, twitched, and burned. My soul and flesh bickered viciously about how to best put their existence back in balance. I relished the pain; it was a small price indeed from my perspective. He will not have Murtagh.

Except Murtagh himself was standing perfectly still, like even a stray breath would careen him into oblivion. "I...I can't—"

"Can't? You have to!" I had to force the words through my choked throat. Ideally, he ran before the real battle started. I didn't want that to be his last image of me. "You have to do it now."

His hands fidgeted and he glanced back into the darkness. Still, he stayed. "But what about you—"

"I am telling you to g— Ah!" The first jabs of real pain had begun. Every muscle tried to twist and tug in opposing directions, my nerves fighting frantically against their host.

"Lil!" The beautiful fool knelt beside me, trying to see the source of my distress. "I'm not going to leave you while you're like this—"
Every breath was a struggle. "It's… for… you!" I couldn't process the surrounding woods anymore. Everything was a haze of a voice I could not possibly be hearing, repeating the words beating at every bone in my body until I could swear I felt them breaking apart.

I immediately regretted opening my big dumb mouth. His gaze had been unfocused all evening, adrift on his own dread. In a moment it hardened to the resilient stubbornness I'd loved so much in Selena. "I won't let you do this for me."

"I wasn't ...fucking …..asking…" I ground out every word, though I was in no state to argue. The drug had finally hit in full and was starting to make the process more complicated. It did nothing to dull the pain, but it blurred and swirled my thoughts into an all-too-familiar pattern of disconnection and vulnerability. By the time my self-control slipped, I felt more like a half-made shade than a whole person. My limbs began behaving of their own accord, fighting against the restraints like a trapped rabbit. Ligaments and bones twisted and shifted; a line of blood jumped to the surface where the rope abraided my skin. [I kept talking, though I'm sure it was even less coherent then than it is in my memory] "This is your only chance." I felt something hot and wet running down my face. Wildly, thought it was rain. As soon as I saw the red stain spilling down my tunic, I knew it wouldn't be long before I lost consciousness entirely.

Good.

Murtagh stepped back, and I could just make out through the dimness the look of wild confusion and horror. I couldn't hold back the pathetic note in my voice any longer, so I exposed even that weakness in an attempt to sway him. "Murtagh…. Please…" I had never truly begged this boy for anything. "Please, if you've ever cared for me at all…. Ganga…. Wiol edtha…. Please, fricai…please." Darkness pressed in like a comforting quilt. The last thing I saw was the glint of light in his eyes as the world faded to nothing.

-:- -:- -:-
I awoke with my face pressed into something warm, feeling like I'd recently come back from a partial cremation.

Everything hurt.

But not as much as it should. For one thing, I was no longer sitting!
I tried to sit upright and immediately regretted the impulse. Everything set to spinning so violently that I thought my head would explode with the centripetal force. Ok. No more up. Down is good. And down I stayed, eyes pressed tight to the mystery warmth. It smelled nice… but not good nice; comfortable nice. I tried to place the comfortable-ness but couldn't grasp it. Damn, that drug works.

I slowly tried to make my mind walk in familiar patterns: morning exercises, simple poetry, basic motor function in my fingers and toes, that sort of thing. After a time I felt the bleary exhaustion wearing off to its regular, run-of-the-mill, tired-to-bones variety. Where am I and why am I here again? Ah yes, a clearing east of Lake Tudosten, meeting with— Reawareness violently smacked into my sluggish thoughts. This time I forced myself to sit up, dropping the sleep-heavy arm that had been curled around me back to the bedroll beneath us.

There, right next to me and sleeping like a rock, was Murtagh.

"Damn, damn, damn…" I was beyond tempted to shake him— or choke him— the damn fool. "Murtagh, wake up." He barely stirred. I jabbed him in the ribs and shouted, "Murtagh!"

That got his attention. "Hmnh? Whu's going on?" He shot upright, hand groping around for a sword that was on its back to Uru'baen ahead of us.
I pushed myself to my feet despite the shrieking protests of my body. "I was hoping you could tell me! What happened?"

He took a second to inhale properly and look around. Finally, he looked up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "You passed out."

"I figured out that much. Then what?" He flinched but I stuck a hand on my hip before he could plead temporary amnesia. "Well?"

"I untied you and laid you out on the blankets—"

"Why?"

Murtagh was utterly bewildered by my apparent frustration. "You were shaking and bleeding." He shook his head to escape the unpleasant image. "You looked like you were dying."
I sighed. "I wasn't. It was just—"

"It wasn't 'just' anything; it was horrifying. You didn't see it—"

"Hard to while I was feeling it." He looked away, flushed red to the nape of his neck and fidgeting. I exhaled again. "Why did you stay?"

"What else would I have done?"

I froze, mouth agape like a suffocating fish. "Gone away? Gone anywhere! Taken all my supplies and fled to the end of the world! Literally anything other than staying right here—"

"With you."

Very rarely am I stunned into silence. But, try as I might, I couldn't find a single reply to his show of devotion.

"You were in rough shape all night. It was almost daybreak when your fever finally broke and you stopped twitching. If I had left, you might not have made it."

I answered in a meek murmur."I-I would've been fine." In plain fact, that wasn't necessarily true. Defenseless, injured, and bound I would have been easy prey for just about anything. I'd taken that into account in my calculations— my life seemed a fair price for his.

"I didn't know that! And I certainly wasn't leaving it to chance." It was his turn to stand now. For perhaps the first time in his life, he seemed truly angry with me. "You're the last friend I have left! Do you think I'd leave you to die just to save my own hide? Do you really think I could ever live with myself if I did?" It was my turn to endure a hot rush of shame. I hadn't really been thinking about his feelings; just his safety. He wasn't quite done with me yet. "And, even if I could, where would I go that Galbatorix couldn't find me? He tracked me to Dras Leona, then to Gil'ead, then across all of Alagaesia to a foreign stronghold! Do you really think I could make it far enough to settle out of his reach? And, even if I did, I would have to live the rest of my life alone. I'd never see you or anyone else ever again. And," he finally had to pause his admonishment for a deep breath, "I know exactly what you'd have been facing when you returned to Uru'baen."

"I can handle the king—"

"It isn't about being tough enough. He'd beat you half to death then send you back after me. It would only delay it. I won't risk losing you for a few extra days of freedom." His eyes weren't just shining now; they were burning! The same eyes that had been searching for comfort mere hours before had metamorphosized into molten metal forcing me to see things his way; to respect his choice.

He has completely lost control of his life. This is his last chance to make a decision for himself; for his pride. He's choosing to meet it head-on. Not even I could resent him for that. I bowed my head, trying to prevent a rush of tears. When did he get so grown up? A familiar warmth grounded me out of my drifting thoughts in a firm embrace. I didn't have the heart to scold him for the liberty taken. "Wait," I sniffed back emotions I didn't have the energy to feel, "you're not supposed to be comforting me!"

"I'm not." He leaned away enough to look me squarely in the face. " I'm thanking you. I didn't think I could endure this until I saw what you were willing to do to prevent it. If I can hold on to just a fraction of that strength, then we can pull each other through." He tried to smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but neither did it succumb to the darkness.
I pulled him back into the hug and hid my face in his shoulder, not wanting to relinquish this last moment of peace or let him see my tear-up on his account. My crimson shadow, becomes our light in the abyss. He'd endured so much without ever losing himself, but the coming ordeal would push anyone to their limit and well beyond. I didn't dare give voice to my lingering fears. I lifted my head and flicked stray dirt from his cheek. " If anyone is stubborn enough to weather Galbatorix, it is you. And, whatever awaits us, you will never have to endure it alone."

Oh how dangerously prophetic those words turned out to be.

Murtagh's strength and dignity in the wake of disaster and the face of destruction is unlike anything I've encountered before or since. Even I, for all my pride, might not have shown such bravery in his exact position. I know too that his confused feelings for me— such as they were— had little to do with his choice. I am convinced that anyone he esteemed would have received the same show of loyalty— Eragon owes his freedom to that fact.

Murtagh self-reports that he learned ruthlessness in Uru'baen. I disagree. Galbatorix is ruthless. I have also been ruthless in my time. Executing a slaver and refusing to mourn him doesn't make you a heartless killer. [Frankly, whining over the death of one makes you a pitiful fool at best and a sympathizer at worst.] Murtagh is willing to protect himself and the things he believes in at any reasonable cost. Therein lies the distinction; the truly unscrupulous no longer have lines that they will not cross.

However, as I can attest all too well, Galbatorix has a special way of erasing those lines in even the most principled men.

AN: I am glad that this one is in the rear view. It feels very much like another major milestone has been crossed, and not just because we've officially entered Eldest's timeline.

Extra special thanks to GrimnirGraubert on AO3 for this one! Without their kind and insightful input on the original version of this, I probably wouldn't have had the guts or energy to re-work the parts the survived the red pen.

Speaking of, I know I've been slacking on comment replies ^^;; My current computer set up is a bit janky, and I can't sit comfortably for more than a few hours at a stretch. So far, I've been focused on cranking out the chapter. Hopefully I'll get around to proper replies before my muse holds me hostage again.

One last thing: my only outlet to procrastinate has been making playlists. [My coping mechanism and love language.] Themes so far have been: arson, trypanophobia, the "slaylist", and *drumroll* a 50 track song-fic list for Blood Ties! Right now it's only on spotify, but I might also set up a version on youtube. Would it be worth going back through and adding song names to the end-of-fic ANs? Is anyone other than me interested in something like that? It's got a bit of everything so far, from children's movie tracks to punk, symphonic metal to folk, and more showtunes than is strictly reasonable! Please feel free to enjoy... or read me to filth for the over-dramatic theater kid that I am. It's all in good fun!

playlist/6tMzn1jpuKGhJGBbTTNXO9?si=94e2b7d4c2e44ad7

Till next time ;)