A.N: And we're finally up to date! My struggles with my writing implements and with the lack of writing time while on vacation aside, I hope you enjoy and maybe even review! *wink wink*


Murtagh and Thorn's entrance in the keep's main hall had elicited mixed reactions from its denizens: the dwarves reached for their ever-present axes, the humans and urgals eyed them with unmasked curiosity while the elves cooly saluted Murtagh and greeted Thorn with a smattering of courteous whispers in the Ancient Language. While Murtagh would have preferred his grand entrance to happen with dryer boots and less uncontrollable shivering, it was decidedly not as bad as he expected.

He gaped at the enormity of the hall – big enough to house Saphira, Thorn, Glaedr and Shruikan combined – while listening with half an ear to Eragon explaining why he had dashed out like a madman into a storm earlier on. Thorn was also suitably impressed, sniffing around the columns curiously.

This is the first place since Uru'baen where I feel like I have enough room around me, the dragon commented.

Well, it seems to be built with your kind in-ACHOOOO!

Murtagh's sneeze startled about half of the hall, and set the other half moving. Before he could utter so much as an apology, both he and Eragon were gently but firmly led up a curving staircase to the top of the keep. Once inside, the same blue furred elf who had answered Murtagh's mirror call checked them for injuries. Another elf, this one a woman with burnished silver hair, brought what looked like enough blankets and pillows for an entire castle's worth of people.

"They fuss," said Eragon by means of apology in response to the dazed look on Murtagh's face. "You and Thorn are the only other Riders here apart from us, and Saphira has been the only adult dragon in the keep for more than a year."

Murtagh watched dumbly as the elf woman deftly built a nest big enough for another dragon next to Saphira's. His mind was slow with exhaustion, so it took a few seconds to catch on to what Eragon had just said. "The only…adult dragon?"

His brother's eyes sparkled with enjoyment. "Yes, the only adult."

"Meaning… there are not yet adult dragons in the keep."

"Yes."

A weight Murtagh didn't even know he carried seemed to lift off of his shoulders. He spoke past the knot in his throat, "How many?"

"Two wild hatchlings. One of them hatched very early on the morning of the day when we spoke in Ilirea, the other three days ago." A far away look in Eragon's eyes, signaling a silent exchange with Saphira. "Saphira is telling Thorn right now."

As if on cue, a loud roar shook the keep, shortly followed by the flap of wings in the rain. Thorn and Saphira alit through the large window on the far end of Eragon's chambers, and after a quick shake to shed the rain Thorn all but bounded to his Rider like an overeager and oversized puppy.

DID HE TELL YOU? HATCHLINGS, MURTAGH, HATCHLINGS!He spun in place twice, before turning big pleading eyes towards Saphira.CAN WE SEE THEM? I WANT TO SEE THEM!

The elves had paused in their ministration with a look of rapt joy on their aquiline faces at Thorn's antics. Even Saphira, who had settled in her bowl-like nest on the floor, grinned a dragon smile full of razor sharp fangs. Having been around few elves other than briefly Arya and Vanir, it surprised Murtagh to see them express themselves so freely, but he guessed the revival of the dragons would pull even the unchanging Fair Folk out of their word games and marble coldness.

"Let me dry off, you huge lizard," Murtagh groused, though he was equally delighted by the news. His dragon spun again and he had to duck to avoid losing his head to a wayward wing arm. "Oi!"

"Saphira nearly squashed me flat in her excitement when the first egg hatched," reminisced Eragon with a fond grin, thanking the two elves with a nod as they left his chambers, "so you're in good company. We never believed to live this day either, despite seeing the eggs with our own eyes on Vroengard."

"Ah, so that's where you found the Eldunarya." It made an odd sort of sense that the old Order of the Riders had had a contingency plan in place. "But didn't that Galbatorix and the Forsworn scour the place after the Fall? How did they stay hidden?"

"That, brother, is a story better told over something strong and after we warm up." Eragon went to a large wood chest and started rummaging through it, and despite the rustling of cloth Murtagh heard the mumbled comment of, "Flying through that storm, and Saphira says I am reckless."

Murtagh's responding oath wasn't muffled even by the bundle of towels tossed straight to his face at top speed.


Once clean, dry and well supplied with a portion of dwarven roast and the berry mead Eragon seemed to favor, the brothers settled next to the merry fire warming the main hall. Thorn and Saphira elected to doze off in a corner, and the flames projected glittering reflections of their scales on the stone walls in a kaleidoscope of blue, red and all the shades of purple in between. The hall was oddly empty for right after sunset, apart from a couple of stragglers snagging their evening meal. When Murtagh made a vague comment to that notion Eragon explained that he had Blödhgarm clear everyone away so they would not have the whole keep abuzz and pestering them with questions.

"You know better than to hope that would quell gossip," Murtagh commented dryly past a bite of meat. "Word flies of such things."

Eragon stretched his legs closer to the hearth and shrugged. "Oh, they will gossip, and they will ask me about it and pretend they do not want to bother me while sating their curiosity. But they will do it tomorrow, not tonight, and that is enough for me."

"I'll drink to that logic, but won't you get trouble from the rest of the people in the keep?"

"Why would we?"

He eyed his little brother dubiously over the rim of the earthen mug of mead. "Don't play glib with me, Eragon. I know most of Alagaesia wants me and Thorn dead for what we did in the war."

"And I told you, when last we spoke, that you and him will always be welcome at mine and Saphira's hearth, wherever it may be." A glint of steel entered Eragon's voice. "You are as much a Rider as I am, and you two belong here more than anyone in this keep. Anyone who doesn't like that can go hang for all we care."

It seemed to Murtagh's ears that his brother's statement was as well rehearsed as a bard's song – or a king's proclamation spoken by a herald half a realm over. He wondered how many times did he already have to repeat the sentiment that he would not entertain any dissent on the topic of the infamous Red Rider. Despite the general bitter feeling of being reviled across Alagaesia and the knee jerk reaction ofwe don't need your help, Murtagh felt a sliver of regret for putting his half-brother in this position.

"The dwarves won't like it that you're harboring us," he warned.

Eragon scoffed. "Is that what we're calling it?Harboringinvolves the premise that you are running away from something."

Pick your poison, little brother. We're all running away from something.

When Murtagh remained silent, Eragon continued, "As I said, I –we –don't care, and neither do any who live in this keep. It was actually one of the conditions the permanent denizens had to agree to: this is the home of theRiders,and we decide who is welcome and who is not. As long as you do not hurt the eggs or the dragons, you are welcome here."

Murtagh used the opportunity provided by the food in front of him to ponder the meaning of that. Saphira cracked open a scaly eyelid and sniffed out a wisp of smoke. Her warm mental voice echoed between all of them, tinted with amusement.In case you did not understand,what Eragon is telling you is that the politics of Alagaesia are just that: of Alagaesia. We stand apart.Saphira huffed, and tiny blue flames lit in the depths of her nostrils.You and blood-wing-Thorn can stay as long or as little as you want, even if you have an anthill of two-legs-no-wings after you.

Thorn's thanks weren't crystallized in words, but the flow of feelings and disjointed images was easy enough to understand. Murtagh only nodded to both his brother and his dragon. He knew they understood.

Once the topic of their welcome was exhausted, Eragon steered the discussion to the work he and the others were doing to build and outfit the keep. What they had already erected was more than impressive, even for Murtagh who had lived in the grandeur of the capital on and off for most of his life. Building with dragons in mind had more challenges than just the size, but even that was a daunting prospect. He learned that they had already constructed a hatchery for the eggs, most of the non-Rider quarters and part of all the myriad storerooms, hallways and auxiliary spaces a keep of that size would need – and most of it with dragons larger than Saphira or even Glaedr in mind.

"We've also started on the Rider quarters, but they're… barebones at the moment." Eragon shrugged apologetically. "We started on yours in the winter, but other work took precedence, and then the first egg hatched…"

"Not Arya's? I'm surprised." The mead had loosened Murtagh's tongue enough to tease. He was satisfied to see a dull red flush color Eragon's face. "I'd have expected you to invite her over as soon as possible with how you pined for her affection."

Saphira's toothy grin was answer enough, but she added,Hers are also in construction, but yours are the more advanced. And no, he did not invite her… yet.

"Great, now I get ganged up on – again." Eragon threw his arms up in mock outrage. "First Roran, now you."

Was it not the duty of older brothers to torment the younger?Saphira inspected her ivory talons with an air of pretend boredom that would have put any Uru'baen socialite to shame.

"So I've been told, Saphira," Murtagh chuckled. "I'm only glad that he makes enough of a fool of himself to give me material to tease him."

Eragon's pointed ears were beet red, and he seemed to drown a retort in his own mug of mead. Saphira's muzzle curled into a toothy grin, and she nudged her rider with the side of her massive jaw. At least he's growing more articulate, or I'd despair of his clumsy attempts at mating. Imagine living with the constant picture of-

"Saphira!"

She'll tell me and I'll tell you later, promised Thorn. The red dragon seemed to enjoy the byplay as much as Murtagh but was content to observe for now.

"Enough about my non-existent love life," snarled Eragon. "Tell me more about your adventures before you contacted us.Anythingthat is not about me and Arya."

The hall seemed to dim at that request. Despite the Draumar and Bachel being the reason for this whole trip, the words seemed to curdle on Murtagh's tongue like sour milk. The inner chorus ofdon't tell, don't remember reared up its ugly head with a vengeance.

"That bad?" Eragon asked, and Murtagh flinched as if struck.

Yes, was Thorn's only reply, and then to only him,Tell them. They need to know.

Murtagh nodded, took a draught of the blueberry drink, and fixed his gaze on the dwarven lamp high on the wall above Eragon's head. It had been hard telling Nasuada of all that happened, but it had felt like ripping a bandage stuck to a festering wound. He could only hope now that the same courage held.

"It all began with an odd amulet…"


Midnight had struck by the end of Murtagh's recollection. The hearth had nearly smoked out. Eragon was silent for the whole length of the story, but Saphira growled loud enough to shake the dust off the columns when he recalled their time imprisoned in Nal Gorgoth. Her sense of pride at their escape and boiling anger at the witch was palpable even without being as closely bonded to her as he was with Thorn.

As before, once properly started the words seemed to pour out of their own volition, but now they didn't leave as much of a scoured hollow as before. It was less brutally ripping off a bandage stuck to a festering wound and more cleansing it in preparation for healing – not painless but cleansing at the same time. He told Eragon everything: the drug, the torture, the breaking point, the brotherhood bond to Uvek, even about Thorn winning out over his fear of confinement.

Through it all, he caught flashes of expression on his brother's face, but none were of pity or disgust at their blunders. Most were of the thunderous anger one more associated with dragons when riled. He was glad for that and sent a silent thanks to Thorn for pushing him to tell. There were more hurts, held deeper, which when he even dared to approach made him recoil, but at least this mistake would not see them judged as lacking.

When Murtagh was finished, both men stared at the dying embers cooling in the hearth. The storm outside had subsided to a sporadic pattering of rain, and the only other sound was the rhythmic breath of the dragons beside them.

Eragon broke the silence first. "I understand why you wanted to do this on your own. However…"

"Hm?"

"If that…witch…had managed to kill you, I doubt the whole of Alagaesia would have stopped us from flying there and burning her and her thrice accursed settlement to the ground…slowly." His brother's face contorted into something ugly. "I'm not even sure we would have stopped with only her and her minions."

Murtagh eyed the way Eragon's knuckles were bloodless from how hard he was gripping the pommel of Brisingr. That sort of rage was as familiar as the back of his own hand or the swirl of the scales around Thorn's eyes: anger of the sort that turned one's blood into molten steel in their veins and left whole swaths of land scorched in its wake. He had thought the other Rider was free of this particular affliction; if anything, Eragon struck him as driving joy from learning, not fighting. It was clear, though, that the only difference was that his brother's fury was slower to rise, not any less potent in its destruction when stirred.

It was yet another unsettling similarity between them, twisted on its head by the difference in their upbringing.

"Agh, but she's dead, may the worms feast on her bones," Murtagh said with more conviction than he actually felt. He drained the last mouthful of his drink and stretched, groaning when even more joints cracked and popped like twigs on a bonfire.

You're getting old,Thorn observed flatly, thoughts projecting to Saphira and Eragon as well.

"May I remind you that being bonded toyou-"Murtagh poked Thorn's ruby jowl with a finger – "means that I do not get to age?"

You sound like a hailstorm on the side of a mountain when you move. How is that not getting older?

"Does Saphira tease you so, Eragon, or did I get stuck atoning for my sins with the jokester of the litter?" He waved his empty mug in mock outrage at Thorn's raspy chuckle. Leaning into the humor of it was by now a well-honed way of avoiding any thorny subject, and he wholeheartedly embraced the opportunity. "See? Mine own dragon mocking me. Woe is me, what shall I do?"

"I just take it at this point," quipped Eragon.

Murtagh was glad to see that the brightsteel claws around the sapphire pommel of Brisingr were no longer in danger of being bent by the sheer strength of the sword's owner. A long since forgotten line in one of the sagas he had read as a boy came back to him:There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.Murtagh didn't think himself fool enough to try the veracity of that statement.

Reaching into the small pouch still hanging from his belt, he pulled out the two scrolls Arya had entrusted to him in Ilirea.

"Speaking of dragons and their Riders, I nearly forgot about these." He tossed the scrolls to Eragon, who caught them with a movement so fast it was nigh invisible. His brother's slanted eyebrows rose near to his hairline when he saw the seals, and his hands shook minutely as he inspected them.

"Are these from…"

"I promised her I'd make sure you read them, so get on with it before this mead strips me of my wit completely," Murtagh snarked, reaching for the jug. He watched Eragon's reactions carefully as the younger man unfurled the red sealed scroll. The official reaction yielded only a few muttered comments too low to hear and what looked like a lightning-fast exchange with Saphira.

The second missive, however, got far more careful treatment. Eragon's fingers moved with almost hesitant delicacy when he pried open the green blob of wax with its dragon imprint and unrolled the parchment. A minute expression of apprehension fleeted over his face before he took a deep breath and started to read even more attentively the flowing glyphs of the Ancient Language inked neatly within.

Murtagh pretended not to notice the hungry look on Eragon's face as he read Arya's letter once, then twice, then a third time. He busied himself scratching the smaller scales on Thorn's brow, then fiddling with the rim of the stoneware mug in his hand. By the time his half brother raised his head again, the buzz of the alcohol had veered from good-night-at-the-tavern into might-be-a-good-idea-to-go-to-sleep territory.

"So? Does she accept your suit?"

Eragon smiled wistfully – and a little drunkly. "Elves move slower than us, even in matters of the heart."

"Buuut?" Murtagh prodded.

"But," Eragon replied, "it might not be as hopeless a cause as I once thought."

"Good for you, brother." Murtagh's knees buckled underneath him when he stood, and the spinning of the hall did nothing to help. He caught himself on Thorn's knobby foreleg before he fell. "I think we should call it a night before I crack my skull on this pretty, pretty floor."

Eragon rose just as gracelessly, stumbling a few steps to Saphira's glittery form. "We fly up. Why did I think it was a good idea to have so many stairs to climb to get to bed again?"

Murtagh snorted, and Saphira's sarcastic rumble rolled through their mindscape like a tumbling of rocks,And just who is old now, Eragon?


Morning came all too soon, filled with grumbles and slow shuffling back down to rejoin civilization. A meager breakfast was all Murtagh could handle with the way his head pounded. Thorn would have probably laughed at him all morning if the hangover hadn't bled through their bond, rendering the dragon taciturn. Even the murmured apology Murtagh sent through their link only got him a growl for his trouble, to which he sympathized.

Eragon fared a little better, the bastard, probably due to his enhanced physique. The denizens of the keep took quick advantage of his presence, either dropping by with questions and requests, or simply murmuring a greeting to the Leader of the riders as they went on their way to their chores.

Once breakfast was washed down with tea, Eragon and Saphira led them through the wandering halls of the keep to a large cavern carved into the mountain side. Its opening was large enough to allow three large dragons to fly through wing to wing, protected with wards against the elements. Nooks and smaller caves jutted out at random intervals, even high up on the walls. Some were smaller, others could fit dragons many times larger than Thorn.

A chittering shriek that Murtagh would recognize anywhere echoed from a tall ledge. The unmistakable sound of claws on polished stone brought a tingle of excitement humming like a live wire between Thorn's mind and his. A flash of movement, followed by another reedy shriek and the flap of wings echoing off the cavern walls, then a burnished silver dragon glided down to land in front of Eragon, proud and glittering in the morning light. Its scales shone and sparkled in all shades from slate on the hatchling's back to the brightest opalescent white on his belly, and its large round eyes reminded him of nothing less than a storm cloud. The hatchling was about the size of a pony, its limbs gangly and lacking the stocky weight of Thorn's, but he held himself with the regal pride of its older brethren.

Another reedy cry echoed from somewhere lower, and another hatchling slithered out. This one was a lot smaller, about the size of a house cat. Its scales were the most mesmerizing shade of smoky purple Murtagh had ever laid eyes on. They shifted and shone as it approached, revealing shades of pink, lavender and even the blue of cornflowers depending on how the light hit them. Its near transparent wings had the color of lilies where they were tucked along its small body.

"They don't have names yet," Eragon supplied, "but the elves call the older one Starlight, at least until he decides on a name of his own."

The younger hatchling bounded to Thorn; its amethyst eyes were full of curiosity, and it sniffed at the larger male cautiously. The flavor of Thorn's thoughts turned protective and warm. After a few heartbeats, the hatchling decided it liked the older dragon and boldly trumpeted a demand in its reedy voice. Thorn rumbled and extended a foreleg, thick as a young oak, for the hatchling to climb high on his back; it settled in the nook between spikes where Murtagh's saddle usually stood and curled up like a kitten.

The little one is female,Saphira clarified, sounding like a proud mother. She nudged the silver male further with her snout towards the Riders, and after a thorough inspection of Murtagh he was allowed to scratch the young dragon's jaw. The scales under his palm vibrated with the youngling's contented purr.

"How do you bring food for them?" Murtagh asked Saphira.

I hunt for now, but once they are grown, I will teach them to feed themselves. There's more than enough game in these plains for a thunder of dragons.

The dragons remained behind in the dragonhold with the hatchlings and Eragon led Murtagh down into the bowels of the mountain to another cave, this one without an opening to the outside. The wards at the entrance prickled his skin like a swarm of angry bees as their magic searched for any hint of ill intent. For a heartbeat, it felt as if he was doused in liquefied lightning, cold and snapping, until the defensive enchantments relaxed and hummed their recognition.

"Some defenses you have here," Murtagh murmured, rubbing at the gooseflesh on his arms.

"A necessary precaution, given what lies inside," came the response from further down a narrow entry.

Murtagh stepped into a large circular room with faceted walls. Elven lamps lit the walls and a stone throne, on which a large dragon-headed human made of metal sat, holding an iridescent Rider's sword. Small windows cut into the bedrock sent spears of morning light in an artful pattern, illuminating the colored tiles that adorned the floor with a fractal design. Along the walls, two rows of stone shelves cradled a multitude of large ovoid stones in all the colors of the rainbow.

Murtagh blinked once, then twice. All around him were rows upon rows of dragon eggs, some larger, some smaller than Thorn's had been. He spotted one that was a close enough ruby shade to his companions, another that was the brilliant turquoise of the sea around the southern islands. Green, blue, purple, even a dusty pink or midnight black – the future of the race of dragons was splayed before him like the jewels in a king's crown.

Awe gave way quickly to a deep, irrational fear for the treasure in front of him. If anyone ill-minded made their way here, it would have disastrous consequences.

"Hearing it from you in that field of nettles was one thing, but seeing all of them…" Murtagh shook his head in astonishment, then pinned Eragon with his sternest glare. "Are those wards even enough? If anyone gets in here – "

"If you would have wanted to steal one," Eragon interrupted quietly, "the wards would have fried the eyes inside your skull the moment you stepped in. Among other things. I would not mind you adding to them though, one can never be careful enough."

"Good." His curiosity peaked at the idea of intent-based warding, and he wondered how it would mesh with his discovery of adding conditions to spells. He mulled on a few ideas for wording while he inspected a large midnight blue egg on the higher shelf and made a mental note to raid his little brother's library as soon as he had a moment.

On their way back to the surface, Eragon told him how many eggs they had and the plans for the two touring Alagaesia under elven guard. None had hatched for either dwarves and urgals yet, and the idea was to switch them and ferry them for another year. If none hatched, they would be sent back to Mount Arngor to be inspected if the hatchlings inside had become egg-addled in their century of wait and new eggs would be sent instead.

The sight that greeted them back in the dragonhold threatened to melt Murtagh's heart. Thorn was laying by the entrance of the cavern, sunning his scales in a pool of sunlight. Atop his back, in between the massive spikes glinting ivory on his spine, lay sprawled both the silver hatchling and the purple. All three dragons were dozing off, enjoying the warmth of the spring morning while Saphira's blue bulk sped away in the sky outside, most likely on a hunting trip.

Murtagh touched his partner's mind, light as a feather as not to wake him. The dragon's dreams were finally lit with so much hope and joy it blew away all worry.