TW: More graphic depictions of gore/violence than usual (one is a direct from book reference so I couldn't do much about it, the other an allusion to a book quote. All to say that it might be on the extreme end of canon, but both are explicitly canon-compliant.)

Spoiler Warning: This is the first chapter that contains a word-for-word reference to Murtagh [the book]. (The dialogue anyway; obviously I didn't just copy-paste the whole scene, that would be unconscionable). It is a flashback to Eldest-congruent events, but everyone has different thresholds for spoiler preferences. Consider thineselves adequately warned.

Murtagh was, in many ways, the kind of student of whom teachers can only dream. He was dedicated, focused, curious, and talented. For the record, talent is not an indicator of potential; it merely offers a lead where others must fight from the very beginning. But Murtagh, unlike many, has fight on top of his natural proclivity. If he struggled in any particular skill, his dedication made up for the lack in short order.

His biggest handicaps were two-fold but stemmed from the same issue: Galbatorix's paranoia. First, he insisted that Murtagh remain caged in his accommodations; like a queen in birth-confinement. Second, he'd been allowed a pitiful vocabulary: core physical elements, some ways to manipulate them, the most basic healing spells, and a variation of scrying that let mages communicate with their superiors. These were sufficient for talentless, weak, subservient mages who were destined to do no more than a task or two their whole lives. For a rider, it was nowhere near adequate.

I had little sway over the first; it was paramount that he not be discovered by our enemies. Not only for political machinations but for his physical safety: an untrained mage and an infant dragon are prime targets for assassination. But the second… well, I had a few tricks in store.

I nudged the heavy door inward with a foot, waiting for the small, brown-haired girl to file into Galbatorix's parlor ahead of me. She was only around eleven, an orphan who'd taken a post in the castle to house and feed herself, but she was already an admirable worker. She'd tucked a corner of her skirt up into a belt to keep it out of her way on the stairs, but otherwise, her uniform was precisely the same as every other castle maid. Her arms were shaking under an untidy stack of papers she bore for me. The handle of a wicker basket loaded with ingredients rested in the crook of one elbow, the strap of a wineskin in the other. Despite her obvious strain, she made not one peep of complaint. Harold entered behind her, a carefully bound folio of more sensitive documents tucked under his free arm. I kicked the door closed after him, depositing my own considerable stack of work on an end table. "My thanks Harold, Anna. That would've taken all morning on my own."

"It wouldn't, but I am glad to still be of some use." Harold's wily smile comforted me in ways that I thought were beyond me.

Anna, discharging her load onto a different table, unhooked her skirt and curtsied. "Is there anything else you require, Ms. Lilly?" She'd never failed to address me that way since her internship under Harold began. I wasn't totally sure if she could handle the role for which we meant to train her, but thus far she'd shown only determination.

"Not now. Both of you should head down to breakfast. I won't return until late this evening, if at all." Both of them inclined their heads. "Harold, is she ready to help you with my wardrobe? I know that task is more physically demanding than you let on."

He snorted in self-reproach. "I believe she is."

"Then spend the day training her as you see fit. We will reassess her progress in ten days' time."

Harold and Anna bowed/curtsied once more and took their leave. I relaxed the stuffier airs I put on for unfamiliar people. Anna hadn't quite earned enough of my trust to show her my real face yet; she may not ever. "We are alone." The words were of course a dual message to my student: neither servant nor master was present in the outer chamber.

Murtagh creaked open the bedroom door, moving a bit slower this day than he had the previous one. We both pretended not to know why; he would only change the subject if I tried to broach it. He cast a concerned look over the sea of new papers that had arrived with me. "What's all this?"

"No concern of yours; at least not yet." I lifted the top page of my pile and tucked it into the bound dossier. "Enjoy the lack of responsibility while it lasts; I have no doubt that Galbatorix will put you to work soon enough."

"What's all this then?" Murtagh wiggled the three long sheets of rough-pressed paper that bore the entirety of his vocabulary in the ancient language. "You don't count this as work?"

A bark of cronish laughter escaped me. "Would you like to trade? I'd be more than happy to turn over some of my duties," I winked at him, " if you're ready."

"How difficult can it be? You're the second-highest authority in the Empire—"

"Which means," I lectured, patiently, "every single thing I touch is under constant scrutiny." I flicked down the stack of pages Anna had left on her table; each one a letter from a different vassal lord. "These must all be replied to before twilight this evening if they're going to make it on the road in a timely fashion. Each one contains the pleas and preenings of different nobles," I glanced through the page before offering it to Murtagh, "this one is relatively harmless, but there is a trap nestled within it. Tell me what it is and how best to avoid it, quickly if you please."

My student accepted the scented page, tilting it this way and that to make sense of the purplish ink and cramped text. After a moment he mumbled, "This doesn't make any sense…"

I nodded, gesturing for him to go on.

"The crest is familiar," he narrowed his eyes; that timeless, mason's expression, "but the signature here is not from the head of the family as he claims to be. Not only is his father still alive, but he has an older brother as well!"

"Half credit, but that's hardly your fault." I took the page back. "His father's health has been failing for some months— months that you spent away from the capital. His eldest son has been overseeing family affairs while serving as a courtier in Belatona. His youngest, so it appears, is warding the lands and his father's health in the interim."

"How could you know that?"

"Well, for one thing, this stationary is peculiar to the father; down to the fragrance. For another, I know he and his brother do not share accommodation, since," I fished a different— still sealed— paper from within the pile, "they sent separate messengers."

His brow creased further with confusion rather than the esteem I felt I'd earned. "What benefit could he get from claiming a title that isn't his?"

I answered with two quick claps. "You're asking the right questions, so I will happily provide the answers. He seeks validation to usurp the order of succession; it is always so when sons are too close in age, ability, and ambition; especially when there is too little inheritance to satiate them." I folded the letter neatly in half. "If I were to address him in kind as he has signed himself, he could leverage that to his father as evidence that the crown acknowledges him over his brother." I set it atop the daunting pile with a flourish. "You must understand this: as Shur'tugal, we wield that power in every word we write or speak. The vaguest nicety in the wrong place can upend decades of effort."

He slowly sank onto one of the sofas, adrift in private thoughts.. "Then this whole pile…"

"This pile is made entirely of letters like that one; duplicitousness and all. The others," I padded my original stack and the dossier, "are legal matters, aid requests, council notes, spy reports, and a half dozen other things that Galbatorix can't be bothered to attend personally."

"But," Murtgah was appropriately flabbergasted at last, "he's the king!"

"He is…" I searched valiantly for an appropriate word that my oaths would permit to no avail. "... as he is. However, someone like him would best be described as an unhinged anthropologist rather than a politician. He checks things here and there, but any aspect of governing that he can push onto others he most certainly will." I perched a thin, tired smile on my face. "And, as the thirteen are long dead, only I remain to pick up the slack."

My student pulled his lists closer; a thin shield between him and the workload I'd offered. "Shouldn't he have a dozen officers attending all of this?"

"Yes." I flicked my loose braid over one shoulder and pulled a cushioned stool to the table. "But that would mean siphoning off his power bit by bit. The more authority you give to underlings, the less you have for yourself. It is a conundrum that has undone many a monarch." I slid a thin stylus and bottle of ink from a waist pouch and unfolded the top letter once more. "Galbatorix's solution is to retain absolute control of everything with a small council of advisors to give their input when asked. He uses me as an instrument by which he may exercise said control; all in his name, of course." The unspoken bitterness poisoned the mood in the room even further. While Murtagh had not yet been forced to do anything truly atrocious under Galbatorix's command, we both knew it was only a matter of time.

The mismatched scratching of our two pens overtook the space between us. After nearly an hour, Murtagh cleared his throat and solemnly asked, "You have no authority of your own?"

I frowned, shooting him a stern look. He bowed his head back to the page to escape it. "That is certainly one interpretation. Another would be that I am Queen in all but name— Galbatorix so rarely bothers himself with the minutiae of the office that he may as well not hold it at all most days."

Another tense moment of scratching bloomed. Then, hesitantly, Murtagh asked, "I mean no disrespect, but if that's the case… then…" he struggled to form the query, probably as much to avoid hurting my feelings as to obey oaths of not criticizing the king, "why not change the things that displease you?"

I lowered the shaft of my stylus to the table, suddenly too tired to even bear its weight. "He might not bother to do the work himself, but he never fails to review it. Any changes I propose that veer too far from his way of doing things are soundly rejected." In distant years, that test of wills had been the seed of many an argument; often the worst of their kind. I shook my head despondently. "I do what I can where I can; believe me when I say things could be much worse."

We marinated in the discomfort of that thought for the rest of our lesson.

-:- -:- -:-

We broke for a hasty supper near sundown. Tired as I was, the day had passed in relative productiveness and peace. I poked Murtagh's elbow when he tried to rest it on the table. "Ne, thrim. I know for a fact you have better manners than that."

He pouted but obeyed, even straightening in his seat. "What did you just call me?"

"A fool." My fork lingered in the air between my plate and mouth— a violation of etiquette equal if not greater than his. A half-baked idea had just sprung to life inside of me; fresh leaves unfurling in a desolate wasteland. "Murtagh, ask me what the first word meant."

After a puzzled look, he obeyed. "What does the first word you said mean?"

"In this tongue, it is 'no.'" Excitement burned through me. "Fricai, ach ono sjon?"

He titled his head to the side like a concerned pup. "I can tell you just asked a question, but I have no idea—"

"I said, 'Friend, do you see?'" I stood, palms flat on the table and brimming with nervous elation. "I know you didn't understand; you couldn't have understood! That is precisely what is so exciting to me." At his blank stare I continued with a leading grin, "None of the words I just used are on your list."

He creased his brows. Then, catching onto my scheming, relaxed into a barely there smirk. "Yet, you taught them to me."

"No!" The impotent itch of my oaths beckoned to those words; I thrust them from my mind at once. "I am merely speaking and you are listening. If you happen to glean new vocabulary from that process—"

"That's not your fault," he summarized neatly. "But still… won't the king notice?"

"It's possible, but it will be less likely if I get his permission to add basic grammar to your regimen. It won't be exciting, but a mis-conjugated verb can do more damage than a limited dictionary." I reclaimed my seat, straightening with a serious expression. "Sva, eka weohnata thorta un ono weohnata hornya. Vae weohnata sjon ramr abr hugin onr!" It'd been some decades since my own training at Siyamak ebrithil's hands. He'd demanded we converse almost solely in the elvish tongue, as much for secrecy as to improve my skill with it. While I hadn't continued the practice beyond his tutelage, (aside from Galbatorix and I occasionally using it to communicate private matters) I had confidence I could still manage the feat.

Murtagh's excitement dimmed to disconcertment. "Can you use smaller phrases?"

I flipped a folio closed with a mischievous smile. "Fine, but only until you've mastered the basics, finiarel."

It was little more than a half measure; I could only teach him tiny phrases at a time, and those mostly benign things that came up in natural conversation. Galbatorix made me write out a detailed list and lesson plan for his "gramyre grammar." I worked very hard on said plan over the course of the night and into the next morning, detailing the purpose and execution of every scrap of information I wanted to share. Torix still refused his consent!

I'm sure that his extra stinginess is, at least in part, my fault. An embittered student with resources and power can be a very difficult tool to control. Worse, Murtagh did not have years of indoctrination to cushion his hatred as I had long ago. Galbatorix was a little too aware of how dangerous a rogue mage could be, as he himself had once been no more than that.

However, the very next day, he would change his tune. Certain events would dictate the exact line between caution and paranoia and the dangers of crossing it.

I entered the arena stands at Galbatorix's elbow, blocking the glaring sunlight with my nub paws as dear Katana so eloquently put it. Murtagh trailed a few steps behind me and on his opposite side; the king had fashioned himself a new right hand to mimic the old one and balance out the remaining left. "It seems like a pointless risk to travel this far from the castle. What if he's seen?"

"He will not be." The simple assuredness of the king's reply hinted that there was more behind the words than assumption. Whatever precautions he'd taken, he seemed rather confident in them. He climbed the well-worn steps to the royal outlook balcony at a refined pace; one I had to hustle to maintain with much shorter legs.

Murtagh suffered for the pace. The long weeks of captivity and four days of further confinement were taking their toll. But, of course, he offered not a single complaint through the grueling walk.

"I hardly see why it's necessary—" any possible protest died mid-stride. I'd barely mounted the third step from the royal box when I glimpsed a glimmer of red behind the railing— the hatchling's first taste of sunlight. "Oh."

Galbatorix turned a smug look back at me, halting a few paces from the railing and gesturing for Murtagh to proceed on his own.

Our student needed less of a hint than I did. He tripled his speed, hurtling into the railing so hard that it creaked from the impact. "Thorn!"

A tinny squawk echoed off the edges of the sandy pit. The dragon whipped around and stared up at his partner, glassy red eyes so vibrant, intelligent, and filled with confusion that it almost took my legs out from under me. A hatchling longs for comfort as he stands alone in an arena; what more poignant symbol of despair could there be? As torn as my soul felt at the sight, at least one man felt that agony tenfold. Gods, poor Murtagh.

Katana and I bristled all throughout our link and separate thoughtscapes. No good can come of this.

What can we do? Cold dread clenched my heart. If he intends serious harm to one of the last living dragons—

I nearly vacated my stomach from the vitriolic bitterness radiating from Katana. Comfort them when it is done. Or, perhaps, you can coax Galbatorix into changing course?

I swallowed hard and flicked a wary look at the king's back. His focus was on Murtagh; he'd leaned so close that I'm sure Murtagh could feel him breathing. Already knowing the answer, I slid a tentative vine of thought toward Torix.

Iron walls smooth as glazed ceramic met my attempt. If he noticed my prodding, he gave no outward indication. Far from a precaution, I knew this measure to be a warning just for me: do not interfere.

Damn. I drifted to the farthest corner of the box which still allowed me a view of the proceedings, wedging my waist into the beams. My elbows came down and my chin followed them, staring into the pit like I could will the scene to be anything other than horrific. I felt the pit's portcullises rattling in my jaw as they drew upward. From each loped a pair of thin-furred wolves, many times the hatchling's muscle and hunting experience. "Torix…" I whispered; a dire warning and a frantic question fighting for supremacy in my shaken tone.

The man twisted just enough to turn an inky eye on me, lifting a finger to his lips. An icy blade of thought skewered me in place, Be quiet and enjoy the show.

"Please." Murtagh spat the word through clenched teeth, any shred of pride he'd managed to reconstruct in the past few days crumbling at the thought of Thorn's peril.

I didn't hear Galbatorix's reply, but I doubted it could be anything but a refusal.

It was pitiful to watch. The four wolves took only a few testing strikes to gauge Thorn's threat level. After that, they alternated striking at whichever extremity was least guarded. Though he'd certainly been force-grown— no doubt the same accursed magic that'd been used on Shruikan— his body was not in perfect harmony yet. His wings were far too small for his bulky frame, and the muscles were nowhere near developed enough for him to fly. That much damage in just a few days. Has Galbatorix learned nothing from his previous failures?

Actually, I believe this is the alternative. Katana was less concerned, though doubly as angry. They grew Shruikan proportionally at first, but his body could not metabolize enough nutrients to repair and maintain his new muscles. Our wings are the most delicate parts of us; even the tiniest error in their formation or maintenance can ruin our ability to fly forever. A deep sadness— the despair that only a wingless dragon can feel— swept us like a flood. It's a miracle that Shruikan can take to the sky now— without Kialandi and Siyamak's interference, he might never have regained the ability.

So Torix is progressing awkwardly in a surplus of caution? Not only did that not sound like my ebrithil in any way, it also starkly contrasted the scene unfolding below us. Thorn had gotten back on even footing long enough to vanquish two of his attackers, but he'd fallen in the process. The remaining two took advantage of his vulnerability and—

"No!" Murtagh leaned farther over the railing, not even aware of the firm grip Galbatorix curled around his bicep.

I held my breath, a cry of equal alarm burning in my throat but unable to escape after Galbatorix's commandment. Screeches and yowls alternated from the furry, scaly, writhing mass. Blood splashed hither and thither from the pile, though the source was concealed by the violence of the thrashing.

"How could you?" Murtagh struggled with every syllable as if he were the one being torn apart.

"Watch." The calm and confidence of Galbatorix's tone struck me in a way I didn't know it still could. I'd followed him into desperate situations often enough over the years. Always, it was that edge of unshakableness that rallied and soothed his followers. He, at least, was not concerned for the hatchling's safety. Something primal inside of me eased at that aura; a learned response to his leadership that I might never truly escape.

But there was more than survival at stake here, and each of us knew it all too well. He could still be marred, traumatized… harmed.

Come on, I urged silently.

The wolves wilted back in a lifeless mess of gore. The hatchling was hurt, but not fatally. He tensed, sprang onto one of the wolves, and clamped down hard on its skull. I heard the crunch and snap of its bones even from our distance, though it was mercifully overtaken by the squelching of tearing flesh as Thorn bent to consume his kill.

I finally released a full exhale. Murtagh too heaved an uneasy sigh, hands still furled into the wood beneath him until they were ghost white.

Galbatorix practically glowed with pride and satisfaction at the display. "Do you see? He is a dragon and dragons are meant to kill. It is what they are. It is who you are." Murtagh's faint physical recoil must have confirmed the king's angle of attack. "If you learn this now, the coming days will be that much easier for you, O son of Morzan." The extra oil and teasing that he poured onto the name of his old comrade was truly disgusting.

"I'll kill you for this." Murtagh's words had enough venom to cow a lesser man; Morzan himself was never more sincere in a threat.

Galbatorix chuckled. "No, you shall not."

He'll have to beat me to it. I glared into the man's back, cursing him with every vow and expletive I possessed.

Torix continued, unbothered by my silent hexing. "You will dream of killing me. You will desire my demise with all your heart," he raised a hand, curling a single strand of Murtagh's hair around a finger. His expression was the pleased mask of a man taunting a feral pup with fresh meat. "But in the end you will see the rightness of my ways and realize that there is no opposing my power." He turned to regard me for the first time since he ordered my stillness. "You are mine, Murtagh, as is Thorn, and you shall serve me as your father did before you."

Shivers jolted down my arms.

"You are mine," he whispered in my ear, arms cinched so tightly around my waist that I thought I would break in half. I wanted him to hold me even tighter. "Always," I vowed, interlacing our thoughts and limbs until there was no difference between us. All of our joy, all of our pain, all contained in the sanctuary of our bond.

I barely shook off the fog of unwanted memory in time to hear the word, "heal," pass Galbatorix's lips.

"What?" Apparently, my prohibition on speech had been undone by the conclusion of the duel. Both men turned stares of very different intent on me; one of irritation and the other of surprise (Murtagh must've forgotten I was even there).

Torix explained himself with the most condescending care. "He should go to his dragon and heal—"

"You want a rider with four days of training to heal a dragon on his own?" I knew as soon as I blurted out the objection that I'd stretched Galbatorix's patience thin. Regathering myself, I rested a hand on my hip and carelessly flapped the other in Thorn's direction. "I'll take it as a compliment to my teaching skills, but I promise you it is unearned."

"You would rather let the youngling bleed to death?"

I huffed. "Those would be our only options if two extremely capable mages were not standing right here."

"He must learn eventually; I have deemed that today is the day."

"We are moving from lifting and catching coins to mending flesh?" I shook my head. "Kialandi would box both of our ears if she were alive."

"A good thing that she's been dead fifty-odd years." Galbatorix adjusted his sleeves habitually. "Go now, both of you. I will observe from here."

"Since when are you afraid of a little blood?" It took serious self-control to make the barb seem taunting and not truly disparaging.

A lifted brow and pointed glare were the only replies I earned.

Murtagh all but sprinted to Thorn. I trotted behind him, slowing several paces back from the scene. His rider, however, skidded to one knee and immediately pressed his forehead to Thorn's neck, heedless of the sticky gore. Thorn chirped with delight and dropped his dripping maw on top of Murtagh's head; a show of both deep affection and martial dominance. Wary eyes turned to me, his lip curling in a show of distrust.

I displayed my empty hands, sinking to a seated position to make myself smaller; less of a threat. I wonder if he'll recognize my scent from that first night; if so, I might never be able to approach him.

Katana confirmed my suspicions with a few scattered memories, namely her early and deep-seated hatred for most of the forsworn. Not until he can understand the complexities of the situation.

Which will be some weeks yet. I cleared my throat. "Murtagh, are you ready?"

He sniffed and wiped his face on a sleeve; we both pretended that it was only Thorn's mess he was cleaning. "Yes."

I arranged my healing lessons in my mind in order of complexity; diagnostic spells were simpler, safer, and took less energy than spells meant to repair flesh. I was about to begin when a devilish thought occurred. I tossed a spider silk thread of thought towards Murtagh's mind. As usual, it was a near-unassailable fortress. The thread tapped against the barrier twice, the gentlest request for admitance I'd ever made.

Murtagh tensed, flicking a look of shocked resentment in my direction.

Trust me. I tried to form an apologetic look that Galabtorix wouldn't detect too easily, but I knew it wouldn't be sufficient on its own to earn his forgiveness.

The outermost layer of defense peeled away just enough for him to hear my thoughts, but he held most of himself back from the link. What are you—

Follow my spoken instructions, and don't break this connection under any circumstances or you and Thorn will both die. I ignored the alarm radiating from him and said, "Well, what are you waiting for? You know the words for healing. Access your power and speak the words." Right now, don't hesitate!

Galbatorix understood my intention just a little too late. "Lilleth—"

"Waise heil." As expected, Murtagh hadn't focused on one specific wound; he'd tried to heal everything he saw in a lump.

I felt the vicious drop in his strength and immediately supplemented his with my own. A bolt of mortal terror sprouted from the Murtagh. Knowing intellectually that the power you've been gifted will keep your body alive does nothing to ease the ingrained fear of death present in all mortal creatures. Stay calm; I will not allow harm to come to you. Focus on each injury in isolation and remember your lessons with Tornac: slashes are shallow, but the piercing blows are the most dangerous as they penetrate layers of muscle. Wait to work on the wings; those will take more precise control than you currently have.

Then how will I—?

You won't. I turned a benign stare up to the livid glare of our master. "What? You said that any further lessons must be approved by you, then you refused permission to teach him proper spell construction, and then you ordered him to heal complex wounds without any training. What did you expect to happen?"

Galbatorix brushed both of our minds like a disinterested feline rubbing on its human-slave's shins. "I thought you promised not to infantilize the boy."

I shrugged, unconcerned with his disapproval. "You ask for the impossible all the time. I accepted long ago that it is my job to bend reality to your whims." I lifted a finger for each subsequent point, watching Galbatorix's frustration tick toward a boiling point. "You wanted him to heal Thorn himself. He doesn't have the knowledge to do it safely or the raw power to do it simply. You forbade me from sharing the former. What other option did you leave me?"

"Using him as a conduit to channel your energy will not—"

"If I sever the flow now, he'll die." I shook my head, far more disparaging than Galbatorix could ever hope to be. "What would have happened if he were alone and he or Thorn suffered a mortal wound? A hundred years of hopes snuffed out by," I tapped my lips with a finger, "arrogance? Cowardice? Or shall we call it plain foolishness?"

I heard the snap of Galbatorix's knuckles in his clenched fist from meters below. "I expect you to draft a separate plan in regards to healing. You should expect considerable edits to anything you devise."

I bowed low to conceal the grim smile creeping over my face. "This morning's lesson plan?"

Torix turned on his heel. "Approved. And Lilleth," looked up to catch a warm and loathsome stare, "This will not happen again."

In a heartbeat I was eighteen again, apologizing for a civil war. He'd 'forgiven' my disobedience that time, but each subsequent act of defiance had met crueler and more devious punishments.

I lowered myself to the bloody sand, sinking to a knee in a grand show of deference. "Yes, Your Majesty."

Predictably, he huffed in slighted irritation, sweeping off like a prima donna who hadn't received their desired reviews.

Murtagh suddenly gasped a shaky breath. I turned in time to watch him collapse to his hands, his whole body glazed in cold sweat. I maintained the thread of a power a little longer than the spell demanded, just to replenish whatever the stress of the ordeal had stolen. "What was that?"

"That was the feeling of a spell exceeding your body's available strength. If you'd been alone, you would have died almost instantly." I crouched beside him, offering the snack he'd scorned a few days ago.

He gratefully inhaled a few bites. "How do I prevent it?"

"There are three primary methods. The first is important in every casting: never begin an undertaking without intimately understanding the processes involved. For example, if you mean to set an object on fire, you must know roughly how flammable that object is, the heat it requires, the desired brightness, the approximate size of the flame, etc. The more details that are concrete; the better. This is especially important for you since much of your spell work will be slapdash by design."

"But how?"

I gave him a grim smile, offering a hand to help him up. He accepted it with a grunt. "Unfortunately, it's a matter of experience. As you haven't much of your own, I will lend you mine for now." Thorn huffed defensively, wedging his head between us and wisping smoke from his nostrils. He snapped once in my direction and stuck himself to Murtagh's legs. "It seems I've offended one or both of you."

Murtagh sheepishly draped a hand on Thorn's head. "No, he's just um…protective." What he did not say but I heard perfectly was, he doesn't know if you're going to hurt us too.

I inclined my head. "As he should be. Still, you should probably let him know that I'm here to help, or he won't let me get close enough to heal his wings." I froze in place as both dragon and rider exchanged impressions of the situation. Once Thorn settled onto his haunches— narrowed eyes still following me like any nervous child— I crouched down to examine the last and most delicate of his wounds.

Unlike Murtagh, I'd had plenty of practice healing such things. It took but a moment to recall the correct blend of words and set them into motion. I dedicated ample time to the work, laboring over every minuscule detail. The membranes of his wings were thinner than Katana's had been at this size, and their overall dimensions were only about nine-tenths of what they ought to be. His muscles truly were underdeveloped— more a product of mis-practiced magic than atrophy, though that too would soon become a problem. I hate antagonizing Galbatorix twice in one day, but I should bring up Thorn's growth and safety. It takes more than the occasional brawl and trough of slop to keep a dragon healthy.

He knows. Katana's rage was a hundred times greater than mine. He would not have treated Jarnunvösk as he treats Shruikan and Thorn.

Her use of the forbidden name made me uneasy. Worse, I felt the resonant truth of her hypothetical. Jay had been his world. Every dragon he slaughtered and abused after that loss was a lesser class of creature in Galbatorix's eyes. It was the same with his favorite toys; more valuable than the rest of the Empire combined in their own ways, but only as long as they entertained him. I have his biases to thank for my survival. But I also have them to blame for all our suffering.

As soon as Thorn's final wound closed, he darted between Murtagh's feet and plunked down. His excited chirping made it clear that he wanted to stay with his rider as long as possible. Said rider stared down at the majestic stripling; utterly enchanted.

I cleared my throat. All four eyes turned to me. "I truly hate to interupt the moment, but there's still plenty you must learn today. I can teach both of you right here, if you're ready."

"Yes Ma'a—" Murtagh screwed up his face; suddenly stricken by a mysterious cough. "Ebrithil."

A rueful smirk threatened to overtake my 'stern' persona. He may just survive his training yet.

Would you really scold him for calling an old lady 'Ma'am', of all things? Katana's teasing edge was forced but not uncomfortable; so often our only balm for our pains was a good chuckle at them. You've been called worse before.

I've been called worse today. I dusted my palms tightly and relocated the original thread of our conversation. "The second principle of spell construction will, it pains me to say, rarely be available to you. It consists of formulating every spell so it can be severed at the caster's discretion. These require a more expansive vocabulary than you currently have." Neither of us voiced that caveat we'd found the previous evening, though I saw the gleam of interest in his eyes. "In that case, we move onto the third option: keeping a supply of power handy that vastly exceeds any conceivable need. Ideally, you want to use some combination of all three methods."

I could tell he was still a bit blurry on the particulars (not surprising considering the morning). I circled back to the beginning in a patient timbre. "Let's take Thorn's healing just now as an example. You jumped in without considering the depth and breadth of the situation— you did not have a clear idea of how much energy the task would require. That was by my design in this instance, but you should avoid doing so from here on out. Also, you used a rigid phrase in the ancient language such that there were only two outcomes: success or death. It is this second weakness that our lessons in the coming days will seek to eliminate. Your salvation in this case was spontaneous access to a power source that could withstand your spell's demands: me."

Murtagh digested the information with the same calm studiousness I'd come to expect from him. Still, a tiny frown tugged his lip down. "Why not tell me of your plan? You scared me half to death!"

"Not to death, fricai. To caution." I straightened to the extent of my meager height, though I was still at least a hand shorter than the teen. "My primary objective was convincing our master to broaden your horizons. If I'd wasted time comforting you, he may have sniffed me out before I could make my point."

He crossed his arms and leveled a severe expression down his nose. "And? That alone isn't reason enough for me to forgive you so easily."

I frowned, one clean expression of dissatisfaction with his whining. I waited patiently for the edge of defensiveness to leave his face. "My first use of magic nearly killed me. If my ebrithil hadn't been with me, or hadn't reacted in time, I would not be here to tell of it." My explanation was curt and unadorned, but he looked to be digesting my point. "You had to feel the sensation of your strength fleeing at least once— no mage can really be worthy of the name if they have not— but I preferred that the fail-safe be pre-meditated and for the person holding it to not be a reckless sadist."

"I'm not convinced they weren't." He gave me a sweeping, appraising look. "You came up with all of that on the spot?"

"Obviously; otherwise I would've tried to prevent it."

Murtagh was examining me much more intensely than he ever had— like I'd grown gills before his eyes. Before he or I could address the shift in the atmosphere, Murtagh's mood plunged from bleak to blackened in an instant. "You."

I turned to regard a pair of approaching figures, dark indigo robes dragging in the bloodied sand, sun glinting off their hairless heads. I lifted my chin in haughty disdain; these two had taken up residence in the citadel after faking their deaths, much to my endless delight. "State your purpose and begone."

"His Majesty has tasked us with returning the dragon to its cage." With their clothing again identical and spotless, there was no longer a difference between right and left. In the wake of the blurry fury their words conjured, I could hardly discern from which side the words came anyway. "You are to return its rider to his… accommodations."

I sent a quick pulse of mental energy into my surroundings; no sign of the king. The pair shifted uncomfortably at the benign shockwave but dared not make a reply— be it psionic or verbal. "I see your manners still leave much to be desired." I took a step closer to them— a more tangible barrier between the bastards and the younglings at my back. "Skulblakan should never be addressed as mere beasts, even in passing. Not so long ago, a mistake like that would cost you more than your life." Formora in particular had once shot a barbed arrowhead through a man's thigh and into a bench when he'd called her dragon a, "foul creature," within her earshot. "His name is Thorn, and he is no more a kept pet than you are."

And no less, Katana added bitterly in the privacy of our bond.

At once, the duo bowed humiliatingly low, necks prostrate as if for an executioner's blade. "We throw ourselves upon your benevolence and wisdom, Highness."

"You will find none of the former." I dropped all possible niceties, switching to a register that resonated pleasantly in my chest. "This is the second time that we are ill-met and ill-meant; it will be the last that you survive." I felt the prickle of their loathing on the air like blood in a pristine spring. Even so, they would not dare test me further this day. With a sour regret staining my throat, I turned back to Murtagh. "Bid your farewells. We will depart once Thorn is reconciled to another temporary separation."

I had the luxury of turning away from the piteous expression in Thorn's scarlet eyes. However, nothing could block out the hatchling's agonized whimper. Murtagh bore it no better, tense and grim as a dying man when he finally stepped into view again. He turned once more as the portcullis rattled up and crashed down; a look of such virulent hate in his eyes that I half expected the metal to melt from its fittings.

All of my pity, anger, and grief melted into a stone mask; the fruits of a century in royal politics. I set off for the nearest secret passage entrance at a brisk walk, only flicking a finger to request Murtagh's company.

He fell into step just behind my right shoulder.

That was a long night.

I spent a good portion of it in a heated debate with Galbatorix; at a higher temperature than he typically allowed. Poor Murtagh was trapped in the middle, watching us like he wasn't sure which of us would burst into flames first. For reasons that weren't fully clear to me at the time, Torix cared very much that I not only obey his commands in regards to Thorn but also agree with them on a philosophical and scholarly level. If I were a more charitable person I might infer that this came from some sense of peer review or academic rigor. In reality, I ascribe most of his fixations to flights of his fantastical ego.

Thorn's earliest development was, to him and his rider, a waking nightmare. To me it was a grisly pantomime demonstrating all of our helplessness. But, to Galbatorix, it was the latest in a long series of experiments. Between dragon and rider he intended to test many theories he had either been too cautios, too inconvenienced, or too sane to attempt before. He grew Thorn's body parts out of order, all but starved him, forced him to grow into chains until they bit through his scales. Eventually the hatchling would outgrow his holding cell; imobilized by magically reinforced stone.

I can't help but connect his deliberate traumatization of Thorn to his leverage of my own learned claustrophobia. Galbatorix discovered my affliction mere weeks before the dragon's hatching. I'm sure the ordeal was as fresh in his thoughts as it was in mine. He'd seen its efficacy; someone he'd struggled to control for decades was rendered pliant as a lamb in minutes. How much more maleable would an infant dragon become if instilled with the same weakness? How intense could the fear response become? How might this treatment impact his rider?

In the end, I could do little to disuade him from treating Thorn however he liked. I had my hands full protecting just Murtagh. That day in the arena was the first demonstration of many; and Thorn was not always the star performer.

The evening stars seemed brighter in the moonless summer sky. Specks and strips of stardust sprawled between the blooms of light, a wild and disorderly tapestry. The air was thick and wet for the central Empire, but not overly warm; a mercy after a brutal day.

A monstrous bellow of disbelief and pain shattered the moment of calm I'd pried from the night. Achingly, I lowered my eyes into the arena where two forms grappled in the overlap of two torches' light. One hulked a full third taller than the other, grey-tinged skin paling as blood poured down its chest from a fresh tear in its throat. The hand of the smaller figure ripped back from the gaping wound, slick to the second knuckle in dark gore and still grasping a fistful of limp flesh. The Kull dropped like a sack of stones, gurgling its last breaths into the dirt at Murtagh's feet.

A smattering of bemused applause echoed uncannily in the empty stands. Torix stood, casting my seat into an impenetrable shadow. "You've done well, my young student. Though I never doubted your abilities," He cast a pointed look over his shoulder at me, "I am pleased that you took to the task so voraciously."

Murtagh stood straighter, filthy hand hanging noticably far from his side. He made no reply, only bowing his head. That had become one of his routines; anything to avoid meeting the king's eye or raising his ire. He left his stare in the bloodied dirt, body tight and mood grim. Thorn crawled forward limply and positioned his jaw over the leaking corpse, waiting for permission to finally slake his starvation.

Galbatorix was content to accept the pair's tacit submission for the moment; a minor miracle for the maniac. With a permissive flick of the king's wrist, Thorn crunched down through horn and skull alike. Torix turned to regard me side-long. "Lilleth, I will leave resecuring Murtagh in your hands. I have matters that require my attention this night."

"Matters," I repeated sarcastically. "Very mysterious. Would these 'matters' be of the professional or the private variety?" Truthfully I didn't want to know, but it always helped to have some idea of his whereabouts, activities, and moods.

To my surprise, a coy smile answered my teasing. "Is that envy I detect?"

I tapped my fingers impatiently. "Pity, perhaps. Either you're in for a long night of hard work, or your companion will be."

He paused half a heartbeat before ruffling my hair into a childish froth. I hissed and leaned away, but the damage was already done. Laughing, he answered, "The former, I fear. A certain project is in its latter stages. If all goes to plan, you will know more soon."

"And if it doesn't?" I growled, fixing my hair mindlessly.

"Then I may need to consult you even sooner; a thousand minds is weaker than a thousand and one."

"Depends on the minds in question." My snark earned me an eye roll and exasperated headshake, but his spirits were much too high to be dashed by our banter. My concern for this 'project' was redoubled with my new observation. Before either of us could ready another repartee, Murtagh crested the stairs. Any exhaustion was still firmly shut behind a shell of adrenaline— I could practically see the animal urge fighting with what was left of his rational mind. Happy for an excuse to end the exchange, I stepped toward our student until our master was at my back. "Remember to rest at some point, Torix; you're irritating enough without adding sleep deprivation to the mix."

"Glass houses, little shadow." Hubris aside, the mere mention of sleep had him yawning into a gloved hand. He paused, irritated to be so thoroughly called out on his disgraceful sleep hygiene. Self-defeating as the gesture was, he had no choice but to exit with his typical elegant huff.

I stretched the stiffness out of my limbs, watching Murtagh out of the corner of one eye. Normally, the exit of the king was enough on its own to ease some of his discomfort. This time, however, was different. Mere nerves did not fully account for the troubled cast to his expression.

I cleared my throat politely. "Are you injured?" He shook his head, a roiling maelstrom buried in his half-focused eyes. I offered a kercheif; poor assistance for the amount of filth coating his fingers but I could think of nothing else to aid him. "Follow close; I want to show you a new route through the passages." I turned and marched off before he could hesitate.

-:- -:- -:-

The walk to my quarters from the outer city via hidden passages was a messy and tedious affair. Still, it was a path I could walk blind, deaf, and drunk; I'd done it hundreds, perhaps thousandsof times over the years. I first memorized the route with a very different young man at my heels- many lifetimes ago. When I finally popped a panel open and stepped into my wardrobe, I heard Murtagh's noisier steps halt in place. I turned to ask why, but the flaking sticky mess still crusting his hand was all the answer he gave. I flicked open a cabinet and tossed him a stained towel; often used to clean blood and much worse from my person after my more unpleasant assignments. "Wrap that for the moment. We'll soak it and give it a proper scrub, then draw you a bath."

Hey obeyed robotically, stepping through a rack of sturdy, simple gowns and flicking the panel closed with a boot. His dreary gloom lifted a fraction as he glanced around the space. "Why do you have so many dresses?"

I snorted, accepting the change of subject without comment. "This may be a shock to you, but I don't always dress so," I gestured down to my dark wool trousers and practical boots, "anachronistically. Trends come and go— I spent many years following them as obediently as any debutante— but, in my old age, I really only wear a handful of them. The rest are," I touched a deep purple sleeve, still sporting the hole where Verra had tipped lit pipeweed onto the fine velvet, "memories."

"I never thought of you as nostalgic." Murtagh made his way out of the closet, easing a relieved sigh at being anywhere other than Galbatorix's chambers or immediate company.

"It's an unfortunate symptom of aging; the more distant things become, the more precious they feel. Even misery has its place in memory." I had not truly appreciated that fact until a full decade of mine had been stolen away. Nameless, faceless suffering was worse by my estimation; unlike its more lasting twin, it offered no chance for growth, for redemption, for purpose.

Murtagh chuckled uncomfortably, tipping a pitcher of clean water into a silver bowl and dipping his soiled hand into the liquid with a scrunched-nose grimace. "You talk like you're some ancient relic."

"I am." I reclined peacefully on the dressing bench at the end of my postered bed, crossing one leg over the other like a swaggering man-at-arms rather than a lady. "Nearly a century has passed since my first sunrise. There's no reason I shouldn't live to many more centuries before my last."

Murtagh shook his head, dissatisfied. In a rush of irritation he snapped, "Please, for my sanity, just talk like a human person!" He winced as he understood the volume and intensity of his words. More softly and with a note of sincere pleading he reiterated, "Please."

It took less than a moment to forgive the outburst, and only one more to ease off the stately airs entirely. "Sorry. All this extra time around Torix has me acting my age."

"A shame that the effect isn't mutual." Murtagh seemed surprised and darkly pleased that the disparagement survived the editing hand of his oaths.

I chuckled, leaning until my elbows hit the mattress at my back. "Not really. Some people are bastards in their youths and as geriatrics alike."

We both rode the high of our private laughter as he finished cleaning his hand, patting it dry with a cloud-soft towel. Murtagh strode to the bench, lowering himself to a cross-legged recline. The faintest odor of rosewater and sun-baked citrus clung to him; the perfume that Anna infused into my washing liquid. He sighed, leaning forward and dropping his head onto his folded hands beside me. "It feels like a million years since I was here last."

"Damn close to it," I agreed, healing the few scrapes he'd earned in the brawl. He made an exasperated face, but I pretended not to notice. "The kitten recovered, by the way. One of the kitchen maid's cats adopted her."

A soft, contented smile replaced the weighty brooding that had been torturing him the last few weeks. No, not replaced; it was certainly still present, but finally it was second to this moment of peace. "I never doubted her, but I am glad to hear she's well." His fingers took to a dangling tassel on the edge of a pillow, twirling it tighter and tighter then releasing it to spin back the opposite way. "That wasn't the last time I was here. You hosted Tornac and me in your sitting parlor after I turned nineteen, and we spoke on the stairs—" his voice gave out, nerves constricting his throat to speechlessness.

An anxious blend of befuddled thoughts arrived in the wake of his allusion to that morning. It had been the last time we'd spoken before his flight from Uru'baen; before everything had changed irrevocably. I made no reply, hoping that his caution would outweigh his curiosity.

But I sorely overestimated his wisdom.

He began so very nonchalantly. If not for the residual tension in his bearing and tone I may not have sensed the danger. "So much has changed since then."

I hummed my agreement, refusing to look directly at him for the time being.

"In ways that I never expected." The bitter irony of those words was tainted with a haggler's optimism. "I left Uru'baen— hells, left the Empire!— met a rider, shot a shade, and battled alongside the Varden."

"All deeds worthy of a good ballad. If you get some of the court singers drunk enough you can feed them inspiration—"

It was his turn to scoff. "I would rather be stricken deaf than listen to a song about myself." I giggled my support of the notion, snapping my fingers like a racous audience at a poetry reading. He gained potency with the momentary support, clearing his throat and sitting up a little taller. "Now, much to all of our surprise, I have returned. And, what's more, I am bonded to a dragon and immortal."

"Semi-mortal," I corrected, "never think of yourself as infallible; think of yourself as spared one form of suffering out of the many that exist."

He nodded but ignored my diversion, an edge of impatience driving him forward recklessly; hopelessly. "Every reason you gave for rejecting me has been erased. I'm no longer mortal, I'm already bound to the Empire, I saw the world… and I came back."

All as if I'd practically cursed you with it. "Not by choice, obviously." I smiled with the indulgent warmth of a caretaker; a nursemaid. "Murtagh, none of those things erase the decades separating us—"

He rose to a knee and pushed himself to his feet. "I don't see you as 'elderly' or 'youthful.' I see you as a person I can trust— one of the only people in the world to earn that distinction. I want to be that for you too."

"You already are." I allowed that concession but maintained a certain aloofness. "But you are also young—"

"I'm no child." His words left no room for technicalities or doubts. The simple fact of his existence more than earned him the right to speak them with full confidence.

I didn't dare rebuke the point; not after everything he'd endured. "No, but neither are you a wizened recluse— and that is precisely what I have become."

This little contrarian dared to wink; to grin like he still remembered how to be happy. "Maybe you need someone to make you feel young again." I recognized the adage from some of the more unscrupulous courtiers (Antebellum among them). Plenty of decrepit old bags leveraged their power and wealth to charm younger playmates into their lives. Sometimes they'd also end up in their beds, but a surprising number only existed to float after their keepers with sing-song flattery and petulant antics.

I laughed. It was, perhaps, cruel to do so, but the image of Murtagh donning bright silks and fluttering around like a garden butterfly was too ludicrous to entertain. I choked down the outburst at Murtagh's uncomfortable shift, a half-apologetic half-affronted expression smothering the last of my mirth. "You know, I've killed men for less brazen innuendos."

We both drank in the uneasy atmosphere this simple truth conjured; him reluctantly and me bitterly. At long last, he rolled his shoulders and met my eyes directly. There was resolve and strength behind that stare; not the soft and flighty interests of a wayward youth. Whatever was crystalizing in his breast was made of stronger stuff. When he spoke his tone was warm and resonant with intention, like confessions made on the eve of battle before a sacred altar. "No matter what you say, I will never be afraid of you."

Unwillingly— unwantedly!— my pulse tripled. The guilt that coursed me was nothing next to the sudden and wholly unexpected tidal wave of yearning. In the moment I was so swept by it that I wasn't totally sure if it was for the boy in particular or the innocent faith that he represented. Logic and decency aside, he had more than his fair share of qualities to recommend him: strong, clever, handsome, darkly sarcastic, intriguing, loyal, resilient, wise well beyond his years… men like him are a handful in a hundred-thousand. Gods, I'm despicable.

Instincts are not inherently evil; they come and they go. Katana's thoughts cooled the sudden heat within me like an ice bath. But our choice to rule them or let them rule us defines our very souls.

I drew a steadying breath, balancing a mask of perfect stillness on the razor's edge of all my hopes and all my fears. I located a sense of calm within; a cliffside facing a scarlet sky and churning sea, Katana's warm facets beneath my bony fingers, the last rays of sunlight piercing into my half-decayed body and blooming it back to life after a decade of misery. And then, a more unerving image; tears leaking shamelessly down Robin's lined face, a pouch of gold that would never replace a beloved brother, a little girl who would never meet her uncle. Only a feckless child would follow a fickle whim when the stakes were so dire. This must be about more than feelings or impulses. What I want and what is best for Murtagh are not aligned in this matter. Therefore, my only recourse is to default to the path that is safest for him.

Katana concurred, a sense of pride and contentment radiating through our minds. I trust that my point has been made?

It has. I caressed her thoughts gratefully. Thank you. I sighed, already exhausted by the weight and repercussions of what I must do. "Then you're a fool."

Only confusion answered my words, a poignant ache spiraling deep within the man before me.

So I added more words to the first. "I would never willingly bring you harm. However, neither of us is wholly in control of our actions anymore." I Neither of us can afford to have weaknesses, least of all each other."

To his credit, he barely hesitated in his retort. "I'm not afraid of the king—"

"I am." That fact, and all its associated shame, had defined my life since Selena's death. "And you should be. However bad you believe things have been so far, I promise that they can always get worse." I tied my fingers into knots in my lap. "I have given you my answer once before, and I expect you to respect it."

The coolness in my voice put him properly on the defensive. All that tender sincerity curled back inside his implacable shell, only his molten silver eyes hinting at the warring passions buried within him. Then, to my surprise, he made a brazen counter. "No, you haven't. You told me every possible reason that we shouldn't care for one another, but you never actually said anything about your feelings." He took a steadying breath, gathering more courage in a single bold line than the rest of Uru'baen combined. "Our friendship is everything to me, but I want more. I wouldn't jeopardize everything we have if it's only a bother to you. Even so," he hesitated, obviously picking his words with care, "Can you really say that you don't feel the same way?"

I bristled. He could not suspect; had no possible way of knowing the tainted memory he'd just conjured.

A summer evening, cloaked in shadows and warmed by wine, whispered confessions too powerful to tame, shame of the deepest kind, a half-decade up in flames in pursuit of escape.

I gasped, the moments of breathlessness striking my ribs all at once. My thoughts fluttered about like a scattered murder of crows (screeching and all). I steadied myself and leveled a cool stare at this too-sincere, too-vulnerable boy. It was not his fault, but the unpleasant recollections bolstered my resolve to end not only this exchange but any lingering affections he harbored for me. "Murtagh, I have expressed my wishes— with charitable kindness— on two separate occasions now." He knew immediately that he had erred, taking a half step back from coldness leveled at him. " I have too much respect for you to continue in this style; any more and I really will be coddling you." I offered a grim, venomous smile. "Let me be perfectly blunt: my future is not currently mine. As neither of us are foolish enough to raise the matter to Galbatorix, that will not change any time soon. Besides, even if you did, he would only whip you for the impertinence. Nothing I can say or do would spare you from the very worst of him then."

A certain grimness entered Murtagh's bearing; again that distant and tortured mein he'd worn near-constantly since his return to Uru'baen. "I know what you're trying to do—"

"Not as well as you think, or you would have listened to my warnings." I cloaked myself in the intangible vestiges of the woman who'd once occupied this room. She was the dark lady, she who wielded the full authority of a queen, who once brought the most dangerous man in the world to heel with a single icy glare. "As for my feelings," I laughed without humor. A century of stringent safeguards clicking into place over my heart like steel plate. "The few that I have are not for your casual perusal, nor anyone else's." My haughtiness certainly put poor Murtagh on the back foot, but there was still an all too familiar stubbornness smoldering in his soul. Resigned and regretful, I lifted my chin and committed to the killing blow. "In any case, a vassal may not make such demands of a princess, Morzansson."

He was ready to fight my brutal condescension bitterly until the very moment his father's name struck the air. I couldn't recall ever uttering it in his presence before— I of all people in the world knew how deeply it cut him to hear it. His jaw tightened, a look of pained betrayal overcoming the banked passions of minutes before. A strained whisper escaped him, more a plea than anything, "Lilly—"

"Ebrithil," I snapped, standing in a rush. He shrank back like he thought a brush of my personal space would set him ablaze. Given the century's worth of repressed rage that churned inside me, his instincts may have been correct. "Again, you claim such familiar liberties, yet you know next to nothing about me." I continued in a crisp and pragmatic style. "I buried my first love when I was younger than you are now; a boy too good and too kind to realize the depths of Galbatorix's pettiness. I've been the plaything of that lunatic so long that I don't even know who or what I have become. I am not interested in a relationship with anyone; am not myself whole. Worst of all, it pains me that my refusal is not an adequate reason for you to leave me in peace." I exhaled shakily, a deadly calm seeping through me like poison.

Murtagh— clever man that he was —understood more than the surface of my words. Even so, he was wounded in many complex ways by the sheer variety of angles I'd taken to deny him. So I was doubly surprised when he bowed at the waist, eyes shut tight like he was wrestling some unexpressable pain, and whispered in the kindest voicein all the world, "I'm sorry. It was wrong to press the issue. Please, forgive me?"

What he did not say, though I heard it as clearly as though he had, was the echo of my plea to him right before Thorn hatched: please don't push me away; please don't leave me alone in this nightmare. I sighed off the rest of my tirade's latent energy. "It is already forgiven." He glanced up, fragile hope glintign through the disappointment. I lifted a finger to halt him mid rise. I dictated each of my words as precisely as a soul-binding oath, "We will speak no more of this." It was neither a request nor a question; merely a statement of fact.

With the help of a few bottles of strong wine and over a decade of close friendship, we pushed the crushing awkwardness of this encounter from our minds. I loaned him the use of my private bath to fully cleanse the day, the week, the month from his body and mind. Once he'd had his fill of the luxury, we sat for much of the night, discussing anything other than us.

Murtagh never knew that I kept drinking long after he'd returned to his rooms, eventually singing myself to sleep in a sloshed haze wrapped in my own arms. For the first time in half a century I felt myself craving another person; falling for them in ways deeper and more complex than base urges. (Not to put too fine a point on it, but I hadn't experienced the latter in all that time either).

And, just my luck, I was falling for the one person with whom none of those things were possible.

I half expected him to shout and rail against my admonishments— that was certainly what Morzan would have done- hells, Selena too! She may have had a more level temper, but she was proud and fearless at her core. Murtagh had much of that pair's indomitable nature etched within him and more. So when he shelved his own pride and emotions to honor mine… I knew the depth and sincerity of his words.

I'm glad that I defended him from his own poor taste.

I still don't know if I did the right thing. I stand by my choice to refuse him, of course. Rightness aside (as a given), there were greater dangers than age gaps at stake. Torix would have made Anthony's fate look pleasant in comparison had I 'betrayed' him again. However, I've always feared that I may have gone… overboard. Better, I thought, to risk wounding him than to risk the lesson not sinking in. In the years that followed, we have since spoken more of all that befell this night and in the nights to follow. At risk of putting the cart before the horse, I will say this:

I loved Murtagh then exactly as much as I do now. He is a dear and cherished companion. At the time, certain… physical interests and past issues prevented me from understanding our relationship as it ought to be. It is probably the purest and least motivated bond I've had in my life, Katana notwithstanding. I don't desire him as a partner and I don't view him as a "child" any longer (though a part of me will always see a part of him as a hatchling). He is precious to me, as I am to him; I admire and adore his soul.

Inherited cycles indeed. In truth, I don't know if our self-containted unit would have been able to break free of them on our own. We needed the assistance- indeed, the interference!- of external forces; the likes of which were capable of rewriting the rules that defined our lives. Luckily, several such forces had just been unleashed on the world.

AN: Hi, hello! I am not dead, I swear! Gods above, below, and all around... if every chapter takes this much triple checking and re-tweaking, my only options will be to either write shorter chapters or take longer posting breaks. Add to that a visit from a dear friend and an addiction to a new video game... yeah, I have been both unreasonably diligent and totally irresponsible.

This chapter was, approximately six years ago, the very first *typed* chapter to enter the Draft 1 compendium! (draft zero is much older, but was also in a very different format). I had to re-read said primordial chapter multiple times in the creation of this version and I can state with full confidence it was also the worst! Glad to return and put it to bed with a more dignity this time.

Anyway, if anyone wants to scream about BG3 and/or Inheritance with me, shoot me a comment/message/whatever.

Oh! One more thing. I've been getting weird bot messages through , so if a real human is trying to reach me (doubtful), then please add your favorite animal to the message ;) (Bye-bye bots!).