TW: Discussion of past torture (non-specific), pain, trauma responses, and injuries. No graphic in nature, but I'd rather say too much than not enough.

Stay safe out there.

Any soul privileged enough to encounter these memoirs will already know the events that unfold next. In a surplus of concern and respect for a certain young man, I choose to not recount the horrors he experienced beyond what is absolutely necessary. It is no one's business what he endured, save those with whom he chooses to share it directly. He wants neither pity nor praise; fricai iet wants nothing more than to turn the page on this dark chapter of his life.

If anyone understands, it is I.

Still, I must discuss the effects of his trials. The consequences of them will ripple through Alagaesian history for centuries to come. In the event that I overstep a boundary… I can only beg forgiveness, and encourage him— should he ever actually get his hands on this collection— to strike the errant account from the record as he sees fit. From here on out, this is our story more than it is mine alone: sibling students to the worst man to ever live.

For one thing, I assisted in them. He knows this… though I wish he didn't. Galbatorix did most of the worst himself— he's meticulously hands-on with his favorites— but he wanted me there. For the helplessness, for the trauma, for the sense of impotent betrayal… for everything evil and disgusting and filthy. Locking eyes with a person you would do anything to save but knowing you can do nothing is… hell. There is something disturbingly efficient about it: one punishment; two victims. I suppose for a man as " busy " as Galbatorix it was at least in part a matter of practicality…. But that's giving him far too much credit. It was a sick delight for him; no more and no less.

Never mind the carnage it created.

Burning flesh. Fresh blood. Bones shattered. And above it all, a ceaseless, choking scream.

…

I woke in a freezing sweat. Dim physical sensations beat through my still-slumbering body— namely an insistent shaking of my shoulder. I had a hand around a dagger hilt before I could register the person responsible. As soon as Galbatorix's face solidified from the shadows of my bed-chamber, I regretted not driving the blade into his face while I still had some excuse to attempt it. I mumbled a string of discordant consonants and vowels and slapped the blade down on my bedside table. "Get offa me."

He was perfectly unconcerned by the armament and grumbling. If anything, he seemed too agitated and distracted to pay anything much mind. "Vakna, my indolent little shadow. Events move apace this night."

I groaned, leaning out of bed enough to peer through my balcony doors. "The moon is still up, ya' old lunatic." I rolled to my feet, complaints and all. Indulgent as he was of the occasional barb, his patience was proportionally lacking.

He huffed— exactly like the bitchy queen he secretly was— and tossed a bundle of dark fabric into my lap. "Make yourself decent, and be quick about it."

I unfolded the watery-soft black linen shirt with clunky fingers. Tough, brownish-grey breeches tumbled to the floor. "Well, turn about if you're in such a rush! I'm not a spectacle."

Galbatorix gave a signature dark chuckle— forced though it was— and obediently turned his back. "A bit late for modesty, isn't it?"

I growled low in my throat— he of all people knew better than to pester me fresh out of bed. His silence thereafter was all the apology I was likely to receive. I wiggled into the pre-chosen attire, blinking methodically to clear my blurry vision. Residual strains of my latest dream clung to me like cobwebs. Echoing screams bounced inside my head— Murtagh's screams.

Since our return, I had spent the first half of every day attending my Ebrithil as he "disciplined" Murtagh. The nightmare tableau of his pain and Torix's smug satisfaction haunted my waking and sleeping hours equally. Even in that unholy chorus, one voice was louder and more agonizing still:

"Protect my boys."

I shoved my feet into boots and stood. My sword belt hung patiently over a folding screen near my dressing table. Given Galbatorix's impatience, I opted to sling it haphazardly over one shoulder for the moment rather than tidy myself further. "What's happened?"

A teasing, playful smile was the only reply he deigned to make. "You shall see soon enough."

The "dungeons" beneath Uru'baen were not solely places of anguish. Hither and thither were storerooms, training chambers, and laboratories intermixed with their more sinister brethren— it was, in some respects, a castle beneath a castle. Our destination now was one of the oldest, darkest, cruelest parts of that stronghold— ancient cells of crumbling stone that predated even elven habitation in Ilirea. They were the last stop for the Empire's most reviled criminals before they were granted liberty; often in the form of gruesome death.

For one resident, even that mercy would be withheld

Heavy iron chains bound him in a standing position— a stark change to the prone pose he'd occupied for some time. His dark brown hair was matted with dry blood on the left side— a token from his earlier shows of defiance. His face was incomprehensible from filth and bruises; the rest of his body was obscured under a myriad of wounds and greenish sores. He seemed to have finally given in to sleep, but the second the door opened he jolted awake. He didn't risk glaring the king down as he had the first few days. That fact worried me. He was strong, stronger than almost anyone else I knew, but everyone had a limit.

I was terrified that Galbatorix would exceed it.

The guards that accompanied us were not permitted within the chamber itself— not that any of them would want to enter. I secured the door behind us, buying extra time before I had to again meet Murtagh's eyes. Torix crossed the narrow room, spider carapaces crunching beneath his boots, and tugged Murtagh's chin sharply up. "Are we enjoying our last day of freedom?"

Murtagh tightened his fists around his restraints but did not speak.

Torix seemed unfazed by the lack of engagement; he'd beaten most of the fight out his new favorite 'toy' weeks ago. "A pity. This whole mess was your decision after all. I would expect you to appreciate your hard-won rewards." He allowed Murtagh's head to fall again but did not turn away from his prey. "Lilleth, mop up some of this muck if you can. I will return in a moment." He swept from the room without so much as a glance at me. None of the soldiers accompanied him.

I could only dread where he might be going that even his personal guard could not follow.

Dutifully, I obeyed. One of the guards surrendered a waterskin to the task, another a kerchief. I stood in front of Murtagh, choking down the potent wave of guilt and rage. Grey eyes stared sightlessly at nothing, his lips torn from teeth and blows— which wounds were which was impossible to say— and his breathing labored despite his inactivity. Gingerly, as if capturing a snowflake, I grazed the damp cloth on his cheek.

He flinched back like he'd been burned.

"Murtagh, please, be still." I was optimistic that my voice would be familiar in a soothing way.

He twitched, still just as apprehensive.

"Fricai," I whispered; as much a lament as a plea. I rooted around our shared experiences for some sign I could give— some memory that would be stronger than his current horrors. One in particular seemed promising. Awkwardly, haltingly, I began Selena's old healing song. Though I couldn't put any magic in the words without permission, I knew she'd chosen the melody itself for its calming effects. She'd said once that it was a lullaby from her homeland; sung to infants in their cradles— I could only infer that she'd sung it to her own.

His furled fist slackened.

It took multiple passes just to cleanse the gore from his face. He still winced and whined when I veered near particularly painful lesions, but he at least seemed to understand that this pain was helping him instead of harming him. I spent less detail on his body, rinsing the worst and only scrubbing where absolutely necessary— he hated to be touched this much, let alone when already in such a vulnerable state. Surprisingly, none of his wounds looked infected. Seems Torix is somewhat mindful of his survival. It was a starved and futile hope, but it was more than I'd dared entertain since his imprisonment began.

"Lilly." His voice, weak and croaked as it was from weeks of screaming, rang in my ears like a symphony. He tried to swallow but choked on the dryness in his throat. I offered the nearly emptied waterskin and he gratefully sucked down a mouthful. When he could speak again he said, "What did he mean by, 'last day?'"

"I don't know. Best guess; he intends to completely break your mind." At first, I doubted he would go so far— men were never quite the same once broken that way, as I could personally attest— but what else could he possibly mean? I licked my lips. "If that is the case, then your only hope is to give in."

Revulsion soured Murtagh's expression. "That I will not do."

"You can't hold out forever. He won't just stop at breaking your defenses; he'll root around inside your head until you're just a shell." My words didn't make a dent in Murtagh's stony resolve. I sighed, hating myself for what I needed to say. "You cannot ask me to watch that happen to you."

Pain— real agony— flashed through his eyes. "If our positions were reversed and I asked the same thing of you, what would you say?"

I lowered my line of sight to the filthy, damp stones beneath us; he didn't need to see the bitter tears that pricked my eyes. "I'm here, aren't I? I swore those blasted oaths; not to save myself but because I wouldn't abandon you." I took a shaky breath to steel my nerves. "I know it's not fair— I've never asked anything this difficult of you before— but I ask it of you now. Please save yourself," my will almost collapsed at the last moment, but I managed to whisper, "Please don't leave me alone."

Silence reigned between us; brittle and itchy and awful.

When he next raised his voice, I knew his answer before he even formed the words. "I can't." It was no more than simple truth— to do so would be so against his core identity that it would be just as harmful as having his mind shattered.

I swallowed hard and placed a palm on the center of his chest. His pulse shuddered unsteadily against my fingers. "It's alright; I understand."

The heartbreaking, choked murmur was almost more than I could stand. "Forgive me."

I opened my mouth to reply, but reapproaching footsteps broke my meditation like a slap to the face. So soon? It must not have been far. Then again, how long have I been at this… My joints answered the question for me when I straightened; a series of deep aches and pops.

The cacophony of my ancient bones wasn't loud enough to conceal a hushed and rushed conversation between the guards and their sovereign. "You are all dismissed for the evening— send your shift change to my personal quarters to await my return."

"Sir." The clink and clamor of men marching in step retreated down the hall.

I only had time to take a single step away from Murtagh before the door reopened. If the closeness bothered Galbatorix, he made no remark on it. To my surprise, he was not the first thing to enter the room. A large wooden chest— adorned with a swirling lattice pattern of vines— floated before him. It was leafed with gold and inset with fine jewels, all of which were practically glowing with energy. I'd never seen the vessel before in my entire life. What could he possibly have hidden from even me?

The thought terrified me.

Galbatorix adjusted his sleeves and gloves— his dragon hide gloves— until none of his skin was showing. He gestured for me to retreat behind him. I obeyed. "Murtagh Morzansson," He brushed Murtagh's damp cheek, like a father inspecting their neglected ward, "heir to all Morzan possessed and all that he represented."

Murtagh grimaced but dared not make a more potent protest.

"Fate has a wicked sense of humor indeed. At your lowest moment, she has chosen to bestow you a remarkable gift." He gestured grandly at the latticed chest and whispered a lengthy string of the ancient language. I didn't hear the phrase he used verbatim, but none of the words sounded anything like an opening. Even so, the gilded vines stirred to life, unweaving themselves and melting back like a blooming flower. A velvet cushion lay at the center and upon it… upon it…

Though I'd only seen one such object in my life, I couldn't fail to recognize it.

It was larger than Katana's had been— as high as Murtagh's knees. Its marbled surface gleamed in the dim light; smoother and shinier than any natural object should be. It was a deep crimson laced through with shades of soft pink and bright white. Though it was objectively beautiful, the sight of it unnerved me. Its presence here served as a loadstone of destiny; a lure for fate to have her way with her favorite victim. Worse than its presence was its notable imperfection— a hairline crack that ran the length of its surface. Only one thing could be the cause. The source of Galbatorix's restlessness and elation was all too clear then…

The egg was hatching!

Torix touched the seemingly solid metal binding Murtagh's left wrist with a whispered, "Malmr." The cuff unseemed, dropping its captive limb like a stone. The limb's owner was just as nervous to be released as he'd been to be imprisoned.

"Go on," Torix urged in a deceptively calm whisper.

Murtagh licked his cracked lips and lifted his hand fractionally. Galbatorix's impatience won out, gloved hand darting forward to grasp his prisoner's wrist. He placed it atop the damning egg gingerly, like a nursemaid tucking in a newborn.

Nothing happened.

Murtagh stared down at the egg, unblinking. I could imagine the content of his thoughts well enough, why him, why now, why here? He turned his head up to face Torix as if to report the obvious; that nothing had happened and nothing would because why would he be chosen out of all the world? Why now when it could only end in pain? He parted his lips, but a shrill and sudden shriek cut him off.

No one breathed.

Ever so slowly, Murtagh turned his head back to the egg. A look of incredulous fear crept into his eyes. More hairline cracks shot from the first; the eerie moist sharpness of the fracturing shell was the only sound in the room. After an eternity that only lasted a moment, the smoothness of the egg was broken by a minuscule point of snout. The rest of the head followed it, a flap of shell covering it like a hood. The infant dragon stuck a sticky, crimson leg through the opening and forced the front half of his body into the world. The shell, already so weakened by his previous efforts, gave out beneath him and he collapsed to the cushion, staining it with albumen residue and ripping the fine fabric with his tiny claws.
Murtagh slowly shook his head in disbelief.

The hatchling started to sift through the shell fragments as if looking for something. His quest slowly inched him out of the mess and towards Murtagh's feet. When he got close enough he stretched out to sniff Murtagh's hand. The moment it did, he cried out and his whole body tensed. The dragon yelled with him, trying to be the loudest one in the room. When the shouting and shrieking died down, Murtagh's arm dropped limply to his side— silver palm glistening in the dimness.

Torix clapped twice and approached the newly bonded pair. "What a fascinating turn of events this turned out to be. I rather wonder if he would have ever hatched if you had not run away; had not become who you needed to be." As he spoke, he leaned down and snatched the hatchling. It screeched an unholy sound, but that didn't seem to bother Torix.

In a flash, blazing silver eyes were glaring him down with all the restrained fury for which his father had been infamous. "Don't touch him!"

"Hm? What a curious thing to say. You can't do a thing to stop me." Torix linked his fingers just behind the dragon's head so the hatchling couldn't turn and bite him. The iron grip only infuriated his tiny captive more. "Rest assured, I wouldn't dare kill him— imagine waiting a century for this and then wasting the opportunity." He stroked his thumb on the underside of the dragon's jaw. The coldest smile in all the world cut his expression into maddened fractures. "But then, I can do much worse."

I was fucking horrified. Sanity begged me to doubt his smug threat, but cold logic only substantiated it. Galbatorix had personally organized and carried out a complete genocide on this infant creature's entire species. Of course, he would be capable of torturing one. "Daemar, ebrithil… ach neiat ach thornessa!"

"Oh, I won't tend to it myself. Some of Shruikan's attendants could use the," he paused, cruelty itself tinging his whisper, "anatomy lesson." Murtagh tugged heroically on the chains, free hand shooting forward to claw at Torix's face. He scrabbled at the king's wards an extra moment before his target stepped back and turned to leave. "Lilleth, attend us in the neighboring chamber once you've re-secured Morzansson. You will oversee the work that goes on there when I return."

Bile would be too tame a term to describe the disgust and loathing that coursed me. I couldn't tear my eyes from the hatchling no matter how I tried; its talons dug into Galbatorix's clothing, its tail battered at his sides, and a trail of impotent smoke curled from its maw. Such a miserable way to begin one's life. Even I had a few years of blissful ignorance before I became Galbatorix's possession— this creature was doomed before it was even born. I didn't fully return from my stupor until the door slammed behind Torix, blocking out all sight of him and his captive.

Murtagh growled like a rabid animal; howls of raw despair breaking his voice anew as he tore at his restraints. It was miserable work, taking his freshly marked hand and refitting it into the shackle. He fought me; he would have fought Selena herself in that state. Tears— not of pain or fear, but of pure, unbridled frustration— ran down his face. "Lilly, stop this! Hurt me instead. Just hurt me…kill me."

I thought nothing could be worse than walking into that room. But, as I turned my back on the wretched, shaking man and stepped again into the dank hall beyond, I knew how wrong I'd been.

Thorn entered the world fearlessly; as befits a dragon. But he would learn fear before he learned the human tongue; before he learned to recognize his own rider's voice. And he learned it, at least in part, right in front of me.

Another hatchling I couldn't save.

I'd never actually been under the " care " of Galbatorix's pet torturers ( he always attended to me personally). That said, I was not in the least surprised to learn that the sick bastards were every bit as foul as their master. It poisons the soul to watch an infant suffer— an infant dragon even more so. I feel an odd sense of guilt for how relieved I was when Galbatorix gave the order to stop their efforts. As revolting and agonizing as watching Thorn's torment was; the cessation of it could only mean that Murtagh had given in to Galbatorix's demands.

The thing he could not do for himself or for me without driving himself insane, he could do for his dragon. A rider's love— even that of a twisted and broken rider like Galbatorix— is every bit as powerful as that of a parent, perhaps more so. The moment you are marked, that hatchling becomes the keystone to your whole world. It is the line that no rider can cross; the thing that unites them all despite every difference. The Order held it as sacred, Galbatorix unmade the world at the loss of it, the forsworn lost their minds because of it, and Brom died to prevent (and perhaps in some ways relieve) it. A rider without their partner is no rider at all— they are something sub-human.

Hereafter, Murtagh lowered his defenses and surrendered as much of himself as Torix demanded. The bastard took something from Murtagh then— something intangible. Pride? Dignity? Hope? I'm not entirely sure… but I know the man who left that cell was not the same man who'd entered it. I would never blame him for that; no one emerges unscathed from an encounter with Galbatorix. No one. And Murtagh, poor Murtagh, was subjected to something that even I was spared: the king untangled enough of his soul to discover his true name. I never learned it and I never want to, but I know that Murtagh was disturbed more deeply by the revelation than by his enslavement.

I wouldn't learn how deeply for quite some time.

AL Notes for nerds:

fricai iet -my friend

vakna - awaken

Daemar, ebrithil… ach neiat ach thornessa! - Demons, Master... do not do this!

(I've know I've been kind of inconsistent about adding translations in. I promise I'll go back and make edits once the whole fic is up... in fifty years or so at this rate _-_)

AN: After a week or so of marinating on the subject, I decided that a short chapter was perfectly justified. Not only was 44 a monster length wise, but it also wiped me out ^^;; Besides, this one deserves to be a standalone chapter- Katana's hatching got its own, Thorn's deserves equal respect. That and my lovely knee has been in *agony* which has um... *limited* the amount of work I can get done considerably. Meat suits are fun!

As to which details of the disturbing content I will/won't be including...

I am determined to keep BT in character- Narrator-Lilly is not the type to spend hours detailing graphic nightmare fuel. (Author Lilly... well, not in any current w.i.p. anyway) That said, I actually do have some notes/ details on the things that happened and how they impact the characters who experienced them. This is a *very* delicate line to walk, and I understand completely if any readers feel I am being over-descriptive OR under-descriptive. As always, feedback on this matter would be very much appreciated.

tl;dr we're here for plot/characters. TW/vagueness are our best tools to stay on track.

Oh, and one massive *thank you* to the one and only Christopher Paolini (who will, of course, never see this note as he's said multiple times he doesn't read fanfic) who just so happened to drop a massive lore bomb of a book years after I'd written draft one of this fic (and many more to come). ^^;;;;; The hours of re-contextualizing and frantic note-taking that all these edits require are done solely in your honor; you chaotic, delightful, mastermind. TwT Every single reference to canon is a love note to this series- plucked from the original one by one with bloody fingers. The things fic authors do for the series we love.