Hello again, I hope you guys enjoy this early Christmas present! If you don't celebrate Christmas, well I hope you enjoy the present anyway! Thank you guys so much for your kind words, especially after the last chapter.

It also means a lot that you guys (and girls -I include both in the meaning of guys lol) understand that life has gotten pretty busy, but I am still committed to finishing this story! Hope you enjoy! Possible trigger warning towards the end, just a heads up.

Chapter 52 – What's In a Name?

A few days after arriving in Ellesméra…

The worst part, Murtagh found, was the silence.

It had been centuries since he had been alone in his own head for any this long, and the lack of Thorn's voice to jar him out of his darker thoughts only let his mind spiral further downward. The Elves were of no help either, as every day since his arrival they either showered him with icy glares or piteous expressions. His guards, however, were kind enough to at least allow Murtagh some macrodome of privacy.

He had been given one of the many freely available tree houses left empty since the Fall, the wide-open space where Thorn would have been a gaping hole both in his heart and in his sight. There was little for him to do, and even though Oromis had given him a few days to adjust, providing some scrolls and books for him to read, it could not stop his mind from replaying that day.

Nor could it stop the memory of seeing Thorn's body fall.

Murtagh shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead hard, his other hand throwing the Elven scroll he had barely been reading to the floor.

He cursed loudly.

A slight shuffle of noise echoed from outside his doorway where his ever-present guards stood, though they did not dine to see what had caused his latest outburst.

Enough of this, Murtagh growled to himself. I cannot just sit here and do nothing.

He pushed away from the table and stood, striding over towards the locked door, knocking loudly on the wooden frame. It took the guards a moment to answer, their surprised expressions giving way to the more familiar cold look all elves wore.

"Is there something you require, Fyrir Neðan?" the elf asked, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The guard's gaze moved quickly over Murtagh, only relaxing slightly when he saw that the Rider remained inside the tree house.

Fallen One.

Murtagh scowled at the title, though the elf -he had forgotten his name- did not react. "I want to speak with Oromis."

The guard made to speak, but at Murtagh's glare he instead bowed lowly. "I will ask if the Mourning Sage is available, Shur'tugal." With that the elf pulled closed the door and locked it, and Murtagh grumbled.

Elves.

A few hours passed before Murtagh's request was answered, the door opening without notice. Two elves entered the home and quickly moved towards either side of him, though they refrained from physically touching Murtagh as they ushered him out the door.

"Where are we going?" Murtagh growled. "Will Oromis see me today, or shall I wait again like the prisoner I am?"

You are a prisoner only of your own name, A deep voice reverberated through the air, the powerful mind sweeping across Murtagh. Surprise shot through him at the sight of Glaedr standing outside the tree house. Though it had been a century since he had last seen Glaedr before a few days ago, some part of him had forgotten how large and imposing the golden dragon was.

Free yourself from Galbatorix's control, and you will find that your wings will no longer be bound.

Murtagh laughed bitterly, the two Elven guards giving him a side glance. "And what of you, Glaedr? Are you not a prisoner just as I am, stuck here in the forest for a century?"

We all wear shackles, Glaedr answered, lowering his large golden head. Stifling air blasted over Murtagh as the dragon sniffed him. The only difference is that mine were self-imposed.

"That doesn't make me feel any better," Murtagh grumbled.

Glaedr snorted and turned his head, revealing the empty saddle on his back. It was not meant to. Now come.

Blinking, Murtagh glanced at the two Elven guards beside him before clambering up Glaedr's side. They did not seem happy that he was to be left alone with the dragon and his Rider, but the numerous spells placed on Murtagh's person would not let him cast even the simplest of spells.

Glaedr spread his great wings and took to the sky in a single bound, angling himself towards the rocky outcroppings that was Oromis's home. There was no conversation to be had during the flight, and Murtagh did not feel willing to break the silence.

It was an odd feeling, flying with another dragon. He had briefly experienced the sensation when flying with Saphira and Eragon, though his mind had been consumed most of it with worry for Thorn. Now he had nothing to distract him, and the unfamiliar beat of Glaedr's wings disturbed a part of Murtagh that he did not know how to explain.

Eragon…

His half-brother. For near a century Murtagh had mourned his death, believing that both he and Saphira had perished among with the rest of their brethren. The anger that he once held after learning of Eragon's survival did not rise inside him like he expected, leaving instead only a sliver of what it once was.

The flight was surprisingly quick, and before long Glaedr was angling himself down. The dragon landed heavily before Oromis's hut and lowered himself down, and Murtagh was quick to leap the distance towards the ground. His knees ached from the impact, and Murtagh felt another curse rising inside of him. He had gotten used to Galbatorix's enchantments,the lack of speed and strength granted to him by the Mad King making him feel all too human.

Oromis was seated at his table outside his home, sipping gingerly at some tea. Murtagh slowly rose and walked towards the Elder Rider while Glaedr laid down, the ground shaking heavily as the golden dragon settled in.

"Murtagh," Oromis greeted, forgoing the usual Elven greetings. "I would ask after your stay here in Ellesméra, but I fear we both know that it would do us little good to revisit your current situation. Instead, what I would ask is to know why you wished to speak with me so late in the day."

The sun was indeed low in the sky, a few hands above the horizon now, but it mattered little to Murtagh. He fell into the chair Oromis provided, pushing aside the tea the elf had made for him.

"I cannot just sit here and do nothing," Murtagh scowled. "Already I have spent three days alone in the tree house, reminded every minute that Thorn needs my help, and we have yet to so much as speak as to how I am going to change my Name."

"Often we find," Oromis began, placing his tea down on the table in front of him. "That quiet contemplation is key to introspection. In order to change something about ourselves we must first examine who we truly are."

"I know who I am," Murtagh spat. "I've known my True Name for a century now."

"And yet it hasn't changed since," Oromis guessed correctly. "Or else Galbatorix's control over you would have already weakened. Tell me, was your True Name different before your enslavement?"

Murtagh looked away, the elf's gentle stare burning a hole in his heart. "Yes," he eventually answered, his voice low.

"I see." Oromis took a gentle sip of his tea. "Does the change bother you?"

Murtagh blinked, his gaze returning to the elf in front of him. "Does it bother me? Of course it does! Galbatorix tortured Thorn and I, and the only reason Thorn was not killed was because of my father!"

"And you grew angry," Oromis stated blatantly. "At the world. At Galbatorix. At the Riders for allowing it to happen."

"Yes," Murtagh hissed.

"At yourself."

Murtagh did not answer, glaring instead at the elf. His hands shook on the table, and Murtagh fought the urge to stand and stride away from the conversation entirely, else he would do something that would trigger the restraint spells placed on him.

Oromis smiled sadly, the juxtaposition of the two emotions chilling the fire that had lit inside Murtagh. "You wish to change a fundamental part of yourself, Murtagh. Our True Name's tell us much of who we are, but they cannot tell us everything. To do so would require more words than are in the Ancient Language, and is a curiosity that has stumped many elven scholars for centuries."

Murtagh still refused to speak, though he could not deny the words Oromis had spoken. A part of him was angry with himself.

At everything.

"Change is not easy," Oromis continued, accepting the fact that Murtagh remained silent. "You have to want it. And even then, it is not guaranteed."

Do I want to change?

Murtagh looked down at his hands, the rough look of them catching his eye. Scars littered his fingers from years of abuse, and the large callouses made them an ugly remarkable sight. Part of him could see the blood that had once stained them.

How do I?

"How?" Murtagh echoed his thoughts.

"That is something we will discover together," Oromis answered gently. "But first, I require something of you that you will not want to give."

Murtagh looked up sharply at the elf, his brows rising. The kindness on the elf's face was hard to focus on, feeling a bit to Murtagh like staring at the sun. "And that is?"

"Your True Name."

Murtagh stood from the table and threw aside his chair, the sharp swell of anger that had risen earlier returning. "My Name?" Murtagh hissed, his hand reaching for the sword that was not present. "You want to control me? Like him?"

Glaedr growled lowly from behind Murtagh, sending a shiver down Murtagh's spine. Before anyone could react any further Oromis held up a calming hand. Glaedr's growl died down as the elf began to speak, though Murtagh could still feel the heat on the back of his neck from the golden dragon's stare.

"You are right to be suspicious," Oromis said. The elf remained seated, angling another calming hand towards Murtagh. "And if you wish, I will swear to never use your Name -so long as it is yours- against you, but in order to help I must know who you truly are, Murtagh."

Murtagh remained standing for some time, his hands shaking and his vision flaring red.

Another person who would know who I am, who could control me.

Oromis did not speak, though after seeing that Murtagh did not move to leave eventually lowered his hands. The elf sipped at his tea and turned his gaze away, and part of Murtagh realized that Oromis was giving him some semblance of privacy.

Glaedr, however, was not as patient as his Rider. If we wanted to harm you, Murtagh, we would have done so already. We are both in agreement that we will swear never to use your Name, nor tell anyone if it will ease your mind. Whatever you may think of us, know that we too wish to help Thorn, and if you wish to as well then you must change your Name.

Thorn.

The desire to find his partner-of-mind grew until it nearly consumed him, and the stinging pain of knowing that he could not join alongside it.

He missed Thorn. Missed the way he would huff at Murtagh for being so stubborn. Missed the feeling of always knowing that Thorn was there when no one else was. Anything he did now was because of Thorn, and he would do anything to save him from his fate.

Murtagh let out a long breath, clenching his fists tightly at his side. "Your word," Murtagh spoke, the two simple words feeling heavy in his throat.

Oromis nodded gently and swore in the Ancient Language. Glaedr did as well, and once that was done Murtagh righted his upheaved chair and sat heavily in it.

"Fine." Murtagh said lowly. "I will tell you my True Name."

Sometime Later…

Murtagh grumbled, brushing away a fallen leaf from his hair. The midday sun shined brightly down on him, pleasant and warm. It was starkly different from the dark forbidding halls of Urû'baen; the high towering walls and the stench of misery that pervaded the city had often felt overbearing to Murtagh, and the small measure of stillness that he felt from the forest harkened him back to when he had first trained to become a Rider.

Much like long ago, Murtagh sat upon a stump in the middle of a forest, with nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him.

The only path forward is inward.

Oromis had left him in the woods with that simple guidance, telling him only to return when he had full measure of himself. Two weeks had passed already, and Murtagh was no closer to understanding what he was supposed to learn about himself than he had when he first arrived in Ellesméra.

Another leaf landed on his head, and Murtagh scowled. He knocked away the leaf and resettled on the stump, his legs groaning in displeasure at being seated for so long.

Control yourself, Murtagh. Has it been so long since your days in training that you have forgotten how to mediate?

Murtagh startled in surprise and jumped to his feet, his hand falling to his waist and grasping at a non-existent sword.

Glaedr rumbled, his laughter making the very ground Murtagh stood on shake. The golden dragon peered down at him momentarily before settling down on the ground, his bulky frame taking up most of the space inside the clearing.

He had not even heard the dragon approach, and his lack of awareness of his surroundings disturbed him.

"I haven't," Murtagh said quietly, dropping his hand and falling back onto the tree stump.

Haven't what? Glaedr asked. The dragon's eyes were closed and appeared to the world to be sleeping, but Murtagh could feel the full weight of Glaedr's concentration upon him.

"Forgotten my training."

Hmm.

Murtagh sighed, turning his head away from the Elder dragon. "Why are you here?"

To help you, Murtagh. Why else?

"Some help," Murtagh grumbled. "All I've done for days is sit and think."

Oromis believes that the best way for you to change is for you to mediate on yourself, and find the parts of your being that you wish to alter.

"Easier said than done."

Indeed.

Murtagh turned his head back towards Glaedr, raising a brown eyebrow. "You sound as if you disagree."

Glaedr snorted and opened a single golden eye. We have trained many students together, but Oromis's… methods of teaching are best left to one is like Eragon. Your half-brother is someone who needed to spend time learning about himself in manners such as this.

"And yours?"

The lips of Glaedr's mouth parted, revealing a large tooth. It was near the size of Murtagh's forearm, and the evidence of a recent kill made Murtagh shiver. My methods are more direct. Glaedr lifted his head and towered over Murtagh, the hot breath from the dragon causing beads of sweat to build up on his forehead despite the cool breeze. You are angry, and rightfully so. But this anger is eating away at your very being, Murtagh.

"Am I supposed to just stop being angry?"

Your anger, your rage at the world, and even your misery are enshrined in your True Name. Such things are not so easily forgotten.

Murtagh scowled.

That, Glaedr pointed out, leaning in and nudging Murtagh with the tip of his snout. Your fury expresses itself even subconsciously, controlling all of your mannerisms. Calm yourself.

The desire to clench his fists grew, and Murtagh nearly shook with the effort to keep them open.

Deep breathes, the dragon bade, his tone softer despite the deepness of his voice. Focus on what is before you, and not what once was.

Murtagh did as he was told, drawing in deeply through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth. He repeated the familiar practice, his body conforming to the old methods his previous teachers taught him.

It was only then that he felt a great tension slowly lift, one that he did not remember ever starting.

Had he really been that tense?

Good, Glaedr stated, backing away from Murtagh and lowering his head to the grassy field around them.

"Is that it?" Murtagh asked. "Just a few deep breaths?"

Glaedr snorted. No. We have only just begun.

Some more time later…

Much of your anger stems from your lack of control. You were unable to save Thorn or yourself from Galbatorix, and rightfully blame Morzan for your capture and subsequent enslavement. These feelings lingered inside you and grew until they were all they you knew. Even your anger at Eragon is much the same.

"I'm not angry with Eragon," Murtagh murmured, twiddling with a fallen twig in his fingers. He was seated on the ground outside Oromis's hut with Glaedr, and the evening sun danced upon the dragon's golden scales. Oromis was leaning against Glaedr, his gaze locked onto the forest spread out below the Crags.

Oh?

Murtagh shrugged, using the twig in his hands to scratch out illegible markings on the dirt. "I was," Murtagh admitted. "When he first returned and I learned that he was alive I… I was angry. I thought that he was a coward who hid from Galbatorix and the war."

"And now? Did learning that Eragon knew nothing of the Fall change what you thought of him?" Oromis asked, turning his gaze towards Murtagh.

Murtagh drew silent. He did not know when his anger at Eragon had faded. Their conversations during their flight to Ellesméra weighed heavy on his mind and left him unsure of how to react around his half-brother.

Oromis nodded as though to himself. "Do you know what Eragon's reaction was when he first learned of your enslavement?"

Murtagh shook his head slowly, staring at the elf intently.

"He was deeply saddened by the news. Not once did he ever believe that you would serve Galbatorix willingly, and concluded that the Mad King must have captured both you and Thorn and learned your True Names."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"There are many things that you can learn from your half-brother." Oromis stated. "His undying belief in you extended even to your clashes together, both outside Urû'baen and during the battle in the Burning Plains. Many times he was criticized by others for not simply killing you, even when he knew that it may have been necessary in order to win."

Murtagh frowned. "You want me to become like Eragon?"

No, Glaedr answered. There are few individuals in the world like Eragon, and it is never wise to measure yourself against another. You will never be Eragon, nor should you, but that does not mean we cannot learn from others.

"He never once blamed you for your situation, or even his own." Oromis stated gently. "You must do the same; that Galbatorix took away control of your own life is not your fault."

Murtagh exhaled heavily through his nose, bending the twig in his hands until it finally broke with a snap! "When Thorn was… I awoke in a field outside Feinster." The Rider and dragon remained silent, and Murtagh gathered himself before he continued speaking. "I… The only thing I had was Thorn's Eldunarí, and I would not allow anything in the world to take it from me."

"Yet you surrendered Thorn and yourself to Eragon," Oromis said gently.

There was an implied question in his statement, though it took Murtagh a moment to answer the elf. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because…" Murtagh trailed off, gripping the two broken halves of the twig in his hand tightly. After a moment he exhaled again and unclenched his fists, recalling Glaedr's instructions. "Because I knew that he wouldn't harm Thorn."

You trusted that Eragon would do the right thing, Glaedr stated.

"No," Murtagh shook his head, "Yes. I do not know."

"Do you trust that Eragon has Thorn's best intentions in mind? That he will do anything he can to undue what has been done?"

Murtagh's face twisted, annoyance at the questioning rising inside of him. What was the purpose of this line of question? How would his belief about what Eragon would do help him change his True Name?

Glaedr must have sense Murtagh's agitation, for he suddenly asked, And what of your intentions, Murtagh? What will you do?

"What will I do?" Murtagh repeated lowly, a harsh chuckle escaping. "When? When I am free? Will I ever be?"

"You are only a prisoner until you are no longer bound by Galbatorix and Eragon gives you leave." Oromis answered. "Suppose for a moment that Eragon succeeds in freeing Thorn. What will you do then?"

His fists balled with anger, the two halves of the twig in his right-hand straining under his grip. "Kill Keres."

Just the mere thought of the man was enough to overcome Murtagh's restraint, the two broken twigs in his hand bending until they too snapped under the pressure.

The Brotherhood leader? Glaedr growled.

"Yes."

The golden dragons lip lifted in displeasure, and Oromis gently patted Glaedr's side. "Then? What will you and Thorn do?"

"I…" Murtagh trailed off, unsure of why they were asking these questions. It did not matter to Murtagh what would happen if he got Thorn back. If Thorn wanted to leave Alagaësia behind all together, Murtagh would gladly turn his back on the world.

"Will you join us in our fight against Galbatorix? Or will you take Thorn and leave?" Oromis asked. "No one, certainly not Eragon, would blame you."

"If we stayed," Murtagh said lowly, "No one would accept us. We- I killed Hrothgar. The Dwarves will want my head, and I have been Galbatorix's beast for far too long for the humans to ever allow me to live peacefully among them again."

I take your lack of inclusion that you do not want to stay in the forest. Glaedr stated.

Murtagh declined to answer, dropping the remains of the twigs to the ground. He had never favored the Elven cities even back when he was a Rider under the Order.

He stared at them for a moment before growling, "What do these questions have to do with my True Name? All of them are about a future that I might not have."

"How we perceive the future can tell us much of how we see the present," Oromis stated. "Near as much as how we look at our own past. Sometimes merely having the hope of a brighter tomorrow can change someone's perspective entirely."

Hope? What hope do I have? To be named as nothing more than a slave to Galbatorix?

Days later…

The wind lapped at his hair and whipped it around his head, and Murtagh casually brushed the long hair from his sight. Glaedr beat a steady rhythm below him, not having said a word to Murtagh as to their destination. The trees rolled by endlessly, and Murtagh struggled to recall the layout of Du Weldenvarden; it had been over a century since he last stepped foot into any Elven territory, and not even Galbatorix dared to breach the wards surrounding the forest.

He had forgotten how peaceful flying could be.

Galbatorix rarely ever allowed Murtagh and Thorn any freedom, and as such they had to take it anytime that they could. Whenever the King would send them to another city, it would not have been uncommon for the pair to take several days to return, their wanderlust tugging at them.

They would only ever return to the King when their oaths began to pull at their throats, the pain of disobedience an ever-present threat.

Not once since he entered the forest had Murtagh felt a single tug from Urû'baen.

Are the wards preventing Galbatorix from reaching me? Or has the King simply discarded me, as he did his Forsworn?

Glaedr started to descend, Murtagh saw a monolith made of basalt. It was nearly a hundred feet higher than any single tree, the green hue of the rock blending in with the coloring of the forest surrounding it. The golden dragon circled the monolith once before alighting atop its peak, pulling in his massive wings in order to fit between some of the taller towering pillars of rocks.

Black caves darted the rock, the evidence of dragons clear to see; large groves from talons had been dug into the rock, carving paths that made no sense to Murtagh. Broken pieces of multicolored rocks littered the landscape, glittering in the sun and making Murtagh frown.

Glaedr moved towards the largest tower, the cave easily the largest of them all. The ancient dragon moved with practice ease despite his impairment, though he was slow to lower himself down to the rocky ground. Murtagh dismounted, bending his knees in order to absorb the impact.

He looked around at the rocky barren landscape. Nothing stood out to him at all, and he turned with a raised brow towards Glaedr. "What is this place?"

The Stone of Broken Eggs.

Murtagh blinked. Neither during his time with Galbatorix or the Riders had he heard of such a place before, though it was clear to see that it had once belonged to the dragons. "What happened here?"

During the war between the dragons and the elves, the elves tracked our kin to this location and killed us while we slept. They tore apart our nests, then shattered our eggs with their magic. That day, it rained with our blood in the forest below. No dragon has ever lived here since.

The glittering rocks he saw suddenly took on a new meaning. He stooped low and picked up the first egg fragment he saw; it was as large as his hand and the color of a setting sun. He twisted the shattered egg in his grip, both at once amazed that the egg had survived all this time and saddened that such a thing had ever occurred.

Murtagh gently placed the egg back where he had found it, his hands trembling slightly. "Why did you bring me here?"

To show you what will become of my race if Galbatorix is allowed to continue to rule.

Murtagh scowled and stood. He walked towards the closest ledge and peered over, the sight of the forest far below him. "I already know."

Glaedr huffed. Do you? He could hear Glaedr moving behind him, and Murtagh turned his head to see what the dragon was doing. Glaedr had moved his long neck towards the fragment of egg Murtagh had found, peering down at the broken egg with an ancient sadness that Murtagh felt he could never understand.

Murtagh sat on the ledge, his feet dangling freely in the air. "My previous masters never spoke of this place."

Glaedr snorted. They would not, for it is something that has only passed from dragon to dragon.

"Then why show me?"

To see if you understand.

Murtagh frowned. He was growing weary of the endless barrage of riddles. "Understand what?" he growled.

Something terrible happened upon this ground, Glaedr said. That night, lives were forever changed, and the war grew only ever crueler. It was not until the first Eragon and Bid'Daum negotiated peace between Queen Tarmunora and the rest of my kin that the endless slaughter stopped. Despite that, many dragons who tried to raise hatchlings here were never the same. Even we dragons, fierce and prideful as we are, struggle with our own sense of identity. How could they ever raise hatchlings again, knowing that the elves that had killed their children were now our allies?

Eventually, as all races do, Glaedr continued, the elves forgot what happened here. They claim that their memory is deep, but they are just as fallible as humans. But we never forgot. So long as a single dragon remains, we will remember. It is part of each of us, and we tell the story of that night so that our hatchlings will know.

Curious, Murtagh twisted around, bringing up one leg and leaning on his raised knee. "Know what?"

That the sorrows of the past may define us, but only if we let it.

More time later…

"The Varden has successfully taken Feinster," Oromis said. "Eragon and Saphira managed to arrive at the city during the siege, which ended late last night."

Murtagh did not say anything, continuing to fiddle with the rings in his hand. It had been something one of his Elven guard had given him, left mysteriously on his bedside table while he had been away with Oromis and Glaedr. It was a series of bands that could be formed into one ring, and Murtagh found that putting it together and taking it apart was soothing when his agitation spiked.

"According to Eragon, he managed to capture a magician in the battle, one who was part of a group trying to create another Shade."

The half-solved ring fell from his hands, and Murtagh twisted in his seat. He was seated beside Oromis outside the elf's home, and the Elder Rider had been regaling him with news of the outside world. Most of the time Murtagh found that he cared little for the war, only ever asking if elf heard tale of Thorn yet.

"Was it the Brotherhood?" Murtagh asked. His fists threatened to close, and he felt the familiar hot wash of rage beginning to rise. Closing his eyes, Murtagh took a few deep breaths, counting backwards in his mind until he was certain that his hands stopped shaking.

Oromis waited calmly for him to finish, only answering Murtagh once he had opened his eyes. "Eragon believes so, but he has yet to interrogate the prisoner. The ongoing battle required his attention, but he has stated that he will interrogate to the magician this morning."

"I see." Murtagh picked up the discarded rings, untangling them to start once again.

The elf's eyebrow raised slightly, and a hint of surprise showed through his face.

Murtagh tried to ignore Oromis's bemused look, his fingers fumbling slightly with the rings in his hand. It was until he had completed the puzzle and slid the ring onto the third finger of his left hand that Murtagh acknowledged the elder Rider.

"What?" He half-growled.

Oromis shook his head, a partial smile appearing. "Your restraint has grown, Murtagh. When you first arrived you would have lashed out, uncaring who your words injured."

Had he changed? All he had done was wait for his anger to abate instead of simply allowing it to consume him.

The elf quickly moved on, barely giving Murtagh a moment to consider further. "How do you think your progress has been so far?"

Murtagh blinked at the elf before frowning in thought. "Too slow," he eventually said, trying to hide his frustration at himself. He raked his hands through his long hair. "It's been weeks since we've started, and my True Name hasn't changed in the slightest."

Oromis sighed, though he did not seem disappointed by the news. "Yes, I have feared as much. You have made remarkable strides, especially in such a brief time, but if we were to continue on in this manner, I fear that it would be months before we see any results. The war continues a pace, and I fear that time will no longer be on our side."

The truth of the matter did not surprise Murtagh, but he could not help his frustration grow. Before he could lash out at Oromis, Murtagh took a deep breath and simply nodded. It took him a moment to respond, and he only opened his mouth once he was certain his agitation was gone.

"What else can we do? Surely there is another method." The words felt foreign in his mouth, though the question was still one that he wanted answered.

The elf shared a brief glance with Glaedr. The large dragon had not spoken since Murtagh's arrival this morning, preferring instead to listen in on the conversation and clean the dirt between his one good paw. It was only then that the dragon broke his silence, lowering his paw and peering at Murtagh with a large golden iris.

There is way, though I suspect that you would not find it amenable. It would involve either Oromis or myself delving into the deepest recesses of your mind and guiding you through the change, accelerating that which we have already set into motion. We would meld with you in only the way you have done only with Thorn, and allow us to see exactly what barriers you have placed before you.

Murtagh frowned at the thought of someone so deeply inside his mind, though his curiosity at the method won out. "Why haven't I heard of such a thing before?"

"Because it is reckless and dangerous." Oromis answered. "Only few among the elves ever attempted such feats, and only with those that they've trusted most of all."

The risks involved are many, and do not necessarily guarantee an outcome you would find favorable, Glaedr continued. Of the previous times such things have been tried, at least that we know of, few enough have succeeded. It will involve delving not only into your memories, but into the parts of you that you hide, even from yourself. Such things can awaken long repressed emotions and memories, and risk regression instead of progression.

"Regression?"

"There is a chance," Oromis stated, his thumb running over the lip of his teacup. "That your Name may not change at all, and only cerement who you are currently."

Not only that, but it is believed that you could even regain previous Names you have had.

This time, Murtagh was unable to help the surprised look that took over his countenance. "What? What would that even mean?"

Oromis shot Glaedr a look, and the Rider and dragon conversed silently between themselves quickly. "It would mean that you would become who you were previously. Your mind would become stuck in a -for lack of better description- memory of yourself, and anything beyond that would be lost."

The mere fact that even such a thing was feasible stunned Murtagh. Who would he become then, in that instance? The Murtagh that was never captured by his father, and enslaved by Galbatorix?

Or, worst of all, the Murtagh that had yet to have Thorn hatch for him?

The thought of the latter made Murtagh shiver.

"Has that ever happened to anyone?"

Oromis shook his head. "Not that we are aware of, fortunately. It has merely been theorized by our scholars. Even then, it is unlikely, but we would not tell you of this method without first advising you of all the risks associated."

Murtagh glanced down at his hands, twisting the ring on his finger. "Is this the only path forward?"

Oromis smiled sadly, though for once the sight of pity did not bristle Murtagh. "It is the only one that we know of that could still help you, and allow you to leave the forest and help Thorn. It is your choice, Murtagh. The elves will continue to harbor you until such time that Eragon can return, and you may attempt to change your Name slowly during that time."

"But not if I want to leave and help Thorn," Murtagh murmured.

The spirits inside him are unstable, Glaedr stated. We know not how much time he has left upon this earth.

"Think it over," Oromis bid him. The elf stood and picked up his tea, the dismissal clear for him to see. "Time may not be on our side, but I think we can allow you the night to consider your options."

Oromis returned to the hut but Murtagh remained seated, knowing that his guards would show themselves soon to escort him back to his tree.

His options indeed.

The next day…

Murtagh wasted no time once he arrived, the sun barely cresting the sky before he answered the Rider and dragon.

"I will do it," he stated, before pointing towards Glaedr. "But only if he is the one to show me how."

Oromis did not seem surprised by his choice, merely nodding and gesturing for Murtagh to join him. The elf had prepared a decent sized breakfast for the two of them, but Murtagh was beginning to lament the loss of meat and eggs after weeks spent eating the typical elven diet.

He had spent the previous night deep in thought over the matter, and in the end decided that if anyone were to delve into his mind that it would be Glaedr. It would feel less like an invasion if a dragon did it, though he was not looking forward to melding with someone other than Thorn. At least this way, he figured, I already know what its like to do so with a dragon.

He did not know whether he was spurred on his choice by desperation, or if he genuinely believed that Glaedr and Oromis only deigned to help him. For weeks they had known his True Name and had yet to utter it, only doing so when he had given them explicit permission.

Oromis gestured over towards were Glaedr lounged, the dragon alert and watchful unlike the previous times Murtagh had arrived early. Glaedr blinked at him before brushing his mind against Murtagh, waiting for him to lower his barriers.

Your confidence in me will not be misplaced, Murtagh. Glaedr greeted. I promise that I will, to my utmost ability, help you in this endeavor.

The promise sworn in the Ancient Language was not lost on Murtagh, though he was unsure if it helped at all. Not knowing how to respond Murtagh merely nodded in reply and settled down before the dragon, crossing his legs and adopting the familiar pose he did when mediating.

"I will watch from afar," Oromis stated, seating himself in one of his folding chairs. "I will only interfere if I sense something amiss, and only then will I do so through Glaedr. No one shall disturb you until you are finished."

When we begin, Glaedr said, not giving Murtagh the opportunity to respond, I will dive deep into your mind. Do not fight me, Murtagh, or this will be even more difficult for the both of us. We will both completely lose track of our sense of self, and we will no longer feel as though our bodies exist. Such an existence is familiar to dragons -our Eldunarí provide us with a similar feeling- but it will be vastly different for you.

"I understand," Murtagh said.

Good, Glaedr took a deep breath and settled his massive head down before Murtagh, the tip of his snout inches away from his face. Now, breathe, and open yourself to me.

Murtagh took a deep breath and lowered the barriers around his mind; it had been centuries since he felt exposed as such, and it took everything in him to not immediately slam his mind shut once more. Glaedr waited patiently at the edges of his mind until Murtagh calmed himself, only venturing forward when Murtagh indicated that he could.

As Glaedr's being flowed into Murtagh, he could not help but gasp at the feeling of such an ancient dragon. The few Eldunarí of Glaedr's age that Murtagh ever touched were crazed, lashing out at any who dared lower the barriers of their mind near them. In such instances that Murtagh had to ever deal with them he had placed special wards around himself to protect his mind, but the vastness of Glaedr's mind reminded him how incredibly powerful dragons were.

Memories that were not his own flickered by too quickly for Murtagh to see, swept away by Glaedr. Do not be tempted by my memories, the dragon advised. The only way for us to remain in control is to not allow either of us to be unsure of who we are.

Murtagh nodded, knowing that the dragon could sense the intended acknowledgement behind it.

Now, we begin.

Memories floated past Murtagh, each one dragging him down into their depths…

His first-time riding Thorn, and the elation that he felt….

Galbatorix's sneer as he watched Murtagh struggle against his bonds, the sound of Thorn's painful screech causing tears to stream down Murtagh's face…

…The hard press of steel against his back, and the rage-filled cry that Morzan bellowed forth.

There! A voice cried out.

The procession of memories froze. Morzan's face, drunk and will with wrath swarmed over Murtagh, only to be held back by a fierce golden light.

Your own rage stems deep from your childhood, a voice spoke inside Murtagh. See how it shaped you.

The flow of memories resumed; this time centered around his father.

…Morzan flying on his dragon, leaving Murtagh behind after telling him to grow a spine…

…The sight of his mother's tears, and the face of Brom-the-not-a-true-servant ushering them away from the dark, dreary castle…

The voice resumed, And see how you can let them go. Like leaves upon a river, washed away.

The memories flowed away, leaving behind a sense of stillness he had never truly felt before.

You have forgotten, the voice spoke again, what it means to care for another besides yourself.

Not true, he tried to reply. He tried to impress upon the image of Thorn.

Thorn is as much you as you are him, the voice answered, when was the last time you genuinely cared for another?

The length of centuries past in a flash before him, disappearing too quickly to get a true sense of what was happening. Then, the memories froze once more, this time on the sight of a little girl, covered head to toe in mud and grime.

Remember…

Murtagh grunted as he walked down the dirtied streets of Dras-Leona, trying in vain to ignore the fearful cries that the citizens let lose at the sight of him. He had only just barely escaped another dreadful meeting with the town's Mayor, a loathsome oaf of a man as useless as the man he replaced.

Thorn was lazing off the bank of the Leona Lake, off enjoying the heat of the summer days while Murtagh toiled away at the various tasks set forth by Galbatorix. The Mad King had commanded Murtagh to visit each of the cities and participate in their courts, claiming that Murtagh's lack of interest in the past two decades meant that humans viewed him little better than they did the Forsworn.

Better than dealing with these tiresome courts, Murtagh thought, kicking a rock down into a dark empty street. A bunch of fat, old men arguing about nothing in particular, only to claim others deeds for their own.

The soft sounds of pain, followed by the distinct cry of a child drew Murtagh up short. He glanced around at his surroundings; He was in the middle of the slums, his mindless trek taking him far past the road he meant to turn down. There was no one else around him, each of the citizens of the poor neighborhood having closed their windows and doors tightly ever since he set foot inside the city.

The muffled cry continued, and Murtagh hesitated on the edge of the alley. When it did not abate, he ventured forward down the alley, following the sound towards the source.

Along the alley were various broken pieces of furniture strewn about, left carelessly by the wayside by their previous owners. There, among the pile of scattered debris a child sat, limbs and head huddled close together. Dirt and grime covered the length of the child, and the scraps of clothes offered little protection against the harsh summer storms that frequented Dras-Leona.

Murtagh kneeled before the child and tapped a nearby plank of wood.

The child startled at the sound and jumped back from him in freight, the sounds of crying growing louder in his ear.

"You there," Murtagh said, trying to soften his voice as much as he could. "Are you alright?"

The child sputtered in front of him, their frail arms lifting to cover their head. "F-forgive m-me, M-master."

Murtagh frowned; a sharp welt was swelling below the child's knee – a girl, he realized after a moment. The size of the bruise was about the same size as the rock Murtagh had kicked earlier, and for the first time in ages Murtagh felt the boiling of regret bubble up inside him.

"Let me see," Murtagh said, reaching out towards the wound.

The girl cried in panic and pulled away from him, and Murtagh felt a sharp hit of exasperation.

"I only want to heal you," Murtagh grunted. He reached forward again, slowly this time, telegraphing his moves.

The girl blinked at him, and Murtagh realized that she would have been no older than six years of age. "W-why? H-have I d-done something w-wrong, M-master?"

"No," Murtagh frowned. "It was my fault. I kicked the rock and injured you."

"O-oh."

The little girl wiped her cheeks with dirtied hands, highlighting for Murtagh the various bruises and cuts littering her limbs. The sight of them stirred something inside him, and he quickly reached out and held his hand over her injured leg.

"Waíse-."

"A-are you going to c-curse me?" the little girl asked, her face twisting in fear.

Murtagh sighed and shook his head. "No, I am not going to curse you."

"Oh."

Shaking his head again, Murtagh murmured. "Waíse Heil."

At first the girl tensed, but once the cool rush of relief overcame her, she opened her eyes and peered closely at her knee, watching with rapt fascination as the bruise disappeared. Once it was gone Murtagh moved on silently, working his way up and down her limbs and allowing his magic to heal the rest of her wounds.

"What's your name?" Murtagh asked her.

"Giselle." The girl answered quickly, before squeaking and hiding her face from him. "F-forgive me, M-master."

Murtagh shook his head. "I am not your master. Where are your parents?"

"G-gone," Giselle said.

He grunted, unsurprised then that she was in the streets. "No family?"

"N-no."

"Where do you live now?"

"T-the orphanage."

Dras-Leona, as far as Murtagh knew, operated a few orphanages, though he did not believe that there was any near this side of the city. "How'd you end up out here?"

"R-ran away, M-master."

He sighed again. "I'm not your master," he repeated. The last of her wounds had closed- near as Murtagh could tell- but her dirtied appearance made it hard for him to see any that remained. He glanced over her quickly; she was frail and thin, indicating that it had been a while since she had a decent meal, and the soiled clothing she wore told him that she had not bathed recently either. "Why did you run away?"

"T-the b-bad man," Giselle answered, a fresh stream of tears appearing. "H-he-"

When she broke off and threatened to start crying, Murtagh quickly grabbed her wrist and tugged her onto her feet. "Come with me."

The little girl dragged her heels into the ground, pulling uselessly at his hand. "No! I do not want to go back!"

"You're not."

Giselle stopped tugging, her body hanging limp from his grip. She eventually managed to get her feet under her and stood, peering up at him with dark blue eyes. "Where are you taking me?"

"Some place better," Murtagh answered.

The memory faded, disappearing into the void.

The achingly familiar voice reappeared, You cared for her at a time when you cared little for yourself.

Yes, he tried to answer.

Why?

Because, he tried to answer, because I know how cruel the world could be.

The voice drew silent for a moment, contemplating, before saying, this memory was buried deep. Far down enough that you have managed to repress it entirely. Why?

S-she died, he tried to answer.

A morose tone overtook the voice, as though saddened but unsurprised by the news. What happened?

She grew sick, he tried to answer. A few years later, Giselle was gone.

You hid her away from Galbatorix, the voice stated, as though it already knew the answer.

Yes, he tried to answer.

The Mad King never knew of her existence. The voice continued, And after that, you closed yourself off completely. You never grieved for her loss.

No, he tried to answer, even though it was a rhetorical statement.

Much like you never grieved for what happened to you and Thorn, The voice stated. Remember that feeling, Murtagh. That desire to help someone simply because you could.

Just as the voice said, the memory flowed back over him, the aching desire in his heart to help the little girl swelling inside him. It faded just as quickly, and he was left feeling bereft.

Good, the voice said, We will find more, and remind you of the times when you cared for others more than yourself.

When Murtagh awoke, he was not in his tree house. The unfamiliar room startled him out of the soft linen bed he had been placed out, his hands searching uselessly for the blade that he had lost.

"Be at ease," Oromis stated, appearing next to Murtagh. "You are in my hut. I thought it best to allow you to rest here instead of returning to Ellesméra. Your guards have already been dismissed for the night, and you are free to remain here until morning."

Murtagh stilled himself, closing his right hand around nothing. An unfamiliar feeling throbbed in his chest and caused him to rub at it, drawing the attention of Oromis beside him.

"How do you feel?" the elf asked, offering Murtagh a cup of tea.

Murtagh grimaced at the smell, but his parched throat demanded to be sated. He accepted the cup without a word, half-glad to see that it was not boiling hot. "Tired," Murtagh answered before sipping at the leaf-juice.

He nearly gagged at the taste, unsure of how the elves drunk such things. He placed the cup down, only to be presented with a wineskin that he downed quickly. The water soothed his aching throat, though it did little for the strange feeling in his chest.

"How long was I out?" Murtagh asked. He glanced at the window inside the hut, surprised to see that night had already fallen.

"It has been two days since Glaedr and yourself began. You have only been asleep for a few hours at most."

Murtagh blinked, surprise coursing through him. "That long? Did it work?"

Oromis smiled. "Only you can truly answer that, Murtagh."

His chest ached something fierce, though Murtagh cast aside the feeling for now. He searched through his own mind for a few moments before giving up, unsure whether he could feel for himself if his Name had changed.

Eventually he gave up, instead whispering quietly his True Name.

Nothing happened.

Murtagh's eyes widened, a feeling of both elation and thrill rising. Again he whispered his Name, a wide smile gracing his lips when he did not feel the familiar rush.

A painful and free laugh escaped him, and Murtagh could feel his hands start to shake.

I am free.

"Yes, you are." Oromis stated, a gentle smile filling his features. Murtagh had not even realized he had spoken, the words slipping free in his jubilation. "Galbatorix no longer has a hold on you; all of the previous oaths you've sworn, both to him and anyone else are void."

Murtagh could scarcely hear him. "I- I don't know who I am anymore," he whispered.

Though he had spoken softly, Oromis's sharp ears were easily able to pick up the words. "Then it is up to you to discover who you have become. Though I can say that it is an honor to meet you, Murtagh."

Murtagh still did not know how to respond to such things, so instead he stood from the bed. "Where is Glaedr? Is he resting?"

Oromis shook his head. "He is tired from the ordeal, but he waited with me for you to awaken."

Murtagh nodded and made for the door, walking on tired legs out towards the waiting dragon. Glaedr had not moved since Murtagh had seen him last, though the great golden dragon picked up his head and turned towards Murtagh as he approached.

The dragon sniffed at him lightly, a puff of smoke obscuring his vision and causing Murtagh to cough loudly.

You have changed. Glaedr greeted.

"I have," Murtagh replied. He considered himself for a moment before bowing, the gesture unfamiliar and stiff. "Thank you, Glaedr-elda, for your help."

You have suffered much, Murtagh. I am glad to have been of assistance. Glaedr stated, before leveling a large golden eye at him. But know this; just because you have changed your Name does not absolve you of all the things you have done. You may have been a slave to Galbatorix, but you still must stand trial in the Tribunal.

Murtagh stiffened but nodded his head. "Aye," he said lowly.

Do not despair, Murtagh, for it is Eragon who is the Leader of our Order. I know you harbored distrust for the old Older, but I believe things will be better under his leadership.

Glaedr's mentioning of his distrust for way things had been in the Order once upon a time reminded Murtagh that the dragon had seen all of his memories. He did not particularly favor that outcome, but he was glad to no longer be tied to Galbatorix.

Anything is better than that, he thought.

"Aye," Murtagh replied after a moment. Oromis had appeared silently beside them and offered Murtagh another small smile when he turned towards the elf. "What now?" Murtagh asked.

"That," Oromis replied, "is entirely up to you. Though I suppose you will want to help Thorn."

Murtagh nodded. "I will need a weapon," he said, glancing down at his bare hands. He did not mourn Zar'roc's loss, but the lack of a brightsteel blade would hinder him against any who stood before him.

He had a sudden longing for his old sword, the one gifted to him long ago by Rhunön herself. Galbatorix had taken it from him long ago, and Murtagh had never dared to look for it himself inside the King's treasury.

Something Eragon said suddenly struck Murtagh.

When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree.

Oh man... What a chapter. I had thought originally to do Murtagh's tale every so often throughout the story, but I felt like it would have been too disjointed and taken away from Eragon's PoV. This way, it allowed me to flesh out Murtagh entirely, as well as tell a side of his story that I feel we rarely get to see, especially in this storyline. And, this way, Murtagh's story is mostly all in one place and easy to read. That said, hopefully the time jumps work, cause I was purposefully not specific with exactly when everything takes place for him.

Anyway, thanks so much for reading, and I hope to have the next chapter up sometime in the next few weeks, but somehow it looks like I went from like once a week all the way to once a month :\ Like I've said, I'm not abandoning this story!

Let me know what you guys think, so leave a review if you enjoyed it!

Ancient Language translations (Old Norse):

Italics represents the Old Norse translation; Bold represents Ancient Language.

Fyrir Neðan – Below Something. Fallen One

Du vættr Bani – The Bane of Spirits: Name of the Brotherhood

Vættr - being, creature; supernatural being, spirit

Bani - death; bane, cause of death, slayer

Skörungr – leader, notable or outstanding person, paragon. Title for Leader of the Riders; given as an honor.

Guliä waíse medh ono, Skörungr - Luck be with you, Leader.

Grœnn – green. Verdant. More accurately, color of the forest.

Grœnnskular – Verdant-scales.

Lengr – For a longer time

Ginnung – space, void

Lengr-Ginnug – Spacetime Tenga's definition of Space and Time as one concept

Istalrí - Flames

Freohr – Death

Blöthr – Stop, halt.