Inheritance Cycle 1. The Child of Summer

**A/N: Hi everyone. First of all, thanks for stopping by and taking an interest in my story. Secondly, there's a few orders of business I'd like to address (sorry this is so long):**

**1.) This is an AU, (like...completely). If that's not your cup of tea, then… I'm sorry?**

**2.) This is not like the Inheritance Cycle whatsoever. I simply took the characters that Christopher Paolini created and put them into a story that was inspired by the film Tristan and Isolde (2006) and the HBO Series Game of Thrones.**

**3.) There are no dragons in this story. Unfortunately, the idea of giant flying lizards did not fit into this story arc, as it is not heavily centered on action. It is a love story above all else. Instead of dragons, our main characters are allied with direwolves, (hence the Game of Thrones inspiration)**

**4.) Murtagh and Eragon are still half-brothers, but they share the same father, Brom, not the same mother. Brom is the king of Alagaesia and Morzan is the king of a country that I created.**

**5.) Galbatorix doesn't exist within this Alternate Universe. Instead, Morzan is the main antagonist.**

**If any of this doesn't sound appealing to you, then I suggest you back out now. If, however, this does sound like something you could be interested in, then thanks for joining me on this journey. I hope you all enjoy it. With all of that being said: let's get started!**

* * *

_"I wonder by my troth, what thou and I_

_Did, till we loved? Were we not wean'd till then?"_

* * *

Murtagh had always been a quiet child. No matter how hard he tried, his father could never get the boy to string more than a few sentences together at a time. He was an avid reader, but the child always seemed to prefer the company of books over that of people. This didn't surprise Brom though; the boy's mother had been the same way. She used to wile away her days in the Surdan sun, nestled under the shade of a broadleaf tree. That was the way he had met her: Emà. The dappled sunlight streaming through the gaps in the leaves had cast little shadows on her lovely face. She had laughed when she'd caught him staring.

_'Are you lost, sir?'_ she had asked, her lilting voice sounding like a song to his ears. Her vibrant grey eyes were alight with vitality and joy.

_'No, I am not,'_ he'd replied, catching her infectious laugh. _'I am simply captivated by your beauty.'_ She had laughed at that too, her full mouth parted and spread wide in a jubilant smile. Dark waves of hair fell softly about her slim shoulders, a braided wreath of wildflowers adorning her hair. And the way that she spoke, as if she found the goodness and the light in all people… How could he not love her? He was going to marry her, after all was said and done. _Until my dying day, I shall always love you…_

"Where is your head this morning, my love?" Selena's voice cut through his reverie, snapping him harshly back to reality. Brom blinked back the wetness that had suddenly come to his eyes and looked up at his wife. "Did you hear anything I just said?"

"In the clouds, apparently," he muttered. "I'm sorry, my dear. It seems my thoughts have run away with me today." She smiled at him across the long table, quickly turning her attention back to the plate of fruit that lay before her.

"Jeod has called a council meeting," she continued, slicing a piece of melon delicately with her knife. "He wants to discuss the recent turnover of men amongst the City Guard. Something about treason… I'm not sure, but it all sounds very droll to me."

"Yes, yes, I'll be there," the king replied absentmindedly. "I know he's been afraid of this for a while. I'll go, if only to assuage his fears."

"Probably for the best." Selena's eyes were downcast, but they were ever watchful, stealing furtive glances at her husband. It hadn't escaped her notice that he'd been increasingly abstracted as of late. Anytime she'd tried to engage him in conversation she'd have to drag him away from his thoughts. But just what exactly those thoughts were, she was never fully certain, though she surely had her ideas…

They continued their breakfast in their parlor, silently focusing on themselves. This was quickly becoming their routine, and Selena was growing tired of it. When she'd been betrothed to the future king of Alagaesia as a young woman-a desperate grab for power by her father-she'd envisioned a life full of splendor and jewels and rich fabrics. And while all of those things had indeed come to pass, there was an emptiness between them. She'd tried to infiltrate that space-that ever-lengthening space-but Brom always drew away from her. It had taken Selena years to understand what was keeping him from opening up to her, but the answer had made itself clear eventually...

A messenger hurried into the room, head bowed and eyes downcast. He stopped for a moment at the edge of the table, trying to catch his labored breathing. "What is it?" the king intoned dryly.

"Your Majesty," the white-haired man wheezed, a hand pressed against his stomach, "it's your son." The queen's piercing blue eyes flashed upwards, though anyone looking from a distance never would have known that she'd suddenly become highly aware of the unassuming old man. Selena stroked the dull edge of her cutting knife with one long finger, watching closely.

"Which one?" she asked innocently, full lips set firmly into her most practiced simper.

The messenger's gaze flicked nervously between the king and queen, his mouth quivering in hesitation. Selena eyed him carefully and waited patiently for the answer she knew was to come. "It's Murtagh, Your Grace," he finally replied with a bow of his head.

Brom suddenly whipped his head up from looking at his plate, his full attention on the messenger now. "What's happened?" he breathed, eyes wide in fearful anticipation.

"He is missing, Your Majesty."

Brom stood quickly, pushing up from the table and causing his chair to topple over onto the floor. "Why am I only now hearing of this?" he boomed, his voice suddenly full of anger. The queen remained sitting there impassively, hawkish eyes ever vigilant.

"We only just learned of it, Your Majesty. The steward was waiting for him to begin his tutoring for the day, and… well, he never showed up." The frightened messenger was now shaking like a leaf from head to toe, no doubt recalling the tales he'd heard of the king's wrath.

"Find Jeod," the king replied, making his way toward the door. "Tell him to send a garrison out to find the boy. I want him brought home, _now!_"

The old man bowed once more, his hands trembling, and retreated out the door from whence he came, scurrying like a frightened mouse. The king's footsteps could be heard echoing against the stone walls of the corridor, sounding like crashes of thunder in his haste. Somewhere, a door slammed heavily on its hinges and the footsteps ceased, swallowed up by the immensity of the castle. All the while, the queen sat at her breakfast table, taking tiny bites of fruit and porridge. The queen reached for her crystal goblet and raised it to her lips, taking a small sip of the watered apple wine and wrapping her hand around the thin stem. She chewed on a strawberry purposefully, staring out the large window that looked out over the city of Illirea. _Yes… the answer had made itself quite clear…_

* * *

A warm breeze was blowing across the open meadow, bending the soft blades of grass to its gentle force. Murtagh pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and continued studying the page beneath him. It was a history book, of the pacts and alliances between clan chieftains of the Silver Age, and it hadn't been easy sneaking the large tome out of the city under his cloak. He was only a young boy after all, and easily recognizable as the king's bastard at that. The hood of the cloak had served to hide his face from the guards at the city gates, but it had been slow going. The young boy looked up at the walls of the shining city that was his home, though it had never really felt like it. He was treated well, but everyone always looked down on him, and not just because he was a child.

_Bastard…_

That word always hung over his head, like a dark cloud. He hadn't known what it meant for a while, but the steward that was in charge of his education had explained it to him once.

"You are aware that you are a bastard," he had said dryly, flipping through the dusty pages of an ancient book on warfare. "But you do not know what it means."

"No, master," the child replied. "Father says not to listen to those people, but…"

"It is difficult," the steward cut in. "I know how it feels to be looked down upon for what you are, not who you are." The old man looked at him with kind, brown eyes. His white beard reached down to his waist, as fluffy as a white cloud. "As it stands, a bastard is one who is born to a mother and father that are not joined in wedlock. Your father, the king, was betrothed to a woman from Surda, a nobleman's daughter. But you were born before they were married. If they had been joined in wedlock, you might have been made legitimate, but your mother died shortly after you were born. And so, you are a bastard, Murtagh. But do not think that makes you any less of a person than anyone else. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master," Murtagh replied, hanging his head somberly. He'd known that his mother was killed by Orani soldiers, but it still hurt to hear about her, the woman he'd never known. His father had married Selena soon after that, and his brother had been born, the future king of Alagaesia. It was a title he would never know.

He thought of her then, his mother, as he sat in that meadow. He knew she'd loved to read, and he couldn't help but think he'd picked up that particular trait from her. She had been beautiful, which he knew from the small painting he kept tucked in his tunic pocket. It was the only image he had of her, and he guarded it fiercely. His father didn't know he had it, and the queen certainly didn't know either. Murtagh didn't know what the queen would do if she ever found out…

Murtagh looked up at the city again, marveling at the clean, white stones of the walls. Illirea was huge, a thriving metropolis, and it would take the guards hours to find him. He could only hope his father wouldn't figure him out. Even though he knew his father cared about him, he could be overprotective. And living in the same castle as the queen was never easy. He never knew what he did to make the queen despise him, but she glared at him with hateful scorn every time he was in her presence. Those piercing blue eyes of hers, and the cold grey eyes of her direwolf, were always scrutinizing his face, searching for some hidden evil within it. Whatever she was searching for though, she never seemed to find it.

It wouldn't be long now before his father's wolf picked up his scent and they found him. The female direwolf, Athkore, had always been kind to him, and if he was lucky she would keep his location secret from his father for a little while longer. But, as fate would have it, he was not lucky. It seemed he'd been cursed since the day he was born. The huge, cream-colored direwolf appeared on the horizon, flying towards him at an alarming rate. Her white fur shifted in the breeze, and it looked like her skin was rippling, like the surface of a lake after someone threw a rock into it. Athkore came upon him and skidded to a halt, pink tongue hanging out of her mouth as she panted in the heat of the summer day.

_'Little one,'_ she said through their mental contact, her voice deep and rich, _'your father is searching for you. Why have you run?'_

_'I didn't run, Athkore,' _he said, standing up and coming over to the gigantic wolf. He was tall for a boy of ten, but the wolf stood at least two heads taller than him. _'I just needed to get away for a while. The castle is so… stifling sometimes. It's nice to come out here, don't you think?'_

_'Yes, little one, I agree. But next time, let your father know before you run off,'_ she scolded softly. Athkore leaned her head down and licked him with her soft tongue, right on the cheek, and he laughed as he wiped the slobber off of himself, scratching her behind her huge ears. She suddenly perked her head up, staring back in the direction of the city, her nostrils flaring as she picked up a scent on the air. _'He's coming, little one.' _She stared back at him with her soft, brown eyes and gave him another tiny lick on the cheek before taking off towards the city. Murtagh saw then that his father was galloping toward him astride his black charger, pushing the horse to go faster. It wasn't long before the direwolf met him and then turned to run alongside the horse.

Murtagh hung his head in shame upon seeing the look of utter fury upon his father's face. He'd seen his father angry before, but never like this. Flames seemed to be leaping from his eyes and steam coming from his ears. The boy stared up at him innocently, clutching the leather-bound book to his chest tightly. Brom leapt from the horse's back and landed nimbly on the ground.

"Hello, Father," Murtagh said meekly, avoiding eye contact at all costs. The king took long strides toward his son, finally kneeling in front of him and taking the boy by the chin, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"Murtagh," he whispered, the name seeming strained on his lips. The king's striking blue eyes searched his face, aching at how much the child looked like his mother. "What are you doing, boy?"

He looked up at his father then, flinching slightly at his hard stare. "I… I just wanted to come out here to read." Brom let out a short breath of a laugh and hung his head, rubbing his eyes with a rough and calloused hand.

"You wanted to read," he echoed back, shaking his head. But there was a smile playing on his lips, and even the boy could not help but notice this. Athkore sat silently behind the king, watching the scene unfold before her. "Hasn't anyone told you it's dangerous to wander off by yourself?" Brom asked, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. Murtagh shook his head vehemently, dark hair flopping about wildly. "Mmm, is that so? Well it is dangerous. You must be more careful, Murtagh."

"I'm ten years old, Papa. I'm grown up now," the little boy replied heatedly, a look of fierce determination fixed on his face. The king smirked slightly, holding back the laugh he wished to release.

"Yes, you are nearly a man grown at ten. But even grown men need a little help protecting themselves sometimes," he said, squeezing his son's shoulder. "Why must you come out here by yourself? Why not play with your brother?" They boy's eyes went wide at that, and he shook his head again, harder this time.

"No, Papa. The queen wouldn't like that…" He let the thought trail off, but the king knew; he had known for some time. It took everything within him not to lose his temper again. It would do no good for the boy to see there was tension between his father and his wife.

"You must try, Murtagh. He is your brother; you two are bound by the bonds of brotherhood, and those are not easily broken," the king said, pulling the boy to his chest in a tight hug, book and all. "I wish that the gods had granted me a brother. But alas, they were not so kind. Cherish your brother, Murtagh. You will find that he will be the greatest of your friends. Understand?" Murtagh nodded slightly, not really understanding what his father was saying, but absorbing his words nonetheless. "Now then, we need to get you back to the castle. I have something to give you."

Brom picked up the slight framed boy easily, and placed him on the direwolf's back between her shoulder blades. The king mounted his own horse and pulled on its reins, turning back toward the city. "I have something to give you," he said to his son. "Follow me." The boy gripped the white fur of the wolf beneath him and held on as she took off at a blistering speed. Athkore was just as large as the warhorse his father rode, but her legs were longer and more powerful, her strides twice as long as the stallion's. The boy and the wolf quickly pulled ahead of the king, the looming city growing larger as they drew closer. Murtagh let out a whoop of joy at feeling the wind tearing at his hair and clothes; feeling the wolf's powerful muscles rippling and moving beneath him. It was exhilarating.

The guards posted at the gates stared in slack-jawed wonderment as the huge wolf thundered past them, gigantic paws slapping against the cobbled streets with resounding thwacks! Murtagh gripped her fur tighter as she weaved in and out of carts and passersby, twisting and turning down the side streets of Illirea. The main streets were set into a wheel-and-spoke pattern, but the side streets took a more errant path, seemingly having no rhyme or reason to them. A woman screamed in terror at the sudden sight of a direwolf bearing down upon her, and she quickly jumped out of the way. Athkore vaulted over a cart with a push from her powerful legs and they left the woman behind, staring after them in awe. It was only the nobles that were allowed to enter into a union with a direwolf, so the commonfolk always stopped and stared whenever they were out and about, as they were not accustomed to the sight.

The wolf rounded one last corner and the imposing citadel came into Murtagh's view, looming up over them and blocking out the afternoon sun. Guards walked atop the battlements and surveyed all that went on below. When one of them spotted the white direwolf, they recognized her immediately and heralded the king's return. Shouts could be heard floating over the heavy, warm air, and the bell in the tower rang out above everything else. The king reined in his destrier beside his son, waiting for the horse to regain its breath after their frenzied ride.

_'You should not run like that with the boy upon your back, Athkore,'_ the king said to his wolf. She swung her giant head towards him and squinted her dark brown eyes.

_'I had it under control,'_ she replied pointedly_. 'He would not have fallen on my watch.'_ The king trusted the wolf more than anyone else, but he took especial care with his son. After losing the boy's mother… Well, he wasn't going to be taking anymore unnecessary risks.

They trotted through the gates of the citadel, the stallion's hooves echoing wildly off the smooth stones with a steady _clip-clop-clip-clop._ A stablehand rushed to the king's side and took the reins from him, holding the horse steady as it bucked its head. Brom bounced off of the horse, landing on the hard stone of the courtyard with a thud. He was not an old man, but neither was he as young as he used to be, and the fatigue of waging wars and ruling a kingdom was starting to take its toll on him. He went over to the wolf and lifted Murtagh off of her back, setting him down and ruffling the boy's dark hair a bit.

"Come now," the king said. "I've got something I want to show you." Murtagh followed in frenzied excitement; he could hardly contain himself.

"What is it Papa?" he asked hopefully.

"You will see." The child wasn't too disappointed at this. His father had always delivered before, no matter what. They walked to the edge of the courtyard, past the stone staircase that led to the main doors of the citadel, and around the side towards the tourney field. Murtagh had only seen one tournament, as his father hadn't allowed him to go until the year before. He had thought how marvelous the knights were on their horses and wolves, dueling with each other to win fame and glory. In his dreams, he liked to imagine he was one of those knights, bringing honor to his family. But that was just a dream.

They strode past the tourney field, Athkore following close behind and keeping an eye on things. Past the field was the stables, and it was here that they were headed. Murtagh felt his heartbeat quicken in his chest. Perhaps he'd be getting a horse, like he'd talked about for a few years now. His father had always said that he wasn't big enough for a horse yet, though. Maybe now he was. The king nodded in greeting to the groom that stood by the door to the stable, brushing down a silver mare with a hard-bristled brush. The groom bowed deeply in response, and, once they had passed, went back to his duties. Near the back of the stable, Murtagh saw the stablemaster with a large chestnut stallion, combing out its red-hued mane. The stablemaster was a large, barrel-chested man with arms the size of tree trunks and every last inch of him covered in hair, or so it seemed to Murtagh. He was always lumbering about near the smithy, yelling about this thing or that thing in his booming voice. But now, amidst his environment and the horses he so clearly loved, he seemed as quiet and demure as a church mouse. Murtagh stared up in wonderment at him as the king made his greetings.

"Well met, Dormnad. Have you gotten what I asked?" The stablemaster nodded firmly, his mouth set into a thin line.

"Aye," he replied gruffly, pulling at the waist of his trousers. "The beast is back there." He jerked a thumb towards the very last stall on the right side of the stable. The door to the stall was closed and padlocked, which seemed strange to Murtagh.

'When did they start locking up horses?' he thought to himself, staring with piqued interest at the stall.

'They don't,' Athkore responded quickly, padding quietly past him and settling on her haunches in front of the stall. Brom placed a hand on the boy's shoulder, gently leading him to the padlocked door. The stablemaster went first, producing a bronze key from his leather apron and fitting the key into the lock. It sprang open with a sharp _click!_ and dropped to the floor. The burly man slid the door open on its track and then stepped aside for the king.

"Come on," the king said softly, guiding his son into the hay-filled stall. The boy expected to see a horse there, but what he found took him by surprise even more. There, nestled in the warm hay and sleeping soundly, was a direwolf pup. Its fur was white as snow; perfectly free of blemishes. Its ears twitched restlessly at their arrival, but it took Athkore going over and nibbling on its ear for it to open its eyes. The wolf's eyes were blood red, staring out at Murtagh unblinkingly. He stared back in breathless awe, completely transfixed by the beauty before him. Could this really be for him? Was his father really giving him the great honor of entering a union with a direwolf?

The boy stared up at his father, who only nodded slightly, a small smile playing on his lips. Murtagh could not help the gasp that escaped from his mouth. It was true…

Slowly, he walked toward the direwolf where it still lay on the ground, curled into a ball. It watched him carefully, and he reached out a hand towards it in an offering of peace. The wolf extended its neck to sniff at the boy's fingers, licking them slightly. Murtagh laughed at the way the wolf's tongue tickled his skin and the warm sensation that accompanied it.

_'Hello,'_ he said tentatively, reaching out with his mind to touch the pup's consciousness. He knew that the wolf was still too young to talk with him, but it sent him feelings of happiness and trust, overwhelming him with a sense of joy. This was really happening. His father had given him a direwolf of his very own. Perhaps now, he could begin to feel like he truly belonged.

* * *

High up in her tower, the queen gazed down into the courtyard of the citadel and watched as her husband returned with the boy: Murtagh. It made her seethe to see that boy atop her husband's direwolf, but she knew this would not be the last time she would see him that way.

The queen had argued bitterly with her husband about giving the boy a direwolf pup, but Brom had won out in the end; he always did. If he wanted the boy to have a direwolf, there was not a force in this world that would stop him.

_'Then why not give our son a wolf too,' _she had argued, fists clenched at her sides. _'He is the future king, after all.'_

_'I am well aware that he is the future king. Eragon will get his wolf in time,'_ the king replied calmly. _'He is still just a boy.'_

'Your _son is still just a boy,'_ she shot back. The look the king had given her signified that their conversation was over, and he would say no more about it. She peered out the window as they disappeared from the courtyard, headed towards the stables where she knew the beast awaited that bastard boy. _Yes… everything was becoming quite clear indeed..._

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**Thanks for reading everyone! Please review and let me know what you think! P.S. (There are supposed to be obvious parallels and people acting OOC [AU, remember?] so… Don't think that I'm trying to pull the wool over your eyes, haha!)**


	2. The Child of Winter

**A/N: Hello! Thanks for reading Chapter 2 of my very AU fic. I realize that, although I explained some things in the last A/N, there still may be a bit of confusion. So if you guys are confused or have questions, please feel free to say so in a review or PM me. I'm not scary, I promise :) With that being said, let's get to it!**

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Her father was on one of his rampages again. The slightest things set him off these days, and there's nothing she or anyone else could have done to stop him. His rage combined with the effect alcohol had on him only made it that much worse. Raina sat placidly on her bed, the book she'd been perusing lying open and untouched next to her on top of the quilt. She stared blankly at the wall, listening to the sounds of screaming coming from the end of the hall. _He was hurting her again..._

Many years ago, Morzan had been exiled from Alagaesia as punishment for crimes committed during the clan wars. Each of the eight tribes of Alagaesia had been vying for power, undermining and attacking the other clans. After Brom's father—the leader of the Plains Clan—had died, Brom assumed the command of his father's armies, with Morzan by his side as his second. They were unbeatable, and victory was on the horizon. But things began to change when Emà had come along.

Morzan had always been an unruly child, who'd turned into a hardened man, and he wasn't going to let anything stand in the way of his clan and their journey to victory. He'd suggested that Brom leave the girl behind, but by then it had been too late. She was with child, and Brom had it in his head to marry her. Morzan viewed her death as a blessing to their cause, but his friend had never recovered. Even until this day, Morzan thought the war-battered king of Alagaesia was half-mad with grief over his long lost love.

Towards the end of their campaign, Morzan was growing more adamant about their attacks, insisting that they had to raid the small villages of the other clans to hasten their defeats. But Brom refused, abhorring the idea of slaughtering innocents in the name of unity. Enraged at his friends stupidity, Morzan took a company of soldiers and attacked a small village that was allied with the Mountain Clan. The village was razed to the ground, and no one was spared, not even the children. It had been a bloodbath, but it aided in their defeat of the clan chief. Although they had won that clan's loyalty, Brom could not reconcile with what his friend had done. And so, he sentenced him to exile, on the small island nation of Oran just across the sea to the west. Morzan took his direwolf Emrys, a fearsome, red-coated beast with eyes like emeralds, and sailed across the sea to start a new life in a strange land.

It had been hard for Brom to do it; they had been best friends as boys, after all. But in the end, he hadn't really had a choice. It was either that, or execute him; and that, he could not do. Morzan had accepted his fate outwardly, but within, his heart hardened and turned black as pitch. The betrayal he felt consumed him and ate away at what little soul he had left. In his anger, he mounted a plan to raise a kingdom upon the island of Oran, and build up cities to rival those in Alagaesia. It had taken him ten years, but he'd finally done it. The capital city, Caton, was not as large as Illirea, but over the years it had turned into a bustling port city, thriving off of the fishing trade. Soon, he would have an army to match his city, and then... Well, his plans were still coming together.

But Raina was unaware of any of this. Right now, she was just a scared little girl listening to her father commit atrocities against her mother. Although he'd hit the girl only once before, she was terrified he would come through her bedroom door one day, eyes bloodshot and hazy from the alcohol he consumed day and night. But he never did. It was only by her mother's intervention had he never did it again. She bore the brunt of his abuse, for her daughter's sake.

Finally, the screams died down and her mother fell silent. All was calm in the castle once more. But inside, Raina was screaming out. She wanted nothing more than to escape this place and go somewhere, anywhere else. As long as it was far away, she didn't care. Slowly, the little girl swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded quietly to the window. The cold stone of her bedroom floor sent icy shocks of pain through her bare feet, but she ignored it. Leaning up on her tiptoes, she looked out the window at the grey sky and the grey city and the grey landscape all around her. It certainly was a bleak world to live in, but it was the only one she'd ever known. A black-winged bird soared past her window, and she found herself to be jealous of that bird. What would it be like to simply spread your wings and fly away from all your troubles? Would it make life easier? She had the sneaky suspicion that all of your troubles simply caught up with you in the end.

Suddenly, a terrifyingly loud pounding came from the hallway, the throbbing even and measured. Raina turned and looked over her shoulder at the oaken door. Her hands began to shake where they gripped the windowsill and her tiny knees started knocking together. She knew without a shadow of a doubt what that thumping meant. A scratch came at the door, shaking it in its frame. Something heavy knocked against it, shaking it even more and loosening dust particles all over the floor. Raina whimpered softly and turned away from the window.

_'Open the door, child,'_ a gruff, deep voice spoke in her mind. A tear ran down her cheek, but she remained quiet, staring at the door. She knew that her father's wolf stood on the other side of it_. 'Your father wishes to speak with you.'_

_'I'm not feeling well,'_ she lied, hurrying over to the side of the bed and kneeling down behind its large frame, as if that would protect her.

_'Open the door, now!'_ A ferocious snarl filled the air as he shoved against the door again. She cried out and covered her ears, willing the beast to go away. The direwolf snarled once more and gnashed his teeth, banging on the door again.

Raina knew it would do no good to hide from her father once he'd sent his wolf out after her. With trembling hands, she crossed the large room and took hold of the handle, pulling the door open slowly. The huge direwolf—Emrys, he was called—stood staring at her with his fierce green eyes. Slather dripped from his wickedly sharp fangs and a low growl was coming from deep within his chest. Raina had always feared the creature, and with good cause. He was larger than any of the horses her father owned, and he had a temper. One time, she'd seen him feasting on an entire sow, tearing its innards out and blood dripping from his jaws. That image alone had struck the fear into her heart.

He looked fearsome now, crouched in the hallway just outside her door, his green eyes glinting savagely. _'Come with me,' _he growled, turning slowly in the cramped hall and retreating towards the stairwell, his heavy steps shaking the stones beneath her feet. She ran back to her room and quickly threw a pair of calfskin boots on before sprinting after the wolf. It would not do to keep her father waiting. She didn't know what he was capable of right now.

The stairs wound down to the huge entrance hall of the palace, opening up beneath the main staircase. As the wolf strode across the marble floors of the hall, Raina followed far behind him, terrified he would turn and suddenly snap at her as he was wont to do sometimes. His sharp claws clicked against the smoothly polished floor, and his tail swished back and forth. Raina kept her head down, taking care not to draw any unwanted attention to herself. After living so long under her father's reign of terror, she had learned that it was better to go unnoticed. If you could remain invisible, then you didn't get hit so often.

Emrys took a sharp turn to the left and then disappeared through the huge double doors of the throne room. As the little girl hurried across the empty hall, she hesitated by the open doors, peering cautiously inside to see her father sitting upon his throne with his head resting wearily in his hand. She watched carefully, debating whether to run back to her room or not, but she knew that would only result in pain. After the last time, she never wanted to experience that ever again.

"Raina!" her father suddenly snapped, still staring down at the floor. She jumped in surprise at the sharpness of his voice. "Come in here!" Without any further hesitation, she scurried across the throne room, her boots barely making any noise on the marble floor. Her eyes remained downcast, but she could feel her father's anger seeping through the air. And when she finally reached the base of his throne, she fell to her knees, folding her hands into her lap and bowing her head.

"I'm here, Father," she whispered. Emrys settled on his haunches next to the stone chair, staring at her with cold, hard eyes. The throne was carved in the shape of a wolf, its snarling head rearing up behind the king. Raina had always thought the chair was unsightly, and it only grew uglier every time she looked at it.

"Stop snivelling, child." His voice was as hard as the stone chair he sat upon, and the little girl flinched at the sound of it. "I have something for you. Come here." Raina got to her feet quickly and hurried up the steps of the dais. The king snapped his fingers impatiently and she finally looked up at her father. Morzan had always been a handsome man, but his drink had certainly had an affect on him. His eyes were a flint grey, and his hair was dark, though it was turning gray at his temples. His cheeks were sunken in and dark circles ringed his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in a week. Raina could smell the stink of wine on his breath, and the stench hung about him like a cloud.

"Why do you stare at me, child?" he asked, tilting his head to the side a bit. "Do you fear me?" She remained quiet, but her hands were trembling and tears pricked at her eyes like needles. When she refused to answer, Morzan sighed deeply and then snapped his fingers again. Emrys turned his head to reach behind the ugly throne. She watched with wide eyes as his massive head reappeared, and held gently in his jaws was a squirming pup. It cried and whimpered pitifully as Emrys deposited the pup in the king's lap. The king stroked its flawless, silver fur absently with a rough hand, eyeing his daughter.

Raina's eyes went wide as the pup stared at her with yellow eyes as big as full moons. The pup stilled when their eyes met, tilting its head far to the side as it inspected the small girl. Raina reached out a tentative hand and the pup sniffed it, tickling her skin with its cold, black nose. She let out an involuntarily giggle as the pup began to lick her with its soft, pink tongue. Morzan held out the wolf for her to take, and she scooped it up into her arms, snuggling against the soft fur.

"You are a royal," Morzan said, watching his daughter. "It is only fitting that you have a wolf of your own. Your wolf will become your closest friend, and most trusted advisor. She will protect you from harm, as you will protect her also. It's past time you started lessons with the swordmaster. A child should be well educated in all subjects, even a girl." She stared up at her father in wide-eyed wonder, but found that there were no words in her throat.

All she could manage was a strangled, "Thank you, Father." He waved her away dismissively and she scurried off, clutching the wolf tightly to her chest. As quickly as her feet would carry her, she ran back to the safety of her bedroom and shut the door quickly behind her. Once safely inside her haven, she put the wolf pup down on the floor, letting it sniff around and get acquainted with her new surroundings. Raina watched in breathless fascination as the pup explored, often tripping over her big paws. Then the pup turned back to her, bounding over and yipping softly. Raina giggled when the pup jumped up on her, licking wildly at her face.

"You're so beautiful," she breathed, sitting down on the floor cross-legged and letting the wolf curl up in her lap. Slowly, she stroked the wolf's soft fur as she fell asleep. "I will call you Ùna. Yes, your name shall be Ùna, and you will protect me from my father when you grow big and strong."

* * *

True to his word, the king stood watching in the practice yard as Raina learned to hold a sword properly. He feared the girl would not be coordinated enough to handle the rigors of swordplay, but for now, she was doing a fair job.

"Higher, Princess," the master at arms said, tapping her little arm so she would raise it up. For a child of eight, she was small for her age; more like a girl of five or six.

"It's heavy, Master Reymus," the child complained. Morzan sighed heavily from where he leaned against an empty barrell.

"That's the smallest one we have, Your Highness." The master at arms threw his hands up in exasperation as the girl dropped her sword for what seemed like the hundredth time. The tiny blade fell to the ground with thump, sending the dirt flying up into the air. As a black bird squawked overhead, Raina lifted her eyes to the grey sky, watching its frenzied flight. She followed its course until it disappeared behind the tall stone towers of the castle, but continued to stare up at the sky.

"Raina," Morzan called across the yard. At the sound of his voice, Raina snapped her attention towards him and then quickly bent to pick up her blade. Again, Master Reymus heaved an agitated sigh.

"I fear it is no good, Your Majesty," he said, sheathing his own blade. "The child is too distracted. Perhaps we will fare better tomorrow." The king simply raised two fingers to show that he conceded and the arms master strode purposefully back to his workshop. Raina stared at her father in fear, but the king just turned away and slunk back inside his castle, leaving the child alone. She breathed a sigh of relief once he was gone and hurried back inside, darting through the corridors and up the South Tower where her room was located. And she could hardly contain her excitement as she burst through her door.

It had only been a fortnight since her father had given her the wolf pup, but already she had grown tremendously. The direwolves grew quickly, and Ùna was now the size of a full grown dog, though she was only about two months old. Ùna bounded over to the small girl and jumped up on her chest, toppling her over onto the floor and showering her with wet kisses.

"Ùna! Stop it! Let me up!" the little girl laughed, squealing loudly as the wolf pup yelped with happiness. Raina sat up off the cold, stone floor and rubbed the wolf lovingly behind her ear. She couldn't wait for the day that they would be able to communicate with their minds.

As the two youngsters played on the floor, a soft knock came at the door. Raina gasped as her head snapped around to look, but then she realized it couldn't have been her father; he would have just barged in. Before she could say anything, the door creaked open to reveal her mother.

"Raina?" she called softly. "May I come in?"

"Mama!" The little girl leapt up off the floor and ran to her mother, burying her face in her full skirts and latching onto her legs. Queen Bronwyn patted the child gently on the top of her head and then pulled her away. She picked the small girl up and then placed her on the bed that was far too large for her. Raina stared up at her mother, and couldn't stifle her gasp upon seeing the ugly bruise that marred her beautiful face. It was dark purple and blue, and covered the queen's left cheek. And beneath her high collar, Raina could just see the edges of another bruise peeking over the fabric.

"Do not think about it, child," her mother said softly, sitting beside her daughter on the feather bed. "Your father does not know what he does in his rage. It is the wine that makes him this way. And as long as he's hurting me, he is not hurting you. That's all that matters." She smiled sadly, but there was an immense pain her deep blue eyes. Raina could not help the tears that flowed down her face.

"I cannot stand to hear him hurt you, Mama," she whimpered softly, burying her face against her mother's bosom. The queen stroked her daughter's light hair, and thought that her only regret was bringing such an innocent child into this cruel environment.

"I know, darling… I know," she crooned softly. Then the queen began to hum a song from her childhood, one that her mother had taught her as a young girl. It seemed to soothe Raina, so the queen just continued on, cherishing this small moment she could share with her child. Morzan rarely allowed them any time together, so every moment was treasured.

"Don't leave me, Mama," Raina cried, sniffling as her tears became stronger.

"You know that I must." Bronwyn knew that if she did not obey her husband, he would hurt their child, and that she could not bear. "But I will come back for you, yes? No more tears, Raina. You must remain strong." Her wolf bounded up onto the bed and curled next to the little girl, sharing her warmth and comfort. The queen stroked the wolf's fur and silently thanked the gods for sending a protector; one who would watch over her daughter when she was gone. For she knew that her time was running short.

* * *

**Alright, that's all for now. Please leave a review and let me know what you think. Remember: You got questions? Just ask! Thanks for reading!**


	3. Changing Tides

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. I hope you all are enjoying this fic, and remember: if you have any questions, feel free to PM me. The couple of lines that you're seeing at the start of some chapters are parts of a poem by John Donne called "The Good Morrow", which describes this fic perfectly. All righty, let's get on with it!**

* * *

_...But sucked on country pleasures, childishly?_

_Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?_

* * *

_Five years later…_

Raina sat high upon a white cliff, staring out over the Eastern Sea where she could just glimpse the hazy horizon of a far off land. Her long, corn yellow hair was blowing behind her in a soft breeze. Beside her, Ùna lay in the soft, green grass, her ears perked and swiveling atop her head to listen for anyone approaching. Her silver fur swayed with the breeze, and her bright, yellow eyes scanned the surroundings. Raina's chin rested in her palm, and her eyes were narrowed against the bright sun. It was September now, and the sweltering heat of summer was retreating to be replaced by the crisp chill of autumn. But she didn't mind; autumn was her favorite season. There was something about the dying of the leaves upon the trees that seemed rather hopeful to her. Although they would die, new life would come with the spring. It seemed to her that it was somewhat of a necessity for death to make way for life.

_Why are you so melancholy today, Princess? _Ùna asked, raising her head to sniff an unfamiliar scent that came with the wind. When she was satisfied it was nothing threatening, she looked back to the young woman and leaned over to lick her elbow. She turned and smiled at the wolf, scratching her behind the ear, much to the young wolf's delight.

_I feel a stirring within my soul, Ùna,_ the princess replied. _I can't say what it is, but I feel something is coming. Do you think it's possible to see the future?_

_It does not seem out of the realm of possibility,_ the direwolf responded. _But if it is a common practice amongst you two-legs, I have never heard of it._

_It is not a "common practice", as you say. But there are some—woodswitches and fortune tellers—that claim to know what the future holds._ Raina glanced back out over the sea and sighed heavily, shuddering as the chill air filled her throat and lungs. _Perhaps I could go to see one; hear what they have to say_.

Ùna suddenly bounded to her feet. _Why the sudden fascination with the future? Are you worried about something? _ Raina glanced up at the huge wolf and, for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, marveled at her enormous size. In the five years since they'd become a bonded pair, she'd grown as large as an ox. She did not yet rival her father's direwolf, Emrys, but Raina still felt safer whenever she was around. It was comforting to have her own protector, especially since her father had been drinking more heavily over the past couple years. His rampages were becoming more frequent.

But since the princess had reached womanhood, she'd been moved into a different tower; one that was farther away from where her father's chambers were. Then at least, she didn't have to listen to the screams, either of her mother, or of his latest mistress. Raina had known for a few years now that her father was unfaithful to the queen. It was not hard to guess when the young women padded down the hall on bare feet in only their shifts, with their dresses crumpled against their chests, in the dead of night. When her mother had asked her about it, Raina lied and said she'd never seen the girls. But she lay awake some nights, listening to their cries and whimpers coming from down the corridor. But that was the way of things now, and she could do nothing about it.

_No, Ùna, I'm not worried about anything. I'm just… concerned about the future. Sometimes I feel like my life is spinning out of control, and I'm screaming in a crowded room, but no one can hear me. Perhaps if I knew what the future held for me, then I could change it if I wished; make my life what I want it to be, not what anyone else has planned for me. _

Ùna yipped lightly and licked the girl's cheek. _For a maid of thirteen years, you certainly dwell on dark thoughts. One would think you are much older. You worry me sometimes, Princess._

Raina laughed and hugged the wolf around her thick neck. _I do not mean to; I am sorry. I only wish that I could escape this place with my mother, so we might start a new life away from pain and sadness. You will come with us, of course. What do you think about that?_

_It is a nice dream,_ she replied sadly, nudging the girl in her shoulder. Raina knew that it was a silly thought, and would probably never come about, but it was nice to dream. Ùna knew that it was impossible as well, but she let the girl dwell on her follies. She was still young, and had a positive view of the world. It would not be long though, before she realized what a truly dark place it could be. She gave her wolf one last hug about the neck, and then turned her gaze back to the sea. What she saw there, gave her cause for alarm.

_Ùna, what are those ships doing sailing out to sea? Are they heading to Alagaesia?_ Raina narrowed her eyes to look at the tallships with their huge sails and long hulls. Tiny men who looked like ants raced across the deck to handle the rigging and prepare the ship for her voyage across the sea. And upon the crisp, white sails was emblazoned a snarling, red direwolf: the sigil of her father's house. Beside her, Ùna's fur bristled and a deep growl emanated from her chest.

_I know not why the ships sail to the east, but whatever the reason, it does not bode good tidings,_ the wolf replied, shaking her shoulders. _Come; let us return to the castle. It will be dark soon, and you have dinner with your father tonight._ Raina nodded and grabbed two fistfuls of her fur to swing up onto her back. The wolf waited until she was settled and then bounded across the wide coastal plain, and back towards the city of Caton.

* * *

Dinner with her father was silent, as usual, and her mother was absent, also as usual. She would be dining in her room tonight, as she did every other night. Raina had long ago given up trying to figure out why her father wished to keep them separate. Whatever his reasoning, it made no sense to the girl. She cut the breast of roast chicken with her knife and brought it daintily to her mouth, chewing slowly and scanning the room with bright, blue eyes. The silence pervaded heavily upon her, but she dare not speak a word in case she angered her father. It didn't seem to matter what she said, the slightest things set him off. To her right, Emrys lay spread out in front of the blazing hearth, his hulking form rising and falling with his even breaths. The autumn nights were growing colder, so the hearths of the castle were lit more regularly. And not far from Raina's seat at her father's left, was Ùna, seemingly peaceful, but ever watchful for danger.

"How are your lessons faring?" the king finally asked through a mouthful of boiled potatoes. Raina kept her head down and her eyes on her plate; she never liked to show her father the fear in her eyes.

"They are going well. Master Reymus says my sword skills are passable, but that I am very talented with the bow," she replied. "He's going to teach me knife fighting next week, and then the art of the spear once I have learned that sufficiently."

"Good," the king replied shortly, spearing another few potatoes on his fork. "Your mother and I have decided that it is high past time that you get a maid closer to your own age, rather than that crone that follows you around now; a girl you can confide in and that can be a companion to you." Raina sucked in her breath quietly at the mention of her mother. Morzan hardly ever mention the queen to his daughter, and when he did, it always caught the girl by surprise. But she remained silent, unsure of how to respond to this. Raina could feel the king's cold gaze resting upon her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the plate in front of her. She would not be baited into looking at him.

"Thank you, Father," she finally whispered, taking a hasty bite of greens. They tasted bitter to her, but she dare not complain.

"Yes, well…" The king paused and inspected his daughter thoughtfully. Since her flowering two years ago, she'd taken on more of the curves and delicate beauty of womanhood, but there was still no doubt that she was a child. Her lessons in warfare had helped with the girl's confidence, but she was still a small thing; delicate; fragile like a doll. Morzan wondered if the girl's mother had looked that way at her age. Raina certainly had her mother's hair and eyes, and there was a fullness to her pink mouth that was reminiscent of Bronwyn. The king thought that she would make a good match for some young suitor one day, whomever he chose for her. She would be desirable to all the wealthy young men in Oran, but for now, she was still but a child. Any thoughts of marriage could wait another few years.

The girl remained quiet, glancing between her plate and her direwolf. Morzan, too, returned his attention back to his meal, content to let the rest of the evening pass in silence. Useless conversation made him uneasy; perhaps Josse could help him relax tonight, after the castle had gone to bed. The scullery maid was quiet, but her form was pleasing to the king. Yes, he would have Josse tonight. And tomorrow, another maid from the laundry. When he'd become king of his own realm, Morzan had never imagined all of the amenities that came with being a ruler, least of all the women. He smirked slightly at the thought and tore at a leg of chicken.

Soon, his plans would come together. As they sat there, his ships were already making their way to the shores of Alagaesia. If his old friend Brom had forgotten who he was, he would certainly remember soon enough.

* * *

The new maid was in Raina's chambers the next morning. She looked to be about two years younger than the princess, but she had a solid look about her; well fitted to life as a servant. Dull brown hair framed a plain face. When her young mistress awoke from a dreamless sleep, the maid curtsied and then threw another log onto the hearth. It was a chilly September morning.

"Hello," Raina said, smiling at the girl. The princess stretched her arms over her head to loosen the muscles and then yawned widely.

"Good morning, m'lady," the maid replied. "How did you rest?" It was clear the girl had been trained well in what to say to her mistress, and when to keep her mouth shut.

"Well enough, thank you. Tell me, what is your name?" The maid looked up at the princess warily, unsure if this was a trap. From what she'd heard of royalty, they were tricksters and took delight in the cruelties of punishing servants. Her mother had always told her to say as little as possible to them, to avoid any beatings.

"Bridie, m'lady," the girl finally muttered. "I'm to be your lady's maid."

"Yes, I have heard," the princess replied, smiling kindly at the girl. "I think my father means for you to be a friend, of sorts. He thinks I am a lonely child." Ùna perked up her head from where she lay at the foot of the bed, and Bridie glanced at her nervously. "Do not fear her," Raina continued, "she will not harm you. She's here to protect me, and so, will protect you as well." The girl stared at the direwolf for a moment longer before dipping into another hasty curtsy and scurrying out of the room, mumbling something about fetching breakfast.

_The child fears me, _Ùna said, watching her go from the room. _Though it is my red brother whom she should fear more. _

_ They don't know any better, Ùna. To them, you are just a monstrous beast who can only think of eating them. She will come to trust you in time, as I do. _Raina leaned over and petted the wolf's fur gently. _But for now, we'll have to wait and see if she is loyal to me, or to my father. I have a feeling he wishes to spy on me. _

_ It would not be difficult to turn the girl against him. _Ùna leapt down off the bed and sniffed the floor where the girl had been standing.

_Yes, but let us hope it doesn't come to that, _Raina replied, leaning her head back against the pillow and gazing out the window. Her room faced the east, where she could see the hazy blue line that was the sea. And as she looked, she wondered what it would be like to sail across those waters and see the land where her father came from. Was it as bleak as this one? What were the people like? Was everyone there as cruel as her father? For now, all she could do was imagine what it would be like. And perhaps she would never see Alagaesia; not if her father had anything to say about it.

* * *

"Raise your sword, boy! Throw me back! You're missing prime opportunities here!" Jörmundur voice fell upon Murtagh's ears like a hammer against an anvil. His sword pounded against the little wooden shield lashed to his arm, sending jolts of pain up into his shoulder. If this was what war was like, Murtagh wanted no part of it. He grunted heavily as he lifted the broadsword above his shoulder and brought it down upon his opponent's steel-clad arm. The blunted edge of the blade slid harmlessly off the castle forged steel, and the point of his sword dug into the dirt beneath him. Jörmundur took this opportunity to shove his sword arm into Murtagh's shield, causing him to fall back. But as he stumbled, the young man righted himself and spun in a circular motion, his sword extended out in front of him. As Jörmundur watched the strange act, Murtagh's sword connected with his helm, ringing his ears and sending a pounding through his head. The older man fell to the side, struggling to keep his heavily armored body upright. Before he knew what was happening, Murtagh was attacking in an onslaught of slashes to his shield, pushing the older man into the dirt.

Finally, Jörmundur threw down his weapon and held his arms up. "Yield," he called firmly from beneath his helm. Murtagh stepped away and threw the blunted blade across the practice yard, ripping his own helm off. He tucked it under his arm and then extended a hand to help the older man up out of the dirt, saving some of his dignity. "Now _that_," Jörmundur claimed, "is how you subdue an opponent. Where did that fury come from, boy?" Murtagh bristled a bit at the misnomer, but he let it slide off his back. He was, after all, a young man of fifteen now and well on his way to becoming one of the most skilled warriors in all of Alagaesia. It wouldn't be much longer until no one called him "boy" anymore.

"I'm not sure," Murtagh replied sheepishly. "I just tapped into something inside me. Or perhaps it was your labeling me _boy_ that did it." He laughed slightly, to let him know there were no hard feelings. Jörmundur clapped him on the back as they walked towards the armory. Although it was autumn, it still grew hot underneath the heavy steel, and both men wished to be free of their constraints after a long morning of practicing. They laughed some more as they replaced the armor on the racks, going over every point of their sparring match.

"You are quick on your feet," Jörmundur said, "but you let your arrogance blind you. _Never _underestimate your opponent. With me, you have the advantage of having fought me before. But on the battlefield, your enemies are faceless men, with no names or histories. _Anything _can happen in battle; never forget that." Murtagh nodded as he hung the blunted blade up on its posts, and then glanced over at the open doors of the armory. Thorn stood staring at him with blood red eyes.

_Master Jeod is waiting for us in his study, _the snow white wolf said, his voice deep and solemn in Murtagh's mind. The dark-haired young man rolled his eyes slightly, having forgotten that he had lessons this afternoon with the Royal scholar.

_Very well, _he replied gruffly, _go on ahead and tell him I must wash before our lesson. I'll be up shortly. _The wolf inclined his head and then turned to pad off across the yard. Murtagh shook out his hair, trying to loose it from his face where it had been plastered by his sweat. "I must go," he said to the arms master, "I have a history lesson to get to. We'll spar again tomorrow?"

"Aye, that we will," Jörmundur replied, flipping a dagger end over end to catch it by the point. Murtagh laughed at him merrily and then headed out of the armory towards the castle. Before he could get very far though, another direwolf, this one smaller than his own, blocked his path. He stopped mid-step and sighed at the dark grey wolf, her sapphire blue eyes narrowed menacingly.

_Let me pass, Saphira, _he said to the wolf. She bared her teeth and snarled.

_Eragon wishes to spar with you. He says your defeat of him the other day was a cheat, _the wolf replied, her voice full of malice. Murtagh did not care to discuss whatever lies his brother had spun, so he stepped around the wolf where she had planted her feet.

_Let Eragon think what he will, but I have other things to attend to today. Tell him to come to the practice yard tomorrow morning, _he said, hurrying towards the castle as the large wolf followed him. _Perhaps he will get a chance to avenge his wounded pride then. _She snapped at his heels, but he paid the wolf no mind. After Saphira had pinned him to the ground when he was twelve, the boys' father put an end to their childish brawling, afraid that one of their wolves would harm the other boy. But Saphira stopped just short of entering the castle and growled at Murtagh's retreating form.

Thorn was waiting for him in his room, lying by the blazing hearth and yawning widely. _You stink of horse, _the wolf growled.

_Wonderful to see you too, old friend, _Murtagh replied mirthlessly. _Fear not, I'll be clean soon. _He headed to the washroom that was adjoined to his chambers. The bath was scalding hot, and it felt good to slough off the dirt and grime from the practice yard. As he ran a soft towel over his medium-length, dark hair and wiped the fog off his looking glass, he took a moment to inspect his face. Fierce, grey eyes stared back at him, and a coarse layer of stubble was growing on his chin. At fifteen years of age, he'd only just had to start shaving a year ago, so the concept was still relatively new. As his eyes traveled over his reflection, he didn't see much of his father there. The king had always told him he looked very much like his mother, but he wished he knew what she'd looked like. With a sigh, he left the washroom to don a fresh set of clothing and then left his chambers, Thorn close on his heels.

The wolf padded behind him on huge, silent feet; if Murtagh had not been able to sense his presence, he might have never known the wolf was there. The pair of them traveled through the wide corridors, sending servants scurrying at the sight of the beast, but Murtagh paid them no mind. _The Bastard of Illirea _they called him, though never to his face. He wasn't sure what he would do if they ever did call him that in his presence, but just the thought of it unnerved him and made the blood rush to his face. His father swore it didn't matter, but it got under the young man's skin all the same.

Master Jeod's study was located high up in the West Tower, where he could look out over the whole city. Sometimes, Murtagh would find him staring out the window blankly, lost in whatever outlandish thoughts coursed through his mind. Today was no different, as Jeod sat upon the windowseat, gazing up at the sky. Murtagh cleared his throat as Thorn ducked through the door and headed straight to the fireplace.

"Ah!" Master Jeod exclaimed upon finally realizing his pupil was here. "There you are. Come sit down, we have much to discuss today." Murtagh took a seat at the small, round table where a huge book was opened to its middle. He perused the runes on the page, but did not absorb their words. Whatever they said, Master Jeod would soon explain it to him.

"Good afternoon, Master Jeod," he greeted the somewhat eccentric man. His robes were a garish pink, trimmed with gold and silver embroidery, and he wore a pair of rimmed spectacles, which made his eyes look three times their normal size, green orbs staring out of a thin face. Atop his head, Murtagh noticed it did not look like he'd taken care to comb his hair when he got out of bed that morning, though he couldn't recall that Jeod every did look kempt in his appearance.

"I thought we'd go over the history of the tribes today," Jeod said merrily, taking the seat across from the king's bastard. Murtagh inwardly cringed, as he knew their history by heart, but conceded nonetheless. "Very well," Master Jeod continued, "name the eight tribes and their respective leaders."

"The Mountain Tribes are led by Lord Cadoc, who is the queen's father," Murtagh began slowly, biting on the words as he thought of his step-mother. "The Plains Tribes are led by Lord Fadawar, and his niece, the Lady Nasuada. Western Tribes are led by Lady Angela; Southron Tribes are led by Lord Orrin; Northern Tribes are led by Lady Islanzadí and her daughter, Lady Arya. The Eastern Tribes are led by Lord Orik; The Island Tribes of Sharktooth are led by Lady Lorana. And the Forest Tribes are led by Lord Fäolin. How did I do?"

"Excellent!" Master Jeod exclaimed. "But can you name their direwolves and what rank they hold amongst their own people."

"The Alpha Male of the direwolves is Kah'Sheen; his Alpha Female is Vella. They reside in the forest of Du Weldenvarden, and once every two years they send a certain number of pups from their litter to our lands, to become allied with its rulers. Lord Cadoc's wolf is named Birka; Lord Fadawar's wolf is named Nithring, but Lady Nasuada does not have one yet. Lady Angela's wolf is named Solembum; Lady Islanzadí has a wolf named Cuaroc, and Lady Arya's wolf is named Fírnen; Lord Orik… Blast! I never remember his."

"Beroan," Jeod said patiently, prompting his student to continue.

"Yes, Beroan," Murtagh said sullenly, annoyed at this test he was being forced to endure. "Lady Lorana's wolf is Eridor, and Lord Fäolin's wolf is Vanilor." Murtagh slapped his hands against his legs at the conclusion of his recitation. Jeod nodded approvingly and adjusted his glasses upon the bridge of his hawkish nose. "And if you're curious, my wolf's name is Thorn, father's is Athkore, the queen's is Marl, and Eragon's is Saphira. How did I do?"

"Very well done; I can tell you have been studying." Master Jeod smiled knowingly. "But," he continued, "there is one you have missed." Murtagh looked at him in confusion for a moment, before bringing his palm up against his forehead.

"Emrys," he groaned. "He is the wolf that is bonded to King Morzan of Oran. How could I forget? Though you never did ask about him; you only asked for the leaders in Alagaesia." Jeod smirked at his young pupil, and then opened his mouth to speak. But he was suddenly cut off by the door to his study swinging open and banging against the stone wall.

"Pardon the interruption," the messenger said through catching his breath, "but your father has summoned you to his study." This was directed at Murtagh, though he noticed that the older man declined to use his proper title of Captain. No matter, he was not vain enough to think that he automatically earned the respect of the men in his father's household just because he'd been promoted to the City Guard.

"Forgive me, Master Jeod," Murtagh said to his teacher as he stood from the table. "I will return, if time allows." The scholar waved a hand dismissively and Thorn bounded to Murtagh's side as they followed the messenger. He led them across the palace, though Murtagh knew exactly where it was he was going. His father's study was in the North Tower, and when they got there, Murtagh was surprised to see that it was full of generals and advisors, all of them talking amongst themselves.

When the king's bastard entered in his boiled leather armor inlaid with silver and a red cloak clasped about his shoulders, everyone fell silent and turned to face him. For a young man of fifteen, he was quite tall, and looked much older than he was. Perhaps it was the responsibility his father had placed on him, by putting him in the City Guard. But Murtagh had risen to the station, thankful to have something to do that set him apart from just being the king's bastard son.

"Welcome, Murtagh," King Brom said from his place behind the carved oak desk. Athkore stood nobly behind him, dark eyes surveying the scene. His father motioned for him to sit in a small, wooden chair by the hearth. Thorn remained outside of the crowded room, having no place to fit, but Murtagh did not feel uneasy. As long as the queen was not here, he did not think he was under any threat. "I received a raven this morning," the king continued, "from Sharktooth. Their coastal scouts have spotted Orani ships headed towards Teirm; two days out, by the look of it. We haven't suffered any raids in years, so I'm not sure why Morzan would choose to start them up again. But if he has, then we must be prepared. Lady Angela has called for aid to defend her territory. We cannot abandon our allies." He looked to General Thane, a burly man that stood a head above every other man in the room. He led the combined armies of the Broddring Kingdom, and was a fearsome warrior on the battlefield. General Thane nodded slightly, and then the king looked to Admiral Martland Redbeard, the leader over the fleet of warships and galleys.

"Our ships will meet them before they get the chance to land," he affirmed in a rough voice, hairy arms crossed over his burly chest. Murtagh watched as the other men were given their commands, and then filed out of the king's study, until only he was left. Thorn padded into the room as the last man closed the door, and joined Murtagh by the hearth.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you here," King Brom said, looking over at his son.

"I was," Murtagh replied. Brom heaved a sigh and steepled his hands beneath his bearded chin.

"I have made the decision to promote Commander Horst to the cavalry division," the king explained. Murtagh remained silent, unsure what the promotion of his head officer had to do with him. "He'll be leaving the City Guard first thing on the morrow, to move out with the men to the coast. In the wake of his departure, I have decided that you are ready to take his place." The breath caught in Murtagh's throat and the blood rushed to his face.

"Father, I—"

"No use arguing," the king said dismissively. "It's already been decided. Frederic will remain your second, to advise you until you are ready to assume full command. I have ultimate faith in you, Murtagh. You will do well." Murtagh stood and beat a clenched fist against his chest, bowing his head in deference.

"I will not fail you, Father," he said stoically, pride swelling in his chest.

"I do not doubt that." Brom stood and came over to his son, barely taller than him now. He put his hands upon the young man's shoulders and looked him in the eye. "Let us talk soon, just the two of us. I feel as though it has been a long time since we had any real time together."

"I understand that you are busy, Father. As am I," Murtagh said quietly. "But yes, I would like that very much." Brom nodded and then gave him his leave, returning to his desk to deal with the particulars of defending his kingdom against raiders. Murtagh hurried out of the study, a new happiness blooming inside of him. No matter what the queen said or thought, his father had bestowed him with an enormous responsibility. Thorn followed closely behind him as they returned to Master Jeod, and this time, he devoted himself fully to his recitations, not even caring that this was the thousandth time they'd been over the history of Alagaesia. For the first time in a very long time, Murtagh thought that everything was falling perfectly into place.

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**Okay, that's all for now. Please let me know what you think in a review! **


	4. Seeds of Doubt

**A/N: This chapter will explore the relationship between our two favorite brothers, and possibly feature a certain conniving queen. Do enjoy!**

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Murtagh paced restlessly across the practice yard, his sword hanging at his side and trailing across the ground. The other men gathered there were too concerned with fighting one another, but he was watching all of them with a careful eye. As the new commander of the City Guard, Murtagh would be in charge of overseeing the training of his men, and the new recruits. But the training itself would remain up to Frederic, who was by far the more experienced warrior. The burly soldier stood on the other side of the yard, somewhat sour at the thought of being placed under the authority of a green boy, but resigned to his fate. Whatever the king ordered, he would follow without question.

As for the king's bastard, he was feeling a mounting fear growing inside of him. The older men all looked down at him with sneers upon their faces. Most of them were not as willing as Frederic to be placed under Murtagh's authority. But he could not show that fear to any of them; they would take it as a sign of weakness, and pounce upon any opportunity to get him out of the position he'd been placed in. Murtagh steeled himself against their menacing glares. He'd been prepared for some backlash directed at his youth and inexperience, but nothing even close to this blatant hatefulness. Thorn sat in close proximity to the path Murtagh was carving out in the dirt, keeping a close eye on all the activity in watchful silence. Whatever these men may think of Murtagh, Thorn would be there to protect him if any of them decided to act upon their thoughts.

_They all hate me, don't they?_ Murtagh said, slowing down his frenzied pacing.

_I believe they are just jealous of you,_ Thorn replied. _Many of them assumed that Frederic would take Commander Horst's place, and that they might be considered for the position of second in command. It does not sit with them lightly that they were passed up for the king's bastard._ Murtagh looked over at the huge wolf, his red eyes gleaming wickedly in contrast against his snowy fur.

_How do you know all of this?_

_ My people have many secrets,_ he replied cryptically, though not unkindly. Murtagh just shook his head and smirked at the cheekiness of his bonded partner.

_Very well, keep them to yourself then._ Murtagh turned his attention back to the men sparring with one another in the yard. They continued on for a little while, but soon broke off from their groups and went on their way. Frederic dismissed the remaining recruits, after giving them a small lecture in how to improve their technique, and then sent them on their way. When they were all finally gone, Frederic walked over to Murtagh, his arms still crossed over his chest.

"The men are wary of you," the large, red-headed man said in a deep voice. "But the new recruits look promising. Anything to say?" Murtagh shook his head slightly.

"No, I don't want to give them any more reason to hate me than they already have," he said quietly, keeping his observations of some of the men's incorrect techniques to himself. "I trust your judgment in this, Frederic. And I thank you for your help." He extended a hand to his second in command, who took it swiftly and shook vigorously.

"I may not agree with the king's decision, but I won't go against it. You're my commander now, and I'll help you in any way that I can." Murtagh thanked him once again before heading out of the yard, Thorn following closely behind him. He had intended to return to his chambers, for some self-study before his lesson this afternoon, but when the fur on Thorn's back stood straight up and a low growl came from his throat, he knew that would not be happening.

Saphira stood at the door back into the castle, her feet planted firmly and blue eyes glinting sharply. _Eragon is on his way down, _she said, barring their entry back inside. Murtagh sighed heavily and rubbed the back of his hands against his eyes.

_Can this not wait? I have things to attend to, _he said hastily, trying to mask his frustration but knowing he was doing a poor job of it.

_It cannot! _the wolf snapped harshly. She trained her eyes on Thorn and growled louder. _He wants a rematch. _

_ Fine,_ Murtagh conceded. _But you and Thorn will keep to yourselves. I'll not have a repeat of last month. _He was recalling one of their last matches, when the two wolves had gone after each other and brawled in the dirt, yelping and snarling at one another's throats.

_ Very well. _She turned away, and from behind her came Eragon, bounding out into the practice yard with a hungry gleam in his eyes.

"Are you ready to spar with me, bastard?" he called, causing Murtagh to stiffen at his use of the word. It was bad enough coming from everyone else, but from his own flesh and blood, it seemed to drive the knife further in. Murtagh knew it was only because of the poisonous words of his mother that the boy called him that, and, at her prompting, didn't understand how it affected his brother.

"Why could this not have waited, Eragon? I have other things to do than play at sticks with you," Murtagh growled, following him back into the yard. They both wore padded jerkins in place of the heavy armor, and nothing to protect their heads. Murtagh would never intentionally harm the younger boy, but he wasn't so sure he would receive the same treatment in return.

"You cheated the other day, and I want to get back at you." At thirteen, Eragon was already becoming a wilful young man, allowed to do whatever he wanted by his doting mother. And, silently, Murtagh feared it would become his undoing one day. There would come a time when he could no longer hold his tongue, and he'd say something he would come to regret. The queen hated that they had any interaction in the first place; if she knew Murtagh had admonished Eragon, it would not go well for him.

"I did not cheat, Eragon, and you know it."

"Yes, you did!" he cried, grabbing one of the blunted swords from the rack and twirling it about haphazardly. He was good with a blade, but, as yet, still inexperienced. "You attacked me when I wasn't looking, and that isn't fair."

"Do you think an enemy soldier will wait for you to look before he attacks you? That isn't how real battles are fought, Eragon. You must remain quick on your feet and focused on the battle at hand, or else you'll pay with your head."

"Don't lecture me, _Murtagh_," the younger boy replied in a very childish manner. "Master Jörmundur spends more time with me than he does with you. I know how to fight a battle."

"Fine, have it your way," he said, retrieving his own sword and slicing it through the air in two graceful arcs at his side. They settled into their positions, watching each other carefully. When it came down to mere strength, Murtagh far outmatched his younger brother, but Eragon was quick. Though he was oftentimes not quick enough to keep up with the superior technique of his brother's moves, and had never beaten him yet. Eragon made a lunge at Murtagh's leg, but he quickly swiped it away, jumping backwards and landing with his feet firmly planted in the dirt. Behind the two boys, their direwolves sat a good distance apart, watching with interest.

Eragon made a few more attempts to land a blow, but Murtagh was completely focused on the spar, and his younger brother was terribly predictable. At his young age, there were only a few combinations that he knew well enough to put them into practice, and they were all easily defended against. Murtagh parried blow after blow, but soon grew tired of this game. He pushed against the next blow, sending the smaller boy staggering back into the dirt. Eragon landed on the ground with a thump and a look of indignation upon his face. It was a look that was soon replaced by one of fear when Murtagh rested the dull tip of his blade at the hollow of Eragon's throat.

"Dead," he said simply. "Practice with Jörmundur from now on, and boys your own size, until you can compete with me. There was no cheating involved; I am simply at a higher skill level than you." He reached down a hand and hauled his younger brother to his feet. _Half-brother, _he had to remind himself. Although they were raised together, the boys had lived their lives apart from one another. The queen kept her darling boy close to her bosom, and Murtagh had learned to fend for himself. And even though he was young, it did not escape Eragon's notice how their father seemed to prefer Murtagh's company over his, sowing little seeds of doubt in his young, impressionable mind; though these thoughts, he kept to himself.

"I shouldn't be sparring with you anyways," Eragon replied sullenly, brushing the dirt off the back of his breeches. "I'm the future king of Alagaesia, and you're just a bastard."

"I also happen to be your _brother, _Eragon." Murtagh felt the anger rising up in his chest, and he wanted nothing more than to punch Eragon right in the nose. His words seemed to put him in check though, for the look on the boy's face was one of shame. But before he could say anything further, a messenger scurried into the yard, bowing in Eragon's direction.

"My prince," he said in a mousy tone, "the queen wishes to see you." Eragon threw a heated glance in Murtagh's direction before following the small man back into the castle. Saphira bounded across the yard to follow, and once they were gone, Murtagh could feel his anger abating and retreating back inside him. He had been far too close to saying or doing something regretful. Although he loved his brother, and they had been friends as children, the boy could be cruel sometimes. And Murtagh was not sure if Eragon harbored the same brotherly love for him. If he didn't it was because of the queen and her poisoned words, a force that Murtagh could not hope to combat.

With a heavy sigh, he replaced the practice sword on the rack and hurried back inside before any more distractions could come his way. Thorn padded along behind him, frightening the servants with his monstrous size. At least Murtagh would never have to worry about any surprise ambushes, either threatening or not. Thorn could ward off any unwanted visitors, no matter who they were. Well, except the king and queen's wolves perhaps. They were larger than Thorn, though Murtagh knew Athkore would never do anything to hurt him. His father's wolf loved him dearly, he knew. But the queen's… Well, that was a different story. The huge brindled direwolf was certainly a fearsome beast to behold, though he'd heard that the King Across the Sea's was even larger. But no matter, he doubted he'd ever meet _that_ wolf in his lifetime.

The exiled king could send as many ships as he possessed, but they would never land on Alagaesia's shores. Not if his father had anything to say about it; that much Murtagh knew for sure. Their armies could withstand whatever King Morzan threw at them, and he'd be beaten back to his island like a whipped dog. Murtagh was brimming with nervous excitement at the prospect of helping to defend their land. Even though he was only Commander of the City Guard, and the Orani armies would likely never even make it to Illirea, he still held a sense of pride in his duty. His father had given him a great honor and responsibility, and Murtagh would not let him down.

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_In Teirm_

General Thane sat proudly upon the back of his black destrier as they came pounding through the gates of Teirm. It had been a three day ride from Illirea with an arduous trek through the Spine, and they had pushed their mounts to their limits. But General Thane knew there would be no time for rest. In the large square that lay just within the gates stood Lady Angela, a large mass of soldiers filed into their ranks behind her. She wore a full suit of flanged armor, yet her head remained uncovered, allowing her wild, brown curls to flow freely about her face and shoulders. Fierce blue eyes were set into her face, like rare jewels, and General Thane thought that she was a very beautiful woman. Beside her was a snarling, black direwolf, with yellow eyes as big as full moons. Slather dripped from the beast's mouth, and the horses began to grow uneasy as they approached the forces of Teirm.

"Well met, General Thane," Angela called, raising a hand in greeting. The main force of their men remained outside the city walls, but Thane had brought his cavalry with him in a show of the king's might. Although the Western Tribes had been amongst the first to ally with King Brom, it still did well to remind them of his power and protection.

"And to you, Lady Angela," the burly general replied. He pulled his destrier to a stop in front of the ruler of Teirm and crawled down from his back, his heavy armor clanking together noisily. When he righted himself, he was able to see over the heads of every man gathered before him, and most especially the small woman with the huge direwolf. "What news do you have of the Orani ships?" he continued, eyeing the wolf warily. The beast had a feral look about him, and General Thane didn't want to find any of his horses missing in the morning.

"The ships were sighted by our scouting boats about a league from shore," Lady Angela explained, turning away and walking across the square, prompting General Thane to follow her. Behind them, the black wolf, Solembum, padded across the flagstone quietly, the only sound the clicking of his sharp claws. Thane glanced nervously back at the beast, and sped up his pace to keep up with the smaller woman. As they walked, she continued, "The raven that came this morning put their number at three. They're large war galleys, so give or take two-hundred and fifty oarsmen, and then at least another hundred or so above decks per ship."

"So we're looking at a force upwards of a thousand then," Thane replied, deep in thought. "How many men do you have here?"

"Half that many." They entered into a large row house, which Thane could only assume belonged to the lady of the City, and then through the entrance into an ample study, appointed with dark oak and lit with a large lantern hanging from the ceiling. Solembum followed into the study and sat behind his lady where she took up behind a large desk. Thane remained standing as a servant closed the door and the two were left alone.

"We have enough men to match their numbers," Thane said, "but the issue will be if Redbeard can get here in time. Our frigates are coming up from Feinster, and it's a five day sail. We'll need to hold them off until then."

"We have ships, General Thane," Angela replied heatedly. "Though they are not vessels of war, it will give us the chance to at least get close to them. And if they try to land, we'll be ready. The situation is not dire as of yet, but King Brom's help is welcome. We will find places for your men in the barracks."

"Your generosity is surely welcome, Lady Angela. But I would like to sit with you and your advisors, as well as mine, to go over our strategy. How do you plan to combat the raiders out on the water?"

"Many of our soldiers grew up as fisherman, and have a vast knowledge of the waters around here," she said firmly, stroking her wolf's fur. "We can draw them off their ships and into the smaller estuaries and deltas to fight them in smaller numbers. But you are right, General Thane, we must all agree on a comprehensive strategy. I will call a meeting for tomorrow night, yes?" He nodded swiftly before turning to exit, his helm secured under his arm. Out in the square, the forces of Illirea and Teirm were mingling, but Thane's Captains and Commanders stood huddled in their own group. He headed over to them.

"Tell the men to head to the barracks, on the western end of the city," Thane snapped to one of the company Commanders. "There will be no fight tonight, nor possibly the next day. These Orani bastards seem content to bide their time and make us wait."

"Yes, sir," the commander said, saluting and then turning to find his men. The others did the same at Thane's bidding, and then the general himself followed one of Lady Angela's advisors to another of the row houses, near the one that served as Lady Angela's headquarters. Thane's leaders would join him shortly, and then they could get to work on a strategy, in case the Orani attacked before Angela thought they would. As he looked out of an upper window, he couldn't help thinking this would be an extremely long and tiring campaign.

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_In Illirea_

"What have I told you about sparring with that _boy_?" Queen Selena was not in the best of moods to begin with, and the information about her son fighting with the king's bastard in the practice yard had only served to incense her further.

"Oh, mother," Eragon replied, rolling his eyes slightly as he petted Saphira's soft, grey fur absentmindedly. "He is my _brother, _who else am I supposed to spar with? I know you don't like him because he's a bastard, but all the other nobleman's sons are so dull. And none of them are any good with a sword."

"It's a matter of propriety, my sweet boy," the queen continued from her high-backed chair. Her brindled wolf, Marl, lay on the floor at her feet, his jade eyes trained on the prince before him. "If you are seen to be cavorting with your father's… _mistake, _then it could reflect badly upon you. You are to be the future king, and must surround yourself with only those who can be trusted."

"But…" The young boy seemed to be confused, biting down on his lip and looking to his wolf for guidance. "But Murtagh is my brother… He wouldn't betray me, would he?" The queen gave her son a sympathetic look and then beckoned him over to the chair. He crossed the room and then stopped by her side as she put an arm around his shoulder, petting his dark brown hair in a loving manner.

"My dear," she began slowly, her tone soft and comforting, "there are things that you do not yet understand. You are very important, in that you will be king someday. But Murtagh, he is also the king's son. He wants to take your birthright from you, child. Bastards are born of treachery and deceit, and can only do the same throughout their own lives. He wishes to be king; you cannot let him get to close to you. I fear for your safety, Eragon." The queen's words coursed through his mind, planting little seeds of doubt to be sown into greater mistrust later. She watched in silent triumphant as the weight of her lies became apparent on the young boy's face. He leaned his head into her shoulder.

"I love you, Mother," Eragon whispered. "Thank you for your wisdom. We can't let Murtagh take my throne."

"No, my dear," the queen seethed, "we cannot."

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**That's all for now! Please review! **


	5. Echoes of the Past

**A/N: Hi everyone! This chapter will divulge a little bit more about the past between Brom and Morzan. Enjoy! P.S. (Sorry for the delay in updating. My life kinda just got turned on its head, so I'm just now able to get around to this)**

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The raiders attacked three days later, just as General Thane had expected. But what he did not expect was that the attack would come anywhere other than Teirm. Just down the coast, in a small town called Midbarrow, the sun was setting over the Western Sea, casting its warm orange glow over the little fishing village. Mothers called to their children to come in for supper, and the men were just making their way home from the docks. It had been a normal day, just as all the ones before it had been, and all others after it would be. Or so they thought. In the blinding flash of sunset, they never saw the rowboats that held the Orani raiders. They stuck close to the rocky cliffs, out of sight of the shore watchmen. The town lay over the mountain from Teirm, so no one heard the sounds of their screams when the raiders landed on the rocky beaches and stole into the town in the light of dusk.

As General Thane stood at the window of his study the next morning, awaiting his breakfast, he noticed a black smudge of smoke over the low peak to the south. He narrowed his eyes at the horizon as a servant pushed his way into the room and laid a platter piled high with food on the small table. The servant rose and put his hands behind his back, saying "Is there anything else I can fetch for you, Sir?"

"What's over that mountain?" Thane asked, his eyes still peeled on the smoke that was rising ever higher in the sky.

"A small fishing village," the servant replied tersely. "It's called Midbarrow. Will that be all, Sir?" The general waved his hand dismissively and the servant hurried out of the room to tend to the other occupants of the row house. General Thane turned from the window, and before he could decide what he would do next, a woman burst into the room, her wild, curly hair flying about her head in a frenzy of motion.

"General Thane!" Angela cried. "The raiders came in the night; they attacked a small village to the south of here."

The large, burly man slammed a clenched fist down upon the table, rattling the cups and plates that held his forgotten breakfast. "How did we not see this coming? Where were the scouts!" he demanded hotly, fetching his swordbelt from the back of a chair and buckling it hurriedly about his waist.

"They came in rowboats and stuck close to the shore," Angela explained, "right at sunset. In the glare of the light, they couldn't see them."

"Has a company been sent to fetch the survivors yet?" General Thane was walking briskly around the edge of the table, but the hardness in Lady Angela's voice gave him reason to pause.

"Thane," she said quietly, her voice no more than a whisper, "there were no survivors. They razed the village to the ground… even the children." Cold dread filled the general's heart at her words and he felt the breath catching in his throat.

"Gather the other generals," he said quietly, trying to mask the quavering in his voice. "And fetch a steward. I need to send King Brom a message straight away."

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_Dark wings, dark words. _Brom thought that the phrase had never rung more true than in this instance. When the raven had come, bearing General Thane's message, he could hardly believe the words written in a hasty script upon the parchment. Ten years ago, they'd suffered raids along the coast from the Orani, but they had been petty thefts in comparison to this. Never before had any deaths resulted from the raids, and then they'd just stopped altogether. Brom couldn't understand why now, all of a sudden, Morzan would choose to heighten his aggression.

_There's no use in mulling over the why, _Athkore said solemnly from her place behind his desk. _We have to focus on our response now. _

_ I've summoned the Council; they should be here any moment, _Brom replied, placing his head into his hands and heaving a sigh. _This saddens my heart, Athkore. I knew Morzan was a bitter man, but I never thought he was capable of the slaughter of innocents…_

Before Athkore could respond, the door to his study swung open slowly, revealing Jeod where he stood timidly in the hallway. "Come in, Jeod," Brom called, beckoning him into the room. Jeod scurried across the carpeted floor and took a seat on the other side of the desk. It was not an irregular occurrence for a council meeting to be called, but it was not usually the king himself who did the calling. This was what caused Jeod to be alarmed.

"Where are the others, Your Grace?" he asked, wringing his hands.

"They have been summoned; I expect them any moment." Jeod remained silent, averting his eyes and scouring the room.

"Is there—"

"I will discuss it further when the Council arrives," Brom cut him off, not unkindly. The scholarly man bowed his head and stared at his hands where they were folded in his lap. The king could not help thinking that the man had a brilliant mind for strategy, but he wouldn't ever want him at his side _in_ a battle.

They didn't have to wait long before the door came bursting open again, admitting Jörmundur's large frame into the spacious room. Murtagh followed quickly behind him, with Thorn in tow. They took their places in the other chairs and exchanged greetings with Master Jeod. Not long after that, Jeod's wife, Helen, hurried into the room, her long blonde hair swaying behind her ample hips. She was the realms Master of Coin, and Jeod its Head Steward, so they rarely got any time alone together. They exchanged a quick peck on the lips, and she swept into the chair beside him, grasping his hand. It wasn't very often that the entire Council was called to a meeting, so they all had reason to worry. The last to arrive was the queen, sauntering into the study with her huge direwolf close behind. Once she took her seat at the far right end, the king drew in a long breath and steeled himself to impart the dreadful news he had received.

"A raven came from Teirm this morning," he said, dispensing with any formal introduction, "bearing dark news. The Orani raiders attacked a small village to the south of Teirm, razing it to the ground. No one was spared, not even the children." Helen sucked in her breath and tightened her grip on Jeod's hand, turning their knuckles white as bone. "I've called you all here to discuss our next course of action." Brom looked at the five people gathered before him in turn, staring each one of them in the eyes. Helen looked to be the most shocked, but the king's wife was oddly stone-faced, sitting straight-backed in her chair with her hands folded purposefully in her lap.

"The ships that were moored off the coast of Teirm," Jörmundur finally said, breaking the silence, "what's been done with them?"

"They were gone in the morning when the decimated town was discovered," the king explained. "Scouts were sent out after them, but it seems they set course back to Oran."

"Why come all this way to destroy an insignificant fishing village?" Murtagh asked, betraying his youth and inexperience.

"Because it was the last thing we expected. Morzan is toying with us," Jeod said quietly, his gaze staring blankly out the window. "He wants to show that he is not afraid of any threat we present, and that he will not hesitate to kill innocents."

"It isn't the first time he's done it," Brom said darkly, "nor, I fear, the last." He flicked his gaze up at his son, taking in the look of fear his face held. "My hesitation lies in deciding whether to retaliate or not."

"We should go after the bastards, and burn their tiny fleet to cinders," Jörmundur replied hotly, always one to suggest the most violent course of action.

"That will be exactly what they expect us to do," Jeod said. "We would do better to send agents into the city to infiltrate their ranks; attack them from within."

"A long and arduous—not to mention _expensive_—campaign that will be," Helen cut in. "And what will happen if those agents are discovered? No, we should treat with King Morzan to barter some kind of peace between our lands. If we don't nip this issue in the bud immediately, it will only grow worse as time wears on." Voices clamored against one another, shouting louder to be heard as the king watched on in passive silence. Only Murtagh and the queen remained silent, Murtagh out of fear, and Selena out of watchfulness. The other three continued to bicker while the king tried to silence them. Only when the queen's brindled direwolf, Marl, let out a ferocious snarl did the rest of the Council fall silent. They all stared over at her where she still sat in silence.

Finally, she said, "It is my belief that we should not do anything at all." Her words were met with a different sort of silence, one of shock and disbelief, instead of fear.

"What are you saying, Your Grace?" Jeod asked disbelievingly.

"Exactly what it sounds like, Master Jeod," she snapped. "We should not initiate any recourse, whatsoever. Morzan will expect us to respond in some way or another. He shocked us all with this abominable slaughter of innocent people, so we should shock him in turn. I am of the firm belief that the gods will dole out appropriate punishment in due time. It is not up to us to retaliate, but to the gods." It was a well-known fact that the queen was devoted to her faith, but her idea still caught them all off-guard.

"Your faith is well-noted my dear," the king responded slowly, causing the queen to raise an eyebrow at his use of the pet name, "but I'm not sure that is the best way to respond. If we sit idly by, we run the risk of appearing weak. And _that, _I cannot abide. Morzan has blatantly attacked us, essentially declaring war against us. We must respond in some way."

"Then what do you suggest, Your Majesty?" Jeod asked timidly. A heavy silence fell over the room as all eyes were trained upon the king.

"I suggest that we run a blockade of their ships to the south; stop all of their trade with Surda," the king said confidently. "If they cannot trade, there is no income to the crown, and the smallfolk will suffer for it as well. While I will never condone the harm of innocents, if enough people are outraged against the crown, it may prompt them to come to some sort of peace treaty. It is the only option I can reasonably conceive that will benefit everyone."

"Why should we try to cater to Morzan and his band of thugs?" the queen demanded. "If you do not wish to let the gods sort it out, the second best option is to attack in kind."

"I must disagree." Brom's voice became quietly determined, and took on a dark air. "You forget that Morzan was once my friend, and I know him better than any of you in this room." Selena sat up a bit straighter, her back going rigid. "And while I know he is not the man he once was, there are some things that do not change. Morzan is a ruthless king—that much I am sure of—but he cannot ignore the voices of the many, at the risk of losing the very throne that he built." Brom shifted his blue gaze over those that were gathered before him, locking eyes with each one in turn. When not one of them offered any more protest, he nodded solemnly.

"What would you have us do now, Your Majesty?" Jörmundur asked plainly, arms crossed over his chest and brow furrowed.

"Send a raven to Teirm, for Redbeard. They will reach the city in a day or so, and the message must be waiting for him. They'll not be happy to turn around, but it cannot be helped." Jörmundur nodded sharply and then stood to leave. He was a coarse man, with few manners, but Brom valued him all the same as the master-at-arms. "Lady Helen?" Brom said quickly, calling the woman to attention and away from chattering with her husband. "I trust you will see to the necessary finances?"

"Of course, Your Majesty," she said, jumping out of her chair and sinking into a deep curtsy. She left quickly after that, Jeod following close behind. The door swung shut with a hollow thud, resounding throughout the large chamber eerily and echoing strangely in Murtagh's ears. He looked at his father, and then at the queen nervously. Thorn shifted at his side, sniffing the air slightly as the queen's direwolf eyed him carefully. Athkore looked to be the only one at ease in this awkward situation.

Finally, the king's voice broke the silence. "Selena," he said firmly, "might I have a moment with my son?" The queen sniffed slightly at being dismissed, but swept her skirts up around her and glided out of the room all the same. Marl padded along behind her, an angry snarl set upon his face. When they were gone, Murtagh sighed in relief, and it did not go unnoticed by the king. He smirked slightly at the boy, but held his tongue.

"How are you adjusting to your new position?" he asked quietly, stroking Athkore's head in a loving manner. The she-wolf leaned up into his hand, the way a dog would, but her eyes stayed fixed on Murtagh.

"It's…" The boy hesitated slightly, weighing his words carefully before continuing. "…an adjustment. But I'm enjoying it." The king nodded.

"Good, that's good…" An awkward silence settled between them as their eyes shifted about the room, looking for something—anything—to talk about.

"Father—"

"Murtagh—" They both halted suddenly as they spoke at the same time, and then chuckled a bit. "Go ahead, son," the king conceded.

"Well," he began slowly, "I was just wondering… Can you tell me more about King Morzan?" Brom chewed at his lower lip—a nervous habit. He had known that questions would one day arise, but he'd dreaded providing the answers all the same.

"What is it you wish to know about him?"

"How did you become friends?" Murtagh asked. Brom looked down at his desk, inspecting the wood grain with feigned interest.

"We knew each other as boys," the king said. "My father was the leader of our clan, and Morzan's father was one of his best warriors. Our village was not very large, so it was a tight knit community. It didn't come as a surprise that we became friends as children, and stayed so as young men. When the Clan Wars began, I didn't think anything could separate us. We would go into battle together, and we would watch one another's backs. There were several occasions when Morzan saved my life, for which I am grateful."

"So what changed?"

"War changes a man, Murtagh. You do not yet know what it means to take another man's life, but you will. And when that day comes, I hope you are ready for it. I wasn't; Morzan thought he was, but the effect was great on him as well. And after his father was killed… It did not take long for the despair and anger to take hold of Morzan's heart.

"My father died not long after his, and I became the clan chief, a position I was woefully unprepared for. But I had my best friend by my side; I thought I was ready… Morzan had other ideas. He thought he knew how to subdue the other clans better than I did, and he thought I was a fool for wanting to marry your mother." Murtagh stiffened at the mention of his mother. He knew little about her, as Brom rarely spoke of her. She'd always seemed like some distant specter; a dream that once existed but had faded into nothingness with the passage of time. Brom remained silent for a moment longer, and then looked up at his son. "I believe you know the rest of that history." The king did not like to recall how he'd exiled a man who'd once been his best friend, but had become unrecognizable from the effects of war.

"He murdered innocent people," Murtagh stated solemnly.

"Yes, he did, which I could not forgive him for. But nor could I take his life. It did not seem fitting to repay death with death; in truth, it never has made sense to me. Death cannot bring healing, Murtagh," the king said firmly, "it only breeds more bitterness and strife. Do not forget that." The young man nodded slightly and then rose from his chair.

"I must return to my studies," he said, "Master Jeod will be waiting for me." He bowed out of respect and then turned quickly. As he reached for the door handle, King Brom called out.

"Murtagh," he said, causing the young man to stop in his tracks and turn to face him. "I want you to know that I am proud of you, and I look forward to seeing the man that you become."

"Thank you, Father," he replied, bowing again. And when the king saw a glimpse of a smile upon his son's face, his heart stopped beating for an instant at the likeness he bore to his mother.

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**That's all for now. Thanks for reading, and don't forget to review! **


	6. Drums of War

**A/N: Hi everyone! Sorry for the long wait in between chapters. My life went from 0 to 60 in about half a second, and I'm just now getting to the point where I can breathe again. (My dad lost his job, I got married, and we moved across the country in a matter of about two months). Anyways, enough with my sob story, here is the next installment for your viewing pleasure.**

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"My lady?" Bridie's voice cut through Raina's thoughts, startling her away from the window. The rain fell in a light pitter-patter, streaking the dirty glass and leaving it clean in its wake. The princess turned to her handmaid and smiled softly, though her eyes were still sad.

"What is it, Bridie?" she asked quietly, hands folded in front of her. Raina watched with slight amusement as the doubt and hesitation played upon the young girl's face. It had not been so long ago when Bridie had become the princesses' handmaid, and they had grown as close as sisters in that time. But there was still a wall that stood between them sometimes, when Bridie remembered she was just a servant, and Raina was heir to a kingdom. Though they knew that they would never betray one another, they had to choose their words carefully, lest any prying ears should overhear them.

"I'm worried about you, my lady," Bridie whispered, coming closer. Ùna raised her massive head from where she lay before the hearth, ears perked to attention. The two girls heard heavy footsteps in the corridor, treading impatiently on the stone. Neither spoke or even moved; they listened carefully, and when the steps finally passed, each let out the breath they'd been holding. Things were especially tense around the castle as of late, and neither wanted to take the chance of angering the king.

"There's nothing to be worried about," Raina replied, turning back towards the window and taking up a seat in her favorite armchair. Bridie hurried across the room and knelt at her mistresses feet, thankful for the rug that warded off the chill from the stone.

"You've been very distant lately, and I'm worried your father will begin to notice."

"He has no time for me," Raina whispered. "What time he does have is taken up either by my mother, or by the conflict with Alagaesia. I happened to hear one of the stewards the other day, and apparently it isn't going very well."

"How long do you think this blockade will last? It's been close to a year already," the little handmaid asked. She was not skilled in the art of politics, but Raina was doing her best to teach her. They only got their information from the whispered conversations of the other servants and her father's men, so their knowledge was limited, at best.

"I couldn't say," Raina said. "But from what the steward said, there is some unrest amongst the smallfolk. There have been riots at the markets due to the food shortage, and the farmers are getting restless as well. I heard one of my father's guards saying that they want to increase their prices even more."

"That sounds awful," Bridie mused quietly, staring into space for a moment. "By just living in the palace, you wouldn't know anything bad was going on out there."

"No, you wouldn't; it seems as though nothing has changed," Raina agreed. "But everything has. I feel something terrible is coming, Bridie. Though I can't put my finger on it, I feel it's coming soon." Ùna swung her head around to stare at the two girls, and Raina noticed that her large yellow eyes looked immensely sad. Bridie stood slowly and hurried over to the fire, throwing another log onto the flaming heap to ward off the chill. Raina hardly ever left the room for reasons other than the meals she was required to attend, and she preferred it to be kept warm. Their northern island was naturally cold almost the whole year, except for the heart of summer when the warm winds blew from the west and brought their blooms and fruit to their trees. But right now, it was a dreary autumn morning, and soon the snows would come.

"I must attend to my duties, m'lady," Bridie said, dropping into a haphazard curtsy and turning to go.

"Bridie," Raina called, stopping the girl in her tracks, "have you seen my mother lately?" The handmaid's heart dropped to her stomach and nervousness wracked her whole body. Her hands began to tremble and she bit down on her lower lip. She only hoped the princess would not notice.

"No, m'lady, I haven't," she lied. Turning quickly, she hurried out of the room before the princess could ask any more questions, leaving her alone in her silent chambers.

_The two-leg does not lie very well_, Ùna said softly, sniffing at the air where Bridie had just been.

_No, she does not. But I do not blame her for it,_ the princess replied. She sighed heavily and drew a blanket across her lap. _I wish to hear about my mother, but I do not know if I'm prepared to hear the answer. _

_ I could venture out for you, if you wish._

_No,_ Raina said briskly, though not unkindly. _My father's wolf has been patrolling the corridors more often lately; probably to make sure I'm not poking about where I'm not wanted. I would not have you encounter him. _

Ùna snapped her teeth lightly and let out a huff of air. _My red brother is large, but I am quick. He does not frighten me. _

_He should. I'm afraid that beast is more of a monster than any others of your kind._ Raina rested her chin in the palm of her hand, gazing out into the grey morning. There would be no practice in the yard for her today; it was probably already a mire of mud and muck. _But thank you for the offer, Ùna, _she continued. _I'm sure I shall see her soon enough. _

_I am not so sure, friend-of-my-heart._ Ùna rose and padded to Raina's side, nudging under her arm until it was draped across the wolf's neck. Raina scratched behind her large ear, as she knew the wolf loved. Though her friend spoke the truth, it was still difficult for the girl to accept. She couldn't remember the last time she'd really gotten to spend any alone time with her mother, it had been so long. And now, she feared she was running out of time.

* * *

_Three years later…_

Eragon's fist came smashing down upon the heavy oak table, rattling the other lord's goblets and plates. As his chair scraped across the floor and he stormed out of the dining room, King Brom clenched his teeth in embarrassment, almost wishing another lord would at least express some outrage at the boy's impudence, instead of sitting in stoic silence. At the other end of the table, almost hidden behind the roast boar, he would have expected his wife's eyes to bore holes into his skull with their ferocity, but instead, he was met with a cordial smile upon her still-beautiful face.

"My lords," she said calmly, her rich voice ringing throughout the cavernous dining room, "you must excuse my son. He is still young, with a taste for glory upon the battlefield. He does not yet know what the glory truly means. I am sure many of you remember those days, when the thirst for blood ran hot through your veins." She was met with muttered whispers and chuckles from many of the men seated at the table. But the women remained motionless, looking between the others with knowing in their eyes. This was a woman who was losing hold, and they knew it.

"It was more recent for some of us than others," Lord Fäolin chimed in a happy tone, nudging the older man who sat to his right. The older man feigned a smile, but Brom saw when he looked the other way that there was resentment in his hard, blue eyes. He did not know the man's name, but he made a note of remembering his face.

"That it was," the king replied with a smile, raising his goblet and taking a long drink. Some of the others followed suit and continued on with the meal, as though nothing had ever happened to disrupt them. The conversation that caused the young man to storm from the room was quickly forgotten; all those involved agreeing that it could wait until morning. But the king felt the weight of those unspoken words resting heavily on his shoulders.

As those around him turned to their neighbors in idle chit chat, he could not help but reflect on the brief dialogue. Lord Orrin, ever the meddler, had mentioned the ongoing success of the campaign with Oran, though skirmishes had decreased drastically in the last few years. The king agreed readily, hoping not to engage him, but it soon became clear that Orrin was not quite ready to give up.

"So, is the plan just to continue to refuse trade with them, engaging their militants only now and again? Or is there something else in the works that you've called us all here for?" The large table full of lords and ladies and their captains had fallen silent, and all eyes turned to the king. His heart hammered in its cage, but the mask the king had spent years constructing never faltered or cracked.

"I suppose it was not terribly difficult to surmise I'd summoned you all to discuss the war," the king said, his voice unwavering. "But I had hoped to wait until tomorrow morning, so my lords and ladies would be better rested from their long journeys."

Orrin smirked lightly in that way that had always made the king bristle at his impertinence. "At least give us a taste of what we are in for, Your Grace," the Southron lord said impishly.

King Brom looked at the eighteen faces turned toward him, and noticed not one pair of eyes held a friendly expression. Suddenly, he wished Murtagh had been able to attend, so he knew at least one person in the room was his ally in this moment. But the boy was away on the king's business; he'd left himself alone in this.

Heaving a sigh, he spread his large hands over the surface of the table. "It is no secret that the skirmishes along the coast have lessened significantly in the past year," he began, feeling a hum of anticipation settle over the room. "I wish to discuss the joining of our forces to launch an assault on Oran, crippling their military once and for all. All civilians will be welcome to become citizens of any tribe they choose, but King Morzan will spend the rest of his life in a dungeon, where he cannot hurt another living soul." A heavy silence pervaded for a moment, until he looked to Lord Orrin, whose face suddenly broke into the widest grin the king had ever seen.

"Well," the younger man said, his tone sickly sweet, "it's about time." He laughed heartily and slapped his captain roughly on the shoulder. Many others around the table expressed similar sentiments, all except for the Lady Islanzadí and her stoic-faced daughter, Lady Arya.

The voices became indistinguishable as the lords and ladies talked amongst themselves, and King Brom thought he'd placated them. That is, until one voice rang out above the rest.

"And what of your son?" the voice said, turning his ice to blood. Selena sat at the other end of the table, an endearing simper set firmly upon her face and her hand resting atop that of her son. Eragon looked between his parents expectantly, his gaze resting longer on his father.

"My dear," the king said, his voice less sure than it had been before, "I do not think now is the time to discuss such things."

"Yes Father," Eragon said, his voice full of hurt, "what of me?" Every voice had hushed now, and all eyes were trained on the king where he sat virtually unmoving. If he could slap that smile off Selena's face in that moment, he would have done it.

"You are the Crown Prince, Eragon. You will remain here, as is your place."

"While your bastard rides into battle to win all the glory?" The king flinched, his mask faltering only momentarily. All the while, Selena's smile never left her.

"This is neither the time nor the place," the king growled. That was when Eragon had stormed out of the room, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

The king sighed heavily as the dinner continued on around him, but there was a heaviness settling in his heart. One that he knew he would have to address sooner rather than later.

* * *

The castle was silent now, after everyone had retired to their chambers for the night. The king and his wolf walked the empty corridors, as they often did on nights they could not sleep. It was somehow calming, knowing that everyone was safe in their beds.

_Was the dinner a success? _Athkore asked the king, immediately feeling when he tensed at her side.

_No, _the old man replied, _no it was not. Lord Orrin was as insufferable as usual, and Selena shamed me in front of all of them. Not to mention Eragon storming out of the room and embarrassing me even further. _

_ I heard my younger sister's thoughts, _the wolf replied, nudging at his hand as it hung by his side. _I wondered why the prince was so angry with you. _

_ He yearns for glory, as most young men of his age do. But he does not understand the price of that glory. I learned the hard way; I do not wish that for him._

_ Perhaps it would be best if you said this to him yourself? _The wise wolf framed it as a suggestion, but Brom knew her far better than that. He gave her a loving rub between the ears as they continued their walk, spiraling further and further up the North Tower. Eragon's chambers were at the very top, and halfway up the king could see the light from the candles were still burning.

_I will go alone, _he said to Athkore. _Do not wait for me. _She nudged his hand lovingly once more and then turned to pad down the stairs on silent paws. After taking a long breath to steel himself, the king continued up to the landing, where he stopped momentarily. Eragon was muttering softly to Saphira on the other side, and for a moment, the king wavered in his decision. But he knew if he did not address the situation now, the moment would pass him by. Gingerly, he knocked on the heavy oak door, silencing the mutterings from within.

"Eragon," Brom called through the door. "May I come in? I would speak with you." It was silent for a long moment, but then he heard shuffling and footsteps on the hardwood coming toward him. Slowly, the door swung inward to reveal Eragon staring with a hard look, the anger still evident on his face. Though the boy was only eighteen, he already was taller than his father by at least a hand. And the king had to smile when he noticed the fine, blond layer of fuzz upon his chin, just barely visible in the candlelight.

"Yes, Father?" he asked tersely.

"May I enter?" The king waited patiently, hands clasped behind his back, until the boy's shoulders sank and he stood aside, allowing his father to enter. Brom strode into the room and marveled at the neatness of it. He remembered himself at that age; and though he hadn't lived in a castle such as this one, his quarters were never clean. A small fire blazed brightly in the hearth directly across from him, filling the room with a comforting warmth. On the adjacent wall stood a modestly sized bed, upon which lay his direwolf, sapphire eyes following the king alertly as he moved about the space. To his left was a small sitting area, with a writing desk that held neatly stacked papers, quill, and ink, and two plush looking chairs. Next to the window was an enormous bookcase, filled with volumes of leather-bound books ranging in subjects from anatomy to philosophy to magic.

The king could not count how many times he'd summoned the boy to his own study, but never once had he visited his son within his own sanctuary. Eragon stood with his back leaned up against the door, arms crossed over his chest. Brom finished scanning the room before turning back to him.

"That's quite a collection you have?" he said quietly, gesturing to the shelves. "Where did you get it?"

"Master Jeod," he snipped, every muscle in his body tense. After a few more moments of weighty silence, he said, "Why have you come, Father?"

"I wish only to speak to my son." Eragon snorted slightly at that, looking over to the bed, no doubt conversing with Saphira. The huge wolf let out a heavy sigh and then swung her head back to look at the king. Brom could not help but feel unsettled as the wolf's gaze rested upon him. There was a hardness in her eyes, the like he'd only ever seen in one other wolf.

"Will you sit with me?" Brom asked, striding over to one of the large, wing-backed chairs. Eragon lingered for a moment longer at the door, but then finally conceded, crossing the large space in only a few strides. He sat in the chair opposite his father, and then waited. Brom chewed on his words a moment longer. "I wanted to discuss what happened at dinner tonight," he finally continued.

"If you want me to apologize for storming out, I hate to disappoint you." Brom let the boy's impertinence go unchecked. He knew it had been groomed by Selena for quite some time now.

"No, I do not want that," the old king said. "I had hoped to discuss the plans for the coming battles tomorrow, but Lord Orrin made that impossible. I am just sorry you had to find out that way."

"Then you won't change your mind?" Eragon said angrily, his brow furrowing tightly.

"No, I will not. A king must stand by his decisions." He saw anger flash across his son's face, and what looked like hatred in his eyes. "But this has nothing to do with Murtagh."

"Do not lie to me, Father," Eragon spat. Brom took a deep breath to calm his own rising anger at Eragon's disrespect.

"There is no lie."

"Then why have you always favored him over me? You've always given him responsibilities while I am sheltered here in this prison," Eragon cried, his voice rising with every word. Saphira watched silently from the bed.

"I am going to give you a kingdom one day, Eragon. What greater responsibility is there than that?" The king's words silenced the boy quickly, though there was still anger in his eyes. "I am not under any false pretenses to think your mother harbors any love for Murtagh, and it is better for everyone if he stays away more often than he is here. Do you not agree?" Eragon nodded slightly, but said nothing. "And as much as your mother would like to pit you and Murtagh against one another, she knows it is safer for you here. You are my only heir, and I would not risk your life unnecessarily."

"Yet when I am king, they will think me a coward because I have never wet my blade in battle, as you did."

"Would you rather die upon some blood-soaked field than sit upon the throne one day?" Again, Eragon was silenced. "You do not know what it is to fight in a war, Eragon. There is nothing glorious about it. I do not wish that fate upon either of my sons."

"Then why do you let Murtagh do it?"

"Murtagh chose this life for himself," the king snapped, losing a bit of his patience. "I appointed him captain of the City Guard, but he chose to join the cavalry. I could not stop him, no matter how hard I may have tried. But you…" He stopped and looked at his youngest son for a moment; at how young he still was, though he was considered a man grown now. "You are going to do great things someday, Eragon. But for now, it is more important that you remain alive. There will always be some other conflict where you can prove your skills. But for right now, I implore you, think of your future; think of your mother." At the mention of his mother, Eragon cast his eyes upon the floor, realizing how foolish he'd been.

"I am sorry, Father," he mumbled quietly. "You are right."

"I am not saying 'never'," the king continued, softer this time, "I'm only saying 'not right now'." Eragon nodded solemnly and then looked back up at his father. He made to open his mouth to speak, but was suddenly cut off by a rich, deep voice resounding throughout the room.

_Brom! _Athkore's voice was urgent, almost desperate. The king had never heard her sound as such before, and never had she projected her voice to more than just him before.

_Athkore, what is it? _the king replied quickly, rising from the chair.

_Messenger. Coming your way, _she said in a clipped tone. Not a moment later, a ferocious banging came at the door.

"Your Majesty!" a deep voice shouted as the banging continued. Eragon hurried to open the door and the burly man bustled into the room. He was large, but not muscular; more oafish than anything.

"What is it man? Quickly!"

"A raven just arrived from Narda," he said, laboring heavily to catch his breath. "There's been an attack; it was an ambush, Your Majesty."

As the words came tumbling out of the large man's mouth, the king's stomach dropped into a hollow pit. Two weeks ago, Murtagh's unit had ridden out for Narda. And now the king knew: they'd ridden straight into a trap.

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**All right, everyone, that's all for now! I did not expect this chapter to get so long, so I had to stop. Hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to review!**


	7. Terror in the Dark

**A/N: Hi everyone! The plot bunnies have bitten me, so I'm back with a new chapter. Hope you enjoy! **

**Warning: There's a bit of graphic material in this chapter, but it's not too bad. But, read at your own discretion.**

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As night closed in around the camp, the king's bastard couldn't help but feel unsettled. Shadows reached out tremulously from the edge of the forest, spindly fingers tugging at the tents and fires. They cast themselves over the men's faces, marring their features and making the whole scene look like some grotesque masquerade. He couldn't pinpoint where this feeling was coming from, but Murtagh knew it could only spell trouble. But what was more troubling than the feeling itself, was that he seemed to be the only one aware of it.

The other captains circled around their watchfires, eating a meager meal of onion soup and hard bread and laughing merrily at the others' jokes. Further away from the captains, the other men sat around their own fires with the same meal and the same jokes. Murtagh found he could not be persuaded to join them. Thorn shifted restlessly by his side, transferring his weight to one paw and then back to the other. Murtagh looked down into the wolf's crimson eyes and saw the same unrest he felt within himself.

_You feel it too. _It was not a question. Murtagh already felt the stirrings within his wolf's mind.

_There is darkness in this part of the world, _Thorn replied, leaning against Murtagh's leg. He did not respond to the wolf; merely nodded and continued surveying the camp from his post at the very edge. But then his attention was called away by one of the captains—Captain Tregg—calling him over to the fire. With a soft grumble to himself, he and Thorn made their way over.

"You need to relax a bit, Murtagh," Tregg said through a mouthful of saturated bread. "The last report put the Orani ten leagues from here. They'll not have heard of our arrival yet."

"Somehow, that does not put me at ease," Murtagh joked, taking a seat on an overturned crate that would have once held rations. Tregg clapped him on the back and laughed jovially, but still the pit in Murtagh's stomach did not disappear.

"Leave the boy alone," General Kesson said darkly from the other side of the fire. His brow was furrowed in consternation over his bowl of stew, and Murtagh noted he seemed to be the only other one with their guard still up. "He is right to be wary, as the rest of you should be. These Orani are treacherous bastards—no offense to present company intended."

"None taken," Murtagh muttered, though he felt the hair on the back of his neck standing straight up. After all this time, that word still rankled him. Thorn nudged his arm and whimpered softly.

"No man can say when or where they will strike next," the general continued without missing a step. "They've been striking up and down the Mountain Road for months now, never staying in one place for too long. They could have moved anywhere since the last raven came."

"The scouts have seen no sign of them in a five mile radius," Tregg interjected, flinging a bit of stew out of his bowl with a wild wave of his arm. "We've nothing to fear. At least, not this night." Kesson merely grunted in response. While Murtagh appreciated Tregg's confidence, he found he did not share it. Being the youngest of the captains and the king's bastard on top of that, Murtagh realized early on that his opinions were seldom taken into consideration by the other captains. Only the general ever took him seriously. Perhaps now would be the only chance to give voice to his worries.

"General, I think we should heighten the patrols around the camp tonight," he stated, causing the other men to fall silent and cease whatever they were doing. Kesson stared at him in surprise. Few of his captains were so bold, and certainly never Murtagh.

"We've already got fifty men on patrol tonight," the general finally said, lowering his bowl to his lap. "What makes you think we need more?"

Murtagh looked into the eyes of the other captains, each of them staring expectantly. Thorn shifted at his side, but remained quiet, as he usually did. "It's just a feeling," he finally admitted. "My wolf feels it too." None of the other men had ever come in contact with a direwolf before Murtagh joined their ranks, let alone had one themselves, so he didn't expect them to understand. But he also did not expect to be met with derisive sneers and laughter.

"And what does an animal know, boy?" another captain—one Murtagh had never bothered to learn his name—japed cruelly. Thorn raised himself up off his haunches and bared his gleaming white fangs, hackles raised in anger.

"Apparently quite a lot," Murtagh mumbled. Not surprisingly, the other man fell silent.

"I can appreciate caution," the general continued, as though the disturbance had never happened, "but until there is evidence that we are in immediate danger, I'll not wear out my men needlessly." Kesson's tone indicated the matter was final, and Murtagh fell silent for the remainder of the evening. The other captains continued on, seemingly carefree, and one by one they retired to their separate tents mingled amongst their men. Murtagh's tent was on the far south end of the camp, well away from all the others. Unsurprisingly, this did not bother him in the slightest. In fact, he much preferred it that way.

_These two-legs are somewhat foolish, _Thorn intoned somberly, his voice rich and deep.

_Perhaps we are the fools, and there really is nothing to be worried about, _Murtagh quipped back playfully, scratching the pure white wolf behind the ear.

_My instincts tell me otherwise. _Murtagh was trying to be lighthearted, but Thorn was decidedly less so. _A foul wind shifts in the West. With it comes death and chaos; I feel it. _Murtagh sighed heavily at the wolf's solemn tone. Sometimes he could be so serious. They continued on into the portion of the camp where his men resided, most of them already retired to their cots. The few who still mingled about their watchfires inclined their heads as Murtagh passed by, but they did not say anything. Few of the men ever did say anything to Murtagh, outside of the standard "Yes, Sir" or "No, Sir". He figured it had something to do with the fact that his father was the king.

Their tent quickly approached, but the young man and his wolf strolled past it slowly, keeping their eyes trained on the outer edge of the camp. It was quiet, save for the chirping of crickets and hooting of owls. Thorn's ears swiveled atop his head, taking in all the sounds around them. Nothing seemed out of place.

A young man whom Murtagh was cordial with was on sentry duty that evening, leaning heavily against a silver-tipped spear. He didn't seem to notice his captain was there until he was right on top of him.

"Evening, Den," Murtagh said quietly, folding his hands behind his back. The young man straightened up quickly, eyes wide in surprise.

"Captain!" he exclaimed, giving a sloppy salute. "Didn't realize you was out among us this late at night."

"It's not too late. Anything to report?" Thorn kept his red eyes fixed on the tree line, sniffing lightly as a breeze shifted his fur.

"No, Sir," the young man—Den, he was called—stated quietly, shifting his gaze to the trees as well. "Quiet as a graveyard, it is. I don't think any of those Orani bastards will be bothering us tonight." The young man laughed slightly, but Murtagh did not share his certainty. He looked over at the young sentry, who couldn't have been more than a year his younger, and smiled slightly.

"Keep up the good work, Den." With that, Murtagh turned and began to walk the perimeter at a slow pace. But it was not leisurely; more calculated than unawares. Thorn padded along quietly at his side, never dropping his guard or taking those blood-red eyes away from the darkness. They continued on around another bend, and then Thorn stopped suddenly, sniffing eagerly at a shifting breeze.

_Murtagh, _the deep voice rang throughout Murtagh's head. _Get down!_ The young captain didn't have time to look before the wolf was pouncing on his back, forcing him to the ground. As his face hit the dirt, the whirring of an arrow shot over them, whistling through the air until it thumped in the dirt. That was when it seemed Hell itself was loosed upon them.

Screams of anger and madness rang out from the dark trees, making it seem as though the Broddring soldiers were surrounded by ghouls and banshees. Murtagh struggled to his feet, quickly unsheathing his hand-and-a-half sword from where it hung at his side. Thorn planted his feet firmly and bared his gleaming white teeth, fur bristled all along his back. All around them, men were scrambling out of their tents in whatever semblance of clothing they happened to have on at the moment, brandishing their weapons frantically. A feeling of dread filled Murtagh's chest to the brim, but there was nothing to be done. They were surrounded.

Dark shadows emerged from the trees, the silver of their weapons shining in what little moonlight was to be had. Their screams never ceased, but seemed to swell louder as they came closer. Murtagh's heartbeat pounded in his ears. Somehow, he'd known this would happen. _Why had no one believed him!_

As they drew closer, Murtagh could see their faces were covered in black paint, so that only the whites of their eyes could be seen, and their clothes were black as well. They had taken every precaution to stay hidden, it seemed… And it had worked. The men were in a frenzy all around him, rallying to their squads and their captains, though still in a daze, be it from sleep or alcohol.

"To me!" Murtagh shouted, positioning his sword to strike. "To me men!" They gathered around him, some with shields, to try and hold against the oncoming wave of Orani. Murtagh had no such protection, but that did not faze him. He'd faced Orani soldiers before and had not been beaten; this time would be no different.

The screaming men drew ever closer, nearly upon them. _Watch yourself, _Thorn said from his side, growling threateningly and tensing the muscles of his legs so as to pounce. _I'll be right behind you. _

_ Same for you, my friend, _Murtagh replied. They were upon them.

The Orani broke upon them like waves upon the rocks, streaming into every crack and crevice, swinging with biting swords and daggers. Men fell all around him, but Murtagh could only focus on the opponent before him. He saw a flash of white dash out next to him, latching onto the throat of a nearby soldier and ripping at the soft flesh he found there. The Orani seemed taken aback at the sight of the monstrous direwolf, but still they came. Murtagh knew Thorn could hold his own.

A black-clad soldier fell to his blade, metal slicing through sinew and bone as easily as if it were butter. The man screamed when his blood began pouring from his chest, pooling on the ground at his feet, but Murtagh did not allow him to suffer long. With another slash of his sword, the dying man's head disconnected from his body, and the screams were no more. The king's bastard did not have time to dwell on the gruesome death as another faceless soldier was behind that one. As he tried to look beyond the Orani coming at him, he could not see an end to their adversaries. In the darkness, it was impossible to tell where the men ended and the trees began.

Another soldier fell to his blade easily, and he took a moment to look around. Their line had fallen, and the camp was in disarray. Tents were ablaze, falling to the heedless flames of their once-harmless watchfires. Horses darted through the grappling men, trying to avoid the flames and blades alike, screaming in terror when Thorn appeared before them. The white wolf darted in and out of the fray, tearing at legs with tooth and claw and killing every enemy that crossed his path. Murtagh was glad to have him here. He glimpsed General Kesson cutting down several Orani opponents from atop his chestnut destrier, his broadsword gleaming wickedly in the firelight. _At least the command is not in disarray, _Murtagh thought to himself.

The other captains shouted for their men to form up, but no one was listening to one another. These were experienced cavalry, but without their horses, they could not get a grasp on the battle raging all around them. The infantry was at least a day's march away, and they were in the middle of an abandoned forest; any help they could hope for was too far away to be of any use. They were completely alone… They'd ridden straight into an ambush, and they were alone…

Murtagh slashed at a man as he ran towards him, stopping the Orani dead in his tracks. He could feel his strength slowly ebbing away, but he didn't have time to think about that. Every single one of his men's lives were at stake. The young captain began retreating further into the camp, taking care to avoid the tents that were up in flames. A group of chargers raced past him, their hooves pounding upon the trodden earth desperately as they tried to flee. And then he saw him…

A giant, brute of a man was barreling towards him at full-speed, a huge greatsword held aloft over his head. The man's mouth hung open in a wordless scream, his pupils blown with bloodlust as he trained his eyes on Murtagh's form. He seemed not to see anyone else, as if… as if he'd been looking for Murtagh the entire battle. Fear filled Murtagh's heart, but he didn't have time to dwell on it.

Murtagh swung his sword at his side, preparing to counter whatever this man could throw at him. When the giant reached him, Murtagh paled at his enormous size, wondering how he could combat such a foe. But the Orani didn't give him time to wonder. His greatsword came crashing down like thunder, just barely missing the young captain as he rolled out of the way. The giant did not waste any time, and heaved his sword once more, bringing it down where Murtagh had just been.

_Murtagh! _Thorn's frantic voice echoed in his head. He did not have time to respond, only to fight. The greatsword came down again, and this time, Murtagh raised his own sword to block him. Steel met steel in a flash of sparks, sending jarring pains up Murtagh's arms and into his gritted teeth. This man was extremely strong, and all of his training could not prepare him for this brutal assault.

_Thorn! Help me! _Murtagh just managed to cry before he had to jump out of the way again. Everything seemed to still in that moment. The terrified scream of a horse entered Murtagh's ears, shocking his senses. He looked to see his own buckskin courser frantically racing towards him, dark eyes wide with fear. Just beyond the horse, he could see Thorn bounding over bodies to reach him. His courser clipped him in the shoulder as he sped past, knocking the wind out of him as he stumbled backwards. Thorn's voice was resounding in his head desperately, but he could not understand the words. The only thing he could see was the cold, metallic glint of the giant's sword, swinging in a wide arc toward him.

White hot pain lanced through his abdomen, spreading throughout his body like a lightning strike. All of his strength left him, seemingly drained in an instant. He fell to his knees, releasing his sword from his grip, and clutched at his stomach. When he pulled his hands away, they were covered in crimson liquid. It took him a moment to realize this was his own blood. Murtagh looked back up at the black-faced giant before him, a wicked grin displaying his crooked, yellow teeth. The Orani raised his sword once more to deliver the killing blow, and Murtagh felt a hollow emptiness inside of him.

_So this is how it ends? _Thoughts of his life leading up to this point filled his mind. Time seemed to be suspended in a hanging arc, allowing him to see everything as if it were happening in slow motion. He saw his father holding him up when he was a boy, and when he gave him Thorn as a puppy. He saw the squalling, red face of his brother as an infant. He saw Jörmunder, and Horst, and Frederic, and all of the men who had been mentors to him. And, as he felt his life slipping away, his last thought was, _Selena will be pleased. _

Before the giant could finish him off, white fur clouded Murtagh's vision. Thorn latched onto the Orani's arm, forcing blood to come gushing out of the soft flesh. The huge man screamed shrilly, trying to shake the ferocious beast off of him. But Thorn's grip was tight and unrelenting. He only released the Orani to pounce back up and latch onto his throat, tearing at that tender meat as though it were his last meal. The wolf's red eyes were filled with wicked hatred and ferocity, leaving no doubt that he meant to kill this huge man who had harmed his friend. It did not take long for him to accomplish his goal. As the huge man's throat filled with his own blood, he stumbled to the dirt with Thorn still on top of him. Thorn waited until his lifeblood flowed away before releasing the dead man.

The white wolf quickly abandoned him and hurried to his friend-of-heart-and-mind's side, nudging at him worriedly. _Murtagh, _he whispered, forcing his muzzle under the young captain's limp hand where it lay at his side. _Murtagh, you must get up. We need to get you somewhere safe. _The wolf whimpered softly, nudging harder this time.

Murtagh Bromsson lay unmoving on the blood-soaked ground, staring with lifeless eyes at the starry sky above him. Thorn sniffed at the wound on his abdomen that was slowly leaking out a steady stream of blood, and instantly recoiled, baring his teeth and growling.

_The blade was poisoned! Murtagh! _He sniffed at the young man's face, licking him softly upon the cheek. Still, the captain did not move. Thorn began to desperately paw at the ground, yelping and crying in high-pitched tones. All around them, the battle was slowly drawing to a close, with the Broddring soldiers just barely eeking out a victory. The white wolf's helpless cries drew the attention of General Kesson, and the older man quickly hurried over.

"Murtagh!" he called in a gruff voice, leaping off the back of his horse and landing with a thud in the dirt. He hastened to the young captain's side and knelt down next to his wolf, placing a calloused hand upon his stubbled cheek. It was cold.

Captain Tregg soon joined him, staring down in shock and awe at the scene before him. "General Kesson," he called, his sword still brandished in case of any surprise attacks.

"Tregg," the general said slowly, standing up and taking a few steps back. "Tregg, fetch the steward, if the man survived the battle. Have him send a raven to Illirea."

"What is it general?" Tregg asked in confusion.

Kesson hesitated, barely believing it himself. "Send a raven to the king. Tell him… tell him his son… is dead."

* * *

**I did **_**not **_**plan on ending here, but this chapter just got so long. SO, you'll have to wait til next time to see what happens. Please review and tell me what you think! **


	8. Hymn for the Lost

**A/N: Apologies for the delay between chapters, but I was working on finishing up my other, huge fic. And, it's finished now, so I'm back to this one! Just a quick note: for the purposes of this fic, we're going to pretend that Alagaesia is a much smaller continent, deal? Oh, also, imagine that Oran is Vroengard. Hope you all enjoy!**

* * *

The royal party arrived in Narda not two days later, so frantic was the king's desire to get there. When the message had come, bearing the news that his son was dead, he could scarcely believe it. He would need to see with his own eyes, to truly accept what his generals had told him. The queen, for her part, was trying not to let her satisfaction show. She could not have prayed for a better set of circumstances to befall their family. But Eragon... the young prince of Alagaësia spent his waking hours over the last two days in a sort of dream-like state: walking and conscious, but not entirely certain that the things happening around him were truly real.

He sat atop his chestnut charger, Saphira by his side, as she always was. Narda was appearing on the horizon, towers spiraling up into the grey dawn. To his right, his father remained with his eyes forward, his brow knitted into a mask of anger and confusion. They rode at a brisk pace, but the horses were quickly growing tired. He was just glad they'd finally gotten here, and could get to the bottom of the mysterious message.

It had been short and choppy, and the writing was so hurried that some of the words were indiscernible. _Ambush near Narda... Orani raiders... son fallen... dead. _The words echoed in his mind, like some haunting spectre. How can it be? Murtagh was one of the fiercest fighters he'd ever known. How could he have fallen? And with his direwolf to protect him, at that?

_My-white-brother is strong, _Saphira said quietly where she padded along beside him.

_Then why is his partner dead? _Eragon shot back, more forcefully than he'd intended.

_Even the mighty direwolves of the Northern Forest are not invincible, _she replied. His charger whickered nervously and shied away from the great beast at his side, not that Eragon blamed him. Saphira was larger than the horse now, with wickedly sharp canines longer than his fingers.

_We'll soon get to the bottom of it, _he grumbled back. Eragon still was not sure how he felt about the whole thing; he hadn't had time to register it before they'd left Ilirea, and now they were only yards away from finding out. The tension was thick over their whole party, seeming to suffocate him with its weight.

When they finally came to the cavalry encampment, haphazardly set up by the sea, the king practically leapt from his horse. At the front of the camp stood the general, helm in hand and a pained expression upon his face.

"My king," he said gravely, bowing his head when Brom approached him.

"Where is he?" the king demanded in a hoarse whisper, his hands balled into fists and shaking at his side. General Kesson clamped his mouth shut into a thin line, and then turned to lead the king into a large, brown tent right behind him. Eragon dismounted his horse, and handed off the reins to a waiting stableboy. His mother was being helped out of her carriage by a handmaiden, and he noticed a certain light in her eyes, though her face remained as impassive as ever. She followed behind him into the tent that his father had just disappeared into.

Inside, the air was thick with smoke and the smell of death. Huge, tallow candles burned on a table across the tent, bathing the room in dim, orange light. And upon a large, rough-hewn table right in the middle of the tent, lay the body of his brother. At the sight of his brother's lifeless body, Eragon's heart began racing in his chest, and his breath became labored. The direwolves had remained outside the tent, but he could feel Saphira's mind pressing against his.

His father stood right next to the table, hands gripping the sides tightly so as to steady himself. Murtagh's body was dressed in his finest clothes, his hands clasping a sprig of hemlock on his chest, and a silver amulet hung around his neck in the traditional death rites of their people. But what struck Eragon the most was the unsettling feeling that his eyes would snap open at any moment, and he would sit straight up on the table to gaze at them, wondering what all of them were doing here. And then Eragon looked at his chest, and saw that there was no breath entering or leaving his body. He really was gone...

"How did this happen?" The tortured sound of his father's voice snapped Eragon out of his daze.

"There was an ambush, sire," the general replied quietly. "The Orani raiders surprised in the dead of night; we were caught unawares. Your son... Captain Murtagh had warned me, that he'd had a bad feeling, but I didn't listen to him... None of us did."

"Do not blame yourselves," the king said. He remained quiet for a long while, just looking at the body of his son. Eragon shifted his weight uncomfortably, debating on whether to stay or go. Then the king spoke once more. "Have you prepared a boat?"

"We've made all the necessary preparations, in advance of your arrival," the general said in a reassuring tone.

"Good," his father replied, and Eragon could hear the catch in his throat. "Then we will send my son to be with the gods this very day. In one hour's time, see that the men are assembled."

"Of course, sire." The general bowed once more, and then Eragon watched as his father turned and strode out of the tent. As the king passed him by, he thought he could just glimpse the glimmer of tears in his eyes, but he could not be sure. With one final look at his brother, he followed his mother out of the tent. When they exited, his father was nowhere to be seen.

"It would be just like him to drag us all the way out here and then leave as soon as we arrive," Selena grumbled quietly to herself, shifting her shawl and pulling it closer in an attempt to banish the chill that hung about them.

Suddenly, Eragon felt the heat rushing to his face. "His son is dead," he practically spat, drawing a shocked look from his mother.

"I am very well aware of that, Eragon," she replied with a hiss.

"Yes," he shot back, "but you seem to have forgotten that he is also my brother." With that, Eragon stalked off towards the shore, aiming to just walk until he could clear his head. For all of the fights they'd had, and all of the things that his mother had told him, Eragon felt a pang in his chest at the realization that his brother was gone. No more would they spar in the yard or study their lessons together. Murtagh would never look at him again in that way which spoke to the kindness he held in his heart for his younger brother. He felt stupid and childish and angry all at once when he thought of how ill he'd treated his brother over the years, at the behest of his mother. And now... Now he could never atone for all the things he'd done.

_Eragon! _Saphira's voice rang in his head. He heard the crunch of rocks behind him as she ran. And then she was before him, staring him down with those sapphire eyes and blocking his path with her huge form.

_What have I done, Saphira? _he cried desperately. _I have wronged my brother, and now he is gone. It is a slight against the gods!_

_Stop this at once, Eragon!_ she barked, snapping her teeth together and letting out a ferocious growl. _You did not deal the blow which stole his life. It was an accident, nothing more. _He fell to his knees upon the rocks, burying his face in his hands and willing the screaming in his head to go away, until all he could hear was the lapping of the waves against the shore not twenty feet away. He felt Saphira's cold nose press against his hands as she nudged him, and she let out a small whimper.

_I have been such a fool, _he said. Finally, Eragon removed his hands from his face to see Saphira gazing at him intently. He wrapped his arms around her neck and allowed her to console him, sharing her warmth to ward off the autumn chill.

_It is too late for regrets, Eragon. There is nothing to be done. _He knew she did not mean to be callous; it was simply a matter of her not understanding the depth of his despair. As a wolf, separated from her family and her pack as a pup, she did not understand what it was to be part of a family. Eragon was her family, and no other. But for Eragon, he could not help thinking the gods would punish him somehow for this, for hating his brother in life and mourning him in death. He could not fully understand it himself, only wallow in the pain that he felt.

* * *

As his father had commanded, they were all assembled at the seaside an hour later. There were hundreds of people, most of the men still bloodied and bruised from their confrontation with the Orani. As for the king, he stood stoically with his hands clasped behind his back, staring out over the water to the grey horizon. Eragon stood silently at his side, trying to contain the pain welling inside his chest.

"I want it to be your hand which pulls the arrow," the king suddenly said, quite startling his son.

"What?" Eragon breathed quietly. "Father, I—"

"He was your brother," the king insisted. "I want you to send him on to the halls of my forefathers."

Eragon felt his hands began to shake tremulously, and the sweat break upon his brow. All of the feelings raging about inside his head could not have prepared him for this. It was the tradition of their people to send the bodies of their loved ones out upon the ocean, and set their bodies aflame so as to carry their spirits to the gods. The one who pulled the arrow which would set the blaze was supposed to be someone of great importance to the deceased. Eragon didn't believe he was the proper person to carry out the task, but he did not wish to argue with his father. So, he said very quietly, "Yes, Father," and then spoke no more.

General Kesson emerged from his tent, Murtagh's great, white direwolf close on his heels. Thorn came to a stop next to Eragon and sat on his haunches, staring intently at the boat which contained his brother's body. Then the direwolf looked up at him, and Eragon saw the absolute despair locked in his blood-red eyes.

"You should be the one to pull the arrow," he whispered, "if only you could." In a show of comfort, he placed a hand atop the wolf's head and scratched him lightly. Thorn did not seem to mind, so Eragon continued. Saphira loped to Thorn's side, and then sat next to him in her own way of comforting the other wolf.

As was the way of these things, a dirge was sung for the dead, lamenting of the life lost and heralding him on to the Great Halls of the gods. It was a melancholy tune, and twice Eragon had to flit away a tear from his eyes. When the singer's voice faded away, carried off by the winds that whipped the sea, a bowman approached the Crown Prince and handed off a fine bow made of yew branch and carved with intricate designs. The arrow, with it's cloth head soaked in oil, came next. Eragon held them hesitantly, but made no move to protest. This was his father's wish, and he would carry it out to the best of his ability.

King Brom stood next to the boat, gazing down at the body of his son and whispering a final farewell. Eragon was not close enough to hear the words he spoke, but he could guess well enough. When the king stepped away, five men gathered about the boat and slowly pushed it into the waiting sea. The waves lapped at the hull of the small boat hungrily, as if they were eager to welcome one more soldier to their crushing, black depths.

But this was not just one more soldier... _this was his brother. _

The boat was slowly carried out to sea, bobbing upon the waves as it went. A footsoldier appeared at Eragon's side, carrying a lit torch which he held out to the prince. Eragon nocked his arrow, and then angled it towards the soldier. It burst into flames when the torch touched it, and then he pulled his arm back so his fingers touched his cheek. The boat was not moving very fast, but he adjusted for the wind that was coming from the north, and then let the arrow fly.

It soared through the air, arcing over the water and then landing in the boat with a heavy thud. Almost instantly, the kindling surrounding the body of his brother went up in flames. Eragon knew it would not be long before his body was gone completely, and the boat would sink to the bottom of the ocean.

* * *

Rain lashed down upon them as Raina stood atop the cliffs near her home, with Bridie and Ùna beside her. It was a dreary day, but it could not compare to the storm that was churning in her heart. They had just laid her mother to rest earlier that afternoon, yet she still could not believe that the queen was truly gone.

The physicians said it was a sickness that had taken her, something that had affected her lungs and made it impossible to breath. But Raina knew better than that. It was the constant beatings that had finally killed her, and Raina couldn't help but think that her mother knew this would happen. The queen had taken the brunt of the king's wrath, if only to spare her daughter, and now she'd finally paid for it with her life.

_I am here, _Ùna said quietly from beside her, _if you wish to talk. _

_What is there to say? _Raina replied bitterly. _My mother is dead... It should have been me._

_Do not say such things, _Ùna snapped forcefully. _If your mother were still alive, she would not hesitate to do it all over again, if it meant saving you. _

Raina hung her head low against her chest, willing the tears that were threatening to emerge to go away. But they would not heed her, not this time. _I cannot stand it here any longer, _she finally said. _We have to get out of here, Ùna. _

_Where will we go little one? _Ùna nudged at her hand and whimpered mournfully.

_Perhaps we can find refuge in Alagaësia; it is not so far_—

_You know the history between your father and their king,_ Ùna said suddenly. _There will be no sanctuary for us in Alagaësia. _

_Where then?_

Ùna was quiet for a long time, yellow eyes gazing out over the open ocean. From here, you could just barely make out the haze of Alagaësia's shoreline on the horizon. _There is nowhere safe from your father, _she said somberly. _If we tried to leave, he would hunt us to the ends of the earth. _

_I will die before I let him rule over me, or beat me the way he did my mother. _

_Let us not talk of such things any longer, _Ùna said somberly. _Come, I would take a walk along the shore with you. It is good for clearing the head. _Raina knew the wolf was just trying to be helpful, but joy would not penetrate her heart. But she followed behind her wolf nonetheless, calling for Bridie to follow her and then tracing her way down the winding path that led to the shore.

It was still raining, though lighter now than it had been during her mother's funeral. The slick rocks crunched beneath her boots, shifting as she placed her weight upon them, though she did not fall. She'd spent enough time on this shore that she knew its every inch by heart. The lapping of the waves against the rocky shore did help to calm her a bit, though it did nothing to quiet the thoughts raging about in her head.

In front of her, Ùna bounded along the shore, running towards the waves and then running away again when they touched her paws. She looked just like a puppy again, but Raina could still not find it within herself to laugh.

"My lady," Bridie said quietly, "we'll need to be gettin' back soon. A storm's comin' from the east, and it's a good quarter hour walk to the castle from here."

"Yes, Bridie, just a few more moments and then we'll return," she said dryly. Ùna was still bounding close to the water, but then she stopped suddenly. From twenty feet away, Raina could hear a deep growl coming from her chest, and saw the hair standing on end all along the ridge of her back.

_Don't move, _Ùna said firmly.

_Ùna, what is it? _Raina stopped, as her wolf had said, and grabbed hold of Bridie's arm.

_Something is not right. I will see what it is. _Raina had not noticed it before, but as she followed the line of her wolf's gaze, she saw a dark heap of some sort, further on down the shore. From this far away, she could not be sure what it was. Ùna loped carefully over to it, keeping herself low to the ground and as quiet as possible. Her snout was raised up in the air as she sniffed, and her ears stood alert for any sudden sound.

"My lady," Bridie began quietly, but Raina quickly shushed her.

_Well? _Raina asked as Ùna circled around to the other side. The silver wolf suddenly let out a bark, and her posture relaxed a bit.

_Raina, come quickly! _she urged. The princess did not waste any time, and she sprinted over to where her wolf stood, pulling Bridie along behind her.

When the two girls drew closer, Raina suddenly realized that the dark form was actually the burnt remains of a boat turned on its side. Ùna stood on the opposite side of the boat, and when Raina joined her there, she saw what had given the direwolf cause for alarm. There, in the sand and the rocks, lay a young man.

"Oh! My lady, it's a man!" Bridie shrilled right in her ear.

"Yes, Bridie, I see that." Raina stepped forward carefully, kneeling down to get a better look.

"Don't touch him, my lady!" the young maid cried. "It is foul luck to touch the dead, if you're not a priest."

"Quiet, Bridie," the princess admonished her. As she knelt next to the man, she noticed that his tunic had fallen open, and she could see where there was a wound upon his abdomen, horribly inflamed and leaking clear pus. _Ùna, sniff that for me, _she instructed. The wolf did as she was asked, and quickly recoiled her head with a sneeze.

_Poison, _she spat, taking a step further back.

_Is it the poison of the spine fish? Can you tell?_

_I believe so, _the wolf replied.

Raina put out a hand to touch the man's cheek, drawing a gasp from her young handmaiden. "Your Highness!" she cried desperately.

"Calm yourself," Raina said forcefully, "he is not dead. Come, we must get him somewhere safe."

The information seemed to surprise the young maid, but she did not question her mistress any further on it. "Should we take him back to the castle, my lady?" Bridie asked nervously, wringing her hands together rapidly.

Raina looked down at the man's attire, and noticed the silver amulet about his neck. "No," she finally replied. "No, this man is from Alagaësia. My father will have him killed on sight if he finds him. Come, help me. I know somewhere we can hide him." Bridie seemed hesitant to come near the stranger, but she did as her mistress asked. The two girls hauled the unconscious man up as far as their strength would allow, and then positioned him on Ùna's shoulders. The wolf walked slowly while Raina kept a hand on the man, so he would not slip off.

For the past three years, Raina had walked along these shores whenever she felt the need to be alone, and so she knew the abandoned fishing house well. It hadn't been used in years, so she knew no one would ever think to go there. In fact, she doubted anyone besides herself even knew it existed. The little one-room hut was built into the side of the cliff, to better control the temperature in the summer and winter, and the doorway seemed to blend into the cliff, concealing it from any passersby.

When the small party arrived at the hut, Raina and Bridie managed to get the man down from Ùna's back, and then into the house. It was not an easy task for the two of them, but they finally managed it. There were some appointments inside the hut, from its last owner, including a straw mattress and some animal skins for keeping warm in the winter. The two girls laid the unconscious man down, and then took a step back, just looking at him for a long moment.

"What do we do, my lady?" Bridie asked quietly.

Raina was breathing steadily, but she could feel her heart pounding. "I'm not sure, Bridie," she whispered. "But what I do know is that we're not going to let him die." Raina knelt beside the bed, peeling back the edge of the man's tunic to inspect the wound on his stomach. It was clearly infected from the poison which had put him into this death-like state, and would need to be cleaned and dressed. He was beginning to develop a fever as well, and that did not bode well for him. She suddenly turned to her handmaid. "Can you stay with him tonight?" she asked quickly.

"What?" the younger girl exclaimed, forgetting her formalities in her surprise. "Me? But, my lady, I—"

"If he develops a fever," the princess explained slowly, "then the poison will surely kill him. I need you to stay here and administer the medicine, every two hours or so, and make sure he's kept warm."

"What about you, my lady?"

"My absence will be noted from the castle," she said, turning back to the man upon the bed. "I'll come back first thing tomorrow morning. Stay here, Bridie, and I'll return shortly with supplies." The younger girl did not have time to argue, only watch as her mistress left the house in a hurry, leaving her alone with the strange man.

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**That's all for now! Please review and tell me what you think! Updates should be more regular from here on out. **


	9. A Different Land

**A/N: Hi everyone! Welcome to the next installment. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

_'Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ;_  
_ If ever any beauty I did see, _  
_ Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee._

* * *

His body was on fire.

At least, that's the way it felt. Like someone had taken a wool blanket and wrapped it around him at the height of summer, suffocating all the life from his body. And there was pain, everywhere it seemed. In his head; in his legs; in his stomach. Why was he in so much pain? And why did it feel like he could not move?

Slowly, Murtagh attempted to move his arm, just a fraction of an inch. The most he could manage was a weak wiggling of his fingers before shooting pain lanced up his arm and into his shoulder. When he attempted to move his arm, and failed, Murtagh could suddenly hear the muffled sound of voices. Who was here with him? Allies? Or...

Where was Thorn? The wolf would tell him if he was safe or not. Murtagh spread out his consciousness warily, seeking in weak tendrils the presence of his partner-of-heart-and-mind. But try as he might, his wolf was nowhere to be found. There were others here; he could feel them, and sense their presence. And even... His body stiffened involuntarily when he felt the mind of the other direwolf. It was not Thorn, and it was not one that he recognized.

"My lady..." The voice was a breath of a whisper to Murtagh's ears, and strangely distant. He only caught every few words. "Come quick... waking up..."

In vain he struggled to open his eyes, to catch a glimpse of the strangers. But they would not answer to his will. Suddenly, there was a cooling sensation upon his brow, and he guessed someone had pressed a cold cloth against him. It felt so good, banishing away the heat that enveloped him, if only slightly. Against his better judgment, he let out a slight groan when he tried to move again. The pain was lesser now, but still present.

"Shhh," the holder of the cloth soothed at him. It was a woman's voice, and the sound brought him some small measure of comfort. "Try not to move." The compress moved away from his forehead and dabbed at his cheeks, then at his chest. Where was he? This was not a voice that he recognized, but he was not afraid. If the woman had meant him any harm, he couldn't imagine that he'd be alive right now.

But what had happened to find him in this position? Murtagh wracked his memory to try and recall anything... But nothing would come. There was only blackness, and he could feel himself slipping away again. With one last effort, he finally coaxed his eyelids into raising, just a tiny bit. The place around him was dark, with only the tiniest bit of light coming off a fire in the hearth. Why had they lit a fire? Couldn't they feel how hot it was!

And then he saw them. Crystalline blue eyes staring in concern and worry, framed by little tendrils of blonde hair. His strength soon left him, and his eyes closed once more. But the image of those eyes did not fade, and they followed him into his fevered sleep.

* * *

"Is he dead?" Bridie whispered urgently from her place pressed into the corner. Raina knew the maid was superstitious, but she was beginning to border on ridiculous.

"No, Bridie, he is not dead," she replied as calmly as she could. "He's just gone back to sleep. The poison is working its way out of his system. It will take him some time to recover, and even more time to regain his strength after that." Raina brought one of his hands up near her face, to inspect the small incision she'd made horizontally on his wrist. The only way to get the poison out of his body was through the bloodstream, and so she'd made the tiny incision to allow some of the toxic blood to drain. It was a trick she'd learned from the castle healer, but she had perfected the art in her own unique way.

"I don't like this one bit, my lady," the maid continued nervously. "What if we're discovered? Your father will have me executed. And who knows what he'll do to you!"

"Bridie, would you kindly fetch some more kindling for the fire?" Raina asked quietly, trying to conceal her annoyance. To do her job effectively, she needed peace and quiet, something she would not be able to find if her maid was chattering on incessantly. Bridie curtsied shortly by way of response and left the hut without argument. Once she was gone, Raina released a heavy sigh. It felt like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

_Are you certain this is a good idea? _Ùna asked softly from her place in front of the fire.

_It does not matter if it's a good idea, _she replied shortly. _He is dying. My conscience would never allow me to just leave him. _

_I meant using your magic in such close proximity to the castle, _the wolf replied pointedly. Raina bit down on her lip at that and returned the young man's arm to laying at his side.

She turned and looked at her wolf, saying, _My father's Monitors will not be looking down this way without due cause. As long as no ships attack us from Alagaesia, we should be fine. _Ùna sniffed lightly in response, but made no further move to admonish the princess. She was a stubborn little thing, when she set her mind to something.

Raina turned back to the young man, who was once again unconscious. She reached for his arm once more, angling it over a wooden bowl she held in her lap. There was a little blood already present in the bowl from the first time she'd attended the young man. As she held his arm over the bowl, Raina closed her eyes and concentrated on the strange buzzing that always accompanied the use of her magic.

"Skilja du eitrum fra du blödh," she whispered quietly, holding one hand over the incision upon his arm. The old tongue was the only language which could compel her magic, though she wasn't sure why. The woodswitch, Maera, had very limited knowledge of magic, and it was from her that Raina had learned everything she could once her powers had been discovered. They'd first appeared two years ago, when her mother had come to see her shortly after suffering another beating at her father's hands. Raina had been so overcome with emotion, and it was that emotion which fueled her magic to present itself.

From that moment on, she'd had to keep her magic a secret. It was not necessarily forbidden in their kingdom, but it was highly monitored. And she did not need to be under her father's watchful eye, especially now that her mother was gone. As well as, she didn't want to think what her father would make her do if he discovered she could use magic.

Slowly, as her spell had demanded, the poison was drawn from his blood, dropping into the bowl in her lap as a black sludge. It took a few moments until his blood ran clear once more, and then Raina knew that the poison was completely out of his body. She set the bowl down on the floor, and then ran her hand over the incision on his wrist. "Waíse heill," she whispered, and she watched as the skin of his forearm quickly knitted back together, leaving only a small, white scar as any indication there'd ever been a cut. She spoke the same words over the laceration on his stomach, but her magic was dwindling. She didn't have enough strength to heal it completely, but she did the best she could.

It would take more power than she thought she had right now—and more knowledge of the old tongue than she knew—to break his fever, so she would have to let his body do that on its own. With the poison gone from his system, she hoped it would be a quick recovery. Raina stood from her chair and gathered up the bowl that contained the poison, crossing the small hut to throw the offending substance into the fire. The mixture of poison and blood hissed and sizzled where the flames devoured it, until there was no trace it had ever been there.

When she returned to the bedside, she sat back in her chair, just looking at the young man as he lay upon the bed. She wondered who he was to receive a hero's funeral, and why his boat had not burned. There had been a storm that day they'd found him, and the rain was the only thing she could account for sparing him. How he'd managed to survive the perilous journey across the sea from Alagaësia however, she had no idea.

A few more moments passed and he began to stir again, mumbling something incoherent. Raina reached from the pitcher of water she'd brought down from the castle, and poured a bit into a long-handled ladle. She placed a hand at the back of his head, pushing gently so it was angled into more of a sitting position. His eyes fluttered open and closed, darting between looking at her and looking about the room.

"Can you drink?" she asked softly, angling the water near his lips. He did not say anything in response, but he gulped a bit of the water down nonetheless. A bit too much, it seemed, for he began sputtering. Raina laid his head back down and poured the remainder of the water back into the pitcher. He'd be needing food soon, and that would be a bit harder to come by. But for now, he seemed content to just rest.

As it stood right now, the man was not in any position to pose a threat. Raina only hoped that remained the case when he regained consciousness and started to recover his strength.

* * *

Murtagh's eyes flew open wildly; his heart was pumping frantically in his chest, so that it was the only sound he could hear. The room was dark, barely lit by the remains of the fire in the hearth. It hadn't been tended in some time, that much he could see. Where was the woman from before? Hadn't there been another one? He couldn't remember, and his head hurt too much for him to think. The only blessing was that the room was not so stifling hot as it had been before.

A loud clattering came from his left, and behind his head so that he could not see what was happening. Then came a soft creaking, as well as a flood of bright light, and he realized it was the sound of a door opening and closing. Someone shuffled into the room and set their things down on a little wooden table, then bustled over to the fire to throw on more kindling and stoke the flames. When the fire blazed again, he could make out a woman's form. A woman with blonde hair...

She turned and saw him staring, and she let out a frightened yelp. "Oh!" she cried, putting a hand to her heart. "You're awake." While she was out of breath, there was a smile on her face, and kindness in her eyes. The door opened once more, and he glimpsed the shadow of a wolf being thrown on the wall. Was it this girl's wolf? Who was she?

"Where am I?" he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse. "Who are you? What happened?"

"Slow down," she said in a soothing tone, coming over and taking up the seat by his bed. "One thing at a time, if you will. You are still very weak." Murtagh had just discovered this himself when he tried to sit up and found it difficult. But he did manage to work himself into a sort of sitting position, where he was half-leaning on the headboard.

There were a hundred questions running through his mind, but he settled on starting with the simplest. "Where am I?" he repeated, more forcefully this time. He found his voice was coming back to him finally.

She hesitated, and it did not escape his notice. Then, very quietly, she said, "You are in Oran, not even a league east of Caton." His heart quickened its pace in fear, and his eyes grew wider involuntarily. If he was in Oran, then Murtagh knew he was in more trouble than he'd first thought. But by the gods, how had he ended up here! "Do not worry," the girl said softly, reaching over and grasping his hand where it lay at his side. "I will not tell anyone you are here." He drew his hand away, unsure of her intentions.

"Then you know I am from Alagaësia?" he questioned. Murtagh did not fail to note how her face fell when he took his hand away, and she sat back in her chair. She nodded slowly, her eyes downcast.

"You had a silver amulet around your neck when I found you," she explained, pointing over to the table where a basket was set.

He could just glimpse the glint of silver in the firelight, and a sprig of herbs next to it. _Hemlock, _he thought. _They thought I was dead?_ _What in the seven hells happened?_

"Do you remember what happened at all?" the girl asked. He shifted his gaze back to look at her, taking in her youthful appearance and kind demeanor. If she meant him harm, she was certainly good at concealing it. But what could she hope to gain from deceiving him? Did she know he was the king's son? Was she planning to hold him for some ransom? He thought that she couldn't have been more than a couple years younger than himself. Was she working with someone else?

"No," he replied shortly when he realized his silence had stretched too long. "I don't remember anything. One moment, I was on watch with my division, the next... I'm here."

"You were injured in some kind of fight," she said, indicating his abdomen. He looked down and saw where there was a wound that had been dressed and treated, but it was in the advanced stages of healing. How long had he been like this? "I think that you were mistakenly believed to be dead, and they set you out on the ocean. I found you on the beach, a few hundred yards from here. You were in a boat; it had been burnt." What she described fit perfectly with a traditional hero's funeral, but it still wasn't making any sense. How was he alive if he had been injured and set aflame as she described? And why had his superiors thought him dead in the first place?

Gods above, they must have told his father. The royal party would have made the journey from Ilirea to the shore for his funeral. They all believed him dead... Suddenly, the answer hit him. "I was poisoned, wasn't I?" he asked, looking back at the girl.

"Orani raiders are fond of the poison from the spine fish. They cover their blades with the stuff, so when they strike their opponents down, the healers will think them dead and not tend to their wounds. It takes about a week for the poison to really kill them, but until then, it only gives the appearance of death," she explained quickly. "I have drained your blood of the poison, but it will take you some time to recover your strength. I think you were unconscious for at least three days, if not more."

Everything she was saying was beginning to make sense, which only confused him more. If she meant him harm, why heal him? And why tell him about it? Was she trying to draw him in and gain his confidence? And for what purpose? The more he thought about it, the more the only thing that made sense was that she really had saved him without any ulterior motives. But he needed to know for sure, before he said anything else.

"Why did you save me?" he asked, never taking his eyes off her. It was hard to tell in the dim firelight, but he could swear he saw her blushing.

"I... I couldn't..." she stammered, looking anywhere but at him. "I couldn't just let you die."

"Why not?" he pressed. "Any other Orani would have. Why not you?"

Suddenly, eyes the color of the sky were upon him with a new, hostile edge. "You think us savages?" the girl demanded. "That we would find a dying man and leave him without a second thought? We are not so heartless a people, Sir. And I do not forget where it is we come from. Your quarrel is with our king, not our people."

Murtagh sat in stunned silence at her sudden vehemence, and it quickly gave way to shame. She was right. "I am sorry, m'lady," he said quietly, looking away from her. "I did not mean to give offense." She was quiet for a long while, but when he dared to look at her again she seemed to have calmed down.

"What is your name?" she asked.

He debated for a moment, but eventually found that there was no good reason for him not to give her his real name. She had saved his life; it was the least he could do, until he figured out a better way to repay her. "Murtagh," he replied.

"Murtagh," she repeated quietly, as though she were testing the name on her tongue. "What clan do you hail from?" The girl seemed to know a lot about Alagaësian customs and histories, but she herself had said she did not forget where the Orani people had come from. Still... it was odd to him. He knew so little about the Orani people, because his father didn't like to dwell on what had happened between him and Morzan.

He would answer her question, but this time, Murtagh did not tell the truth. However kind this girl had been to him, he was still in enemy territory. Who knows what would happen if she spoke to the wrong person and let information slip? He couldn't have it known that he was the king's bastard, especially considering the history shared between his father and the Orani king.

"The Western Clans," he answered, hoping she didn't notice the catch in his voice. Suddenly, he heard shuffling by the door, and the girl's attention was drawn away. It must be the wolf that Murtagh still could not see.

"I have to go," she said quickly, raising up out of the chair and hurrying over to the table. She brought him the basket that had been sitting there, and he found it was filled with bread, cheese, and some fruit he did not recognize. "There's water on the floor, here." She pointed just below her. "And there is medicine next to that. If you can stomach it, try to take it once in the morning, once at night. It's afternoon now, so take your first dose in about two hours. I will return when I can."

With that, she was hurrying away from him and towards the door. "Wait!" he called, mustering his energy enough to shout. He heard her stop, and then she shuffled back into his view. "You have not told me your name."

She hesitated for a moment, picking at the hem of her sleeve in a nervous habit. But then she said, "Bronwyn." Before he could say anything further, she was gone again, this time for good. The door to the hut slammed closed, and Murtagh was enveloped by silence once more.

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**That's all for now! Please review and tell me what you think!**


	10. The Heart of the Matter

**A/N: Been awhile, hasn't it? Sorry about that. I had some other projects attract my interest. Here's a new chapter for you! Enjoy! :D**

* * *

Eragon sat with his chin in his hand, one knee drawn up to his chest and the other swinging lazily off the window seat where he was currently situated. His mother had asked him to come keep her company this afternoon, but he was starting to regret accepting her invitation. There she sat, working at her needlepoint with a fervor he would never understand. Did she actually enjoy doing it? Or was it just something so ingrained in her from her upbringing that it felt wrong _not _to embroider in her spare time?

"It's been more than a week, Eragon," she said quietly, never taking her eyes off the fabric in her hands. "Must you continue to mope?"

Every hair on the back of his neck seemed to stand on end. "Must you be so callous, Mother?" he spat, turning his face toward the window. Lately, the very sight of her set him into a state of irritation. "He was my brother, after all."

Something in his tone must have set her off, for she tore her gaze away from her needlepoint and set it in her lap. "_Half_-brother," she reminded him firmly. "And I'm not being _callous; _I'm being realistic. Murtagh is gone, and there's nothing any of us can do to bring him back. It does not do to dwell in the past."

"You'd never try to bring him back, even if you could," Eragon muttered under his breath. He had no idea if his mother had actually heard him, but he didn't particularly care if she did.

Ever since he'd seen his brother's dead body and pulled the arrow that would set him aflame, something had changed within Eragon. He no longer found solace in Saphira's company, and he could barely stand to look his father in the eye. A part of him felt like this was his fault; if only he'd been kinder to his brother when they were children, perhaps he wouldn't have felt the need to leave home and serve in the army. The rational portion of his brain told him this was folly. But it hurt all the same.

What was worse, however, was the guilt; guilt that he'd never taken the time to actually _treat _Murtagh as his brother. They'd grown up together; trained together for a time; laughed and played together when they were boys. Yet Eragon had always made a point to be at Murtagh's throat. To prove that he was worthy of their father's affection. And to satisfy his mother's desire that they did not form a bond of brotherhood.

What he wouldn't give to take it all back. He supposed the old saying had proved to be true: you never appreciate what you have until it's gone.

"Well," his mother continued in a clipped tone, "go and mope somewhere else. You're practically darkening the room, and I can hardly see my sewing as it is." She returned her attention to the wooden hoop and fabric in her lap, pushing the needle through the cloth and pulling it out the other side. Eragon thought he was going to lose his breakfast.

"Apologies, Mother," he said, launching himself out of the window seat, "for being such an inconvenience to you." He stormed out of the room without another word, feeling his mother's eyes on him the entire time.

* * *

Selena could practically feel her blood boiling as her son stalked out of her sitting room. What was going on with him? He'd never shown this much care about anything that dealt with his half-brother before. She didn't even think that he'd truly liked the boy. Whatever was happening with Eragon, the queen could tell that it was more than just grief at the loss of his brother. And it irked her to know she'd have to do something about it. For years, the boy had been unfailingly loyal to her. Why had that suddenly changed? She found it hard to believe that the death of _that boy _had sparked such a change of heart in her only son.

Whatever the case may be, she needed to get to the bottom of it, and quickly. If all went well, her plans would be coming together in the next few months. She couldn't afford to lose her greatest pawn at the very end.

* * *

It was well before dawn the next time she came to see him. When the door swung open, he could just barely hear the sounds of the ocean beyond, waves gently lapping at the rocky shore in a never-ending cycle. It was comforting to hear, and even more comforting to know she had come back.

"How are you feeling?" her soft voice chimed through the dimness of the room.

"Like I could sleep for days," he croaked back, adjusting his position on the mattress so he could sit up. She bent over the fire and poked at the logs, shifting them to stoke the fire and filling the room with light and warmth.

"That's better," she muttered, drawing her shawl closer around her shoulders and turning to him. "Do you need anything?" He watched in silent awe as she came to the side of the bed and placed a soft hand on his forehead, presumably trying to gauge his temperature. "Hmm," she mused quietly, "you don't feel quite as warm... I'd say your fever broke sometime in the night."

He nodded silently, not trusting his own voice. Slowly, she took a seat at the very edge of the mattress, watching him carefully.

"You're very quiet," she stated softly.

"I still don't understand," he replied. "Why have you treated me with such kindness?"

She seemed to chew on her answer for a moment, and then gave a wry smile that caused a pang in his chest. "I suppose I'd hope an Alagaësian would do the same for me. Perhaps, if I put a little kindness out into the world, the world will one day pay me back..." She let the thought fade into silence as her eyes drifted away from him, staring aimlessly at the floor. A few moments later, she returned to herself and placed that piercing gaze back upon him. "I think the far more interesting question is, why are you so distrusting of people?"

"Well," he said quietly, "I am in a hostile country." She let out a giggle, which caused him to smile in turn... something he'd not done in a very long time. "But life has not given me any reason to trust people," he continued seriously, causing her laughter to die swiftly.

She seemed to study him for a moment, before saying, "Life has not given me much reason either, but—" at this, she leaned toward him and placed a tentative hand atop his own, "—I know that it is not my fault. It is the fault of the cruel people around me, and I cannot allow that to affect how I treat other people. That's no way to live."

Murtagh found himself at a loss for words. Who was this girl? To find him and take him in without a thought for her own safety, and treat him with such kindness... He had not believed there was such a person in the entire world, and yet here she was. She had saved his life; he was indebted to her with no idea of how to repay her kindness. It was all too much to bear...

Before he could stop it, a flood of emotion rushed him, with no way to escape. A knot formed in his chest, and a strangled sob escaped his throat. The young woman seemed concerned, before she realized he was crying. "There is no way for me to repay you," he said quietly.

"There is no need," she replied, standing and coming closer to the top of the bed. She placed her hand on his stubbled cheek and angled his face towards her. "Besides," she continued with a smile, "saving your life was the easy part. The hard part has yet to come?"

"Hard part?" he asked, wiping at his face.

She gave a small nod, and said, "Yes, the hard part is going to be getting you home."

* * *

**Sorry it's so short everyone; filler chapter, unfortunately. I've been off from writing for awhile, and I need to ease back into it. Thank you for your patience; I love you all!**


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