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antishurtugal_reborn2022-04-17 02:27 pm
Consequence: Chapter Eight - In the Fortress of Exiles
Holy shit, you guys. I had so much fun writing this one. It's very dialogue-heavy, but I feel like it kind of needs to be. There's a lot of character development in there. I definitely feel like I should try to get more Thorn scenes in further chapters, but here the focus is largely on Murtagh and how he's come to terms with everything. Which, yes, i will continue to explore, because it's a lot and most of it is really interesting. At least, it's interesting to me, and I hope it's interesting to you too!
The atmosphere in Ellesméra was not as Eragon remembered it. Gone were the ethereal song and air of mystery the city had once held, replaced by a tension that hung over the trees like a great stormcloud. The shadows beneath the boughs seemed darker, and the elves ready to fight or flee at the slightest break in the oncoming tide. Though his arrival was met with joy from many, he noticed several others who skulked in the shade, eyeing him with a resentment he had rarely seen since the fateful Blood-Oath Celebration years previous.
Arya met him by the roots of the Menoa Tree, Fírnen by her side. As the dragons greeted each other with playful nips and nudges of their heads, the Riders exchanged the customary words of elven meetings.
“Atra esterní ono thelduin,” Arya said, and her voice was thin with stress.
“Atra du evarínya ono varda,” said Eragon. His knees felt weak, both from the long ride and the overwhelming presence of the woman he had desired for so long.
The dragons took to the sky, twirling around each other in an intricate aerial dance. Arya drew herself up to her full height and turned to leave. “You remember, of course, where you stayed last time?”
“Are we not to face the Council?”
“In time,” she said. “For now, there is something else I require of you. I need you to contact Murtagh.”
“Have you not spoken to him yourself?”
“I have tried. He does not respond.”
Eragon frowned, looking up at the large, luxurious tree-house in front of them, the dwelling of the leader of the Riders in Ellesméra. “I will try, but I cannot guarantee he will speak with me either.”
“At least make an attempt,” Arya said coldly. “Vanora fled to the North, and that was where you said he was headed. Much as I still do not trust him, he may well be the most likely to find her.”
Eragon nodded. “Very well. I will do what I can.”
Arya gave a curt nod of her own and departed. Eragon sighed and scaled the steps to the house. It was much as he remembered: the statue of two hands twisted around each other in the entrance, the screen doors leading to the other rooms, the bedroom overlooking the forest.
There was one new detail, though. In the bedroom was set a mirror, of the sort he and Arya had used to communicate while he had lived in the East.
He shut himself in the bedroom and stood in front of the mirror for a moment, eyes closed as he watched Saphira flying with Fírnen above the Crags of Tel’naeir, but Saphira pushed him away before he could see much.
Let us be, little one, she said. You have your duty to attend to.
Eragon exhaled irritably and rolled his shoulders, then began the enchantment to connect the mirror to wherever Murtagh now dwelt. A part of him felt ridiculous; he was not even sure that Murtagh had such a mirror. Perhaps that was the reason behind the failure of Arya’s attempts.
Yet, after several minutes, the glass shimmered, and Murtagh appeared.
“Brother,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Ill tidings, I am afraid,” said Eragon. “One of Arya’s students has fled her training, and we fear the worst, not for her, but from her. Arya has told me that she harbors great malice toward the Riders. We need to find her before she becomes another Galbatorix.”
Murtagh lifted a hand to his chin. “I see. And you wish my aid in this.”
“She was last seen flying North. Arya tells me she is red of hair, and her dragon is black. Have you seen them?”
“No,” said Murtagh. “I have not seen the girl you described.”
It was cold, and Vanora’s arms and legs felt stiff and clumsy. Her hands were numb, and there was an uncomfortable tingling in her nose and fingertips. She grumbled softly and rolled onto her side, curling her arms into her chest as she pulled the blankets tighter. Wait. Blankets? There was something off about that, but at the moment it eluded her and she resolved to go back to sleep.
The landscape of her dreams was covered in ever-deepening snow. She and Verja flew far above it, but the blizzard they fought through was unending, and the drifts slowly rose to meet them, burying bushes, trees, even mountains under its cold, white expanse. In the corner of her eyes she could see something green that flickered out of her sight, or something red that was immediately lost in the swirling flakes. They had been out here far too long…
Vanora woke with a start as the realization sent a jolt of adrenaline through her chest. She and Verja were in the wilderness. There were no blankets.
She sat up, ignoring the stiffness in her limbs, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Verja curled up only an arm’s length away. Her head rested comfortably across her tail as she slept, twin wisps of smoke gently rising from her nose.
Resting a hand on Verja’s neck, Vanora turned to examine their surroundings. She was in a bed on one side of a large room of polished stone. The doorway was huge, large enough for something much bigger than Verja, while the windows opposite were little more than slits. On the floor, a mosaic of red gemstones arranged in the shape of a rose glittered in the dim light.
Vanora blinked, frowning, and reached out to Verja with her mind. The scales under her hand rippled as the haze of sleep swept back, and Verja’s white eyes blinked open. Vanora! You’re awake!
I am, Vanora said, but where are we?
Verja’s scales rippled again, and she pulled away from Vanora’s hand to uncurl and stretch. We found them! You almost died, but Murtagh healed you. He and Thorn built this place on their own, can you believe that? A series of images flashed through their bond, and Vanora blinked to steady herself. It’s huge!
I’ll see it when I get up. Where are they?
Outside; I’ll call them in. Murtagh wanted to know when you woke up. A faint image of a tall man and a red dragon flickered into Vanora’s mind as Verja turned her focus elsewhere.
Turning away, Vanora stretched her arms out and flexed her hands. The joints in her fingers snapped with a twinge of pain. Grimacing, she glanced from the room to her bed, which now that she looked was more akin to a shelf that jutted out from the wall. At the foot of the mattress, her bag sat propped against the smooth stone face. She crawled down to grab it and shook out the contents. The blue jewel the Menoa tree had given her rolled out onto the blankets, followed by her hunting knife and battered Ancient Language dictionary.
Vanora took a deep breath, set the bag over the gemstone, and picked up the dictionary. Its pages were stiff and brittle from its many brushes with rain, snow, and clouds, but the writing was still legible, and study would keep her mind occupied.
It was several minutes before she was roused from her reading by a flicker of movement by the door. Vanora had never seen Murtagh up close, but she recognized him instantly by the dark, nearly-black hair that fell just past his shoulders. His strong jawline and high cheekbones gave his face a stern look, which was accentuated by his piercing gray eyes.
“Are you feeling well?” he asked flatly.
Vanora swung her legs over the side of the bed and nodded. “I think so.”
“That’s good. You might feel stiff for some time; healing that much frostbite was no easy task.” Murtagh crossed the room to take a seat at the foot of the bed, glancing between the knife on the blanket and the book in Vanora’s hands. “Verja tells us that you left your training in Ellesméra to seek us out.”
“We did. We need your help. The new Riders are—”
“—corrupt, manipulative, bullies, and arseholes,” Murtagh said wearily. “To use some of her words. For what it may be worth, I am sorry. I had known of the elves’ distaste for human Riders, but I had no idea it went so far. Still…” He trailed off, his face darkening as he pushed Vanora’s pack away from the blue gem. “I need to know how you came by this.”
Vanora swallowed heavily. “The Menoa tree gave it to me.”
“Do you know what it is?”
She shook her head.
Murtagh sighed. “Vanora, this is—”
It’s an Eldunarí, Verja said, her scales rippling as she sat up.
Vanora blinked. “A what?”
Verja sent her the feeling of a warm, magic-filled something sitting somewhere near her heart and lungs. Vanora rubbed her chest with a grimace.
“The Eldunarí is to a dragon’s magic as their heart is to their blood,” Murtagh said, “or at least, that’s the best way I can think to explain it. It holds their power, allows it to flow through their bodies, and can contain their consciousness even after they die.”
Vanora looked between Verja and the gemstone. “That’s a dead dragon?”
“A living one,” Murtagh said, frowning. “A dragon can choose to part from their Eldunarí if they wish, but I did not recall this one having done so.”
“You kno—” The truth hit her like a sledgehammer. “This is Saphira?”
Murtagh gave a curt nod. Vanora shivered, resisting the morbid urge to reach out to the mind in the gem. “The Menoa tree said she took it from a dragon that bit her and burned her. ‘Use it well,’ she said. I didn’t know, I still don’t know what she meant.”
“You might never,” Murtagh said. “Powerful beings in this world speak in riddles. But if you want my advice, I would say to use it with caution. It is no small thing to possess a dragon’s heart of hearts, as the old Riders called them.”
“I don’t want it,” Vanora said, replacing the bag over the jewel.
Vanora, that thing evens our odds against Eragon!
“By using a hostage?” Her voice had taken a shrill note. “It’s not right. I don’t want it.”
Murtagh rubbed his forehead. “We can decide what to do with the Eldunarí later. For now, I only want to hear your story.”
Vanora took a deep breath. “All right…”
And she told him everything.
Murtagh sat in thought for a long moment after she finished speaking, his gaze fixed on the ruby mosaic across the room as he gathered his words.
“I don’t want to believe it,” he said, and Vanora’s heart sank. Then he added, “but I do.”
Vanora let out the breath she had been holding.
Murtagh sighed and put his hands over his face, rubbing at his brow a few times before letting his fingers run down over his cheeks. “It feels like my life is a cruel joke… born the son of Morzan, Eragon my half-brother, forced into the roles of our parents…”
Vanora stared. “Eragon is your half-brother?”
“Yes, on our mother’s side. And Nasuada… I thought I loved her, once.” He shook his head. “It was foolish. I was young and had no idea where my loyalties should lie. Galbatorix, he was compelling, but controlling, I couldn’t support him; the Varden, they spoke of freedom, but so many of them committed the same atrocities they accused the Empire of. She was beautiful and captivating and I thought that she was different, but I cannot deny that I can imagine her doing everything you have said.”
He glanced at Vanora. “Forgive me, I know this is… much. These things have been in my head for the past five years, and it’s been a very long time since I had someone besides Thorn to speak to.”
“It’s all right,” Vanora said. “You listened to me first.”
Murtagh gave a weary smile. “Thank you.”
She looked at her feet. “I should thank you. You saved my life out there.”
“Don’t feel like you owe me. It was the right thing to do.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Murtagh stood up. “Do you feel well enough to walk?”
“I think so.”
“Come on, then. I’ll show you around the fortress.”
Vanora stood up and stretched, her shoulders each giving a satisfying pop, and followed him into the hall. Verja followed close on their heels, her wings carefully folded.
The hallway was long and dimly lit by glowing gemstones set into the walls, surrounded by carved vines so that each resembled a tiny luminescent flower. Vanora walked quietly for several paces before asking, “Did you build this place?”
“Thorn and I did,” Murtagh said with a slight smile.”We still are, in a way. We have the time.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Credit Thorn for that. He’s always had a better eye than I have.”
The hallway opened into a grand, round atrium, its domed roof carved with constellations. In the middle of the room was the massive scarlet form of Thorn. He was at least four times Verja’s size and built like a castle, with sturdy limbs and well-defined muscles beneath his scales. His horns were fewer than Verja’s and shorter compared to his massive size, but much thicker. He was crouched low to the ground, gently nudging red gems into place with a finesse at odds with his brutish look. As Vanora watched, she realized that the gems were not stones at all, but his own scales, which he must have shed recently.
As they approached, Thorn looked up from his work, drawing a smile from Murtagh. His presence brushed warmly against Vanora’s mind. It’s good to see you’re feeling better, he said in a mental voice that was oddly light and musical.
“Thank you,” Vanora said, and gave a respectful nod.
It’s all right. To be honest, working on the fortress only staves off the loneliness for so long. Having you two show up makes things a lot more interesting around here.
Vanora snapped one of her knuckles. It hurt more than it should have. “I’m sorry we had to bring so much bad news with us.”
“Better that we be informed,” said Murtagh.
Vanora looked back towards Verja, who had stopped to preen. “I wanted to ask,” she began, but the next words died in her throat.
If you’d train us, Verja finished, pausing to look up at the older dragon and Rider.
“Right,” Vanora said. “We ran from Arya and Eragon, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want to learn, just from someone better.”
Murtagh sighed and exchanged a glance with Thorn. “That… is a more complicated question to answer than it might seem.”
“How so?”
Vanora, Verja… Murtagh has lived under the shadow of his father all his life. Even now, it weighs on him. Departing from the new Riders to train one who fled from them, no matter the circumstances, is a difficult choice that will open old wounds.
Verja’s scales rippled irritably. Vanora’s not Galbatorix, and I’m not Shruikan.
“I know,” said Murtagh, “but my brother will not see it so rationally. Do you know what he said when I told him that Galbatorix had forced me to serve him?”
“Forced…” Vanora frowned and shook her head. “No.”
“He said, ‘you have become your father.’ When I was lost and confused and needed to hear that he would try to free me, he said the most hurtful thing he could think to. Because all he could see was Morzan.” He rubbed his forehead. “If you fled from Arya, and if you intend to fight against him, he will search for you as if you are Galbatorix, and most likely he will come to me.”
Vanora set her jaw and looked him in the eye. “I’m not Galbatorix,” she said. “I only want you to train me. I won’t ask you to fight.”
We may have to anyway. Eragon Shadeslayer is not a forgiving man.
Murtagh nodded. “We have no desire to abandon you to your fate, nor Alagaësia to what Nasuada has become. So our answer is yes, we will train you, but we also need you both to understand the ramifications.”
“I understand,” said Vanora. “When do we start?”
They began the following day, and it immediately became clear that Murtagh was a far better teacher than Arya. He quickly established a schedule of classes, which included both scholarly topics and time for exercise. It was not until Vanora had fully recovered from her brush with freezing death that Murtagh suggested they begin combat training.
“First,” he said, pacing the length of the fortress’s small armory, “let’s figure out what sort of weapon you should use.”
Vanora stared at the collection of swords and bows on display. “How did you bring all of these here?”
“Some were in Thorn’s saddlebags when we left, and some I made while we were out here. We’ve had enough time to learn many new skills, and smithing was one of mine.” Murtagh paused, giving Vanora a scrutinizing glance. “By your height and build, I am inclined to recommend the longbow and bastard sword, though I may be biased, as those are what I favor as well.” He picked up an unstrung bow nearly as long as she was tall and threw it to her, then went to browse the rack of swords.
She caught the bow. “This seems awkward to use from dragonback.”
“Not nearly as awkward as your sword,” Murtagh said, hefting one of the longer ones with an extended grip. “The worst thing about a bow on dragonback is how quickly you can run out of arrows in a prolonged battle, but with enough practice in magic you can make them return to you. Swords should almost never be used while on dragonback.”
“Why do the Riders favor swords, then?”
“Because the first Riders were elves.” He set the sword down and picked up another. “They can get away with fighting like idiots because they have the natural strength and reflexes to compensate for massive mistakes. Against someone of their own strength who has actually formally trained, most of them fall apart.” He held the sword out toward her. “Here, try this one.”
Vanora gripped the hilt and gave the blade a test swing. “It’s a bit heavy.”
“Most of them will be at this point; I made them with my own hand in mind. I’ll work on that.” Murtagh took the sword back and handed her another one, this one shorter and with a hilt for just one hand. “Let’s start with a longsword, then.”
She weighed the blade in her hand. “Better, I think.”
“I want to see how you do with a longer blade eventually. You’re tall enough that you should be taking advantage of your reach. For now, though, let’s start with some drills.”
The exercises Murtagh showed her reminded her of what she had seen at her father’s barracks when she had snuck along behind him to watch the soldiers, though with swords instead of the soldiers’ spears. She took to it easily, at least in theory, memorizing the strikes and counters in her mind well before her body could easily execute them. Murtagh, for his part, was patient and encouraged her to attempt the drills more slowly before trying them at full speed, the better to allow her arms and legs to become familiar with the motions.
After their daily lessons, Murtagh would show her new sections of the fortress, ask for her assistance in Thorn’s latest decoration project, or simply sit with her in one of the towers as they watched Thorn glide overhead with Verja flying circles around his huge form.
Verja and Thorn, of course, had their own lessons together, though they did not always get along quite as well as Vanora and Murtagh. After catching many a flicker of annoyance through their bond, Vanora eventually decided to ask about it.
He thinks I’m cute, Verja said. Like a hatchling. It’s demeaning.
Well… you sort of are.
Traitor.
Magic was also a subject of study, one which Murtagh treated with extreme caution.
“You said a spell made you pass out once,” he said, “and that will happen again if you overuse your magic, but that isn’t the full danger. If you cast a spell that is truly beyond you, it won’t just knock you unconscious. It will kill you.”
“How do I know if a spell is safe?”
“By knowing your limits. That’s why we’re starting with simpler spells that almost any mage should be capable of, and moving on to bigger things as we go. You will become more powerful with practice, but knowing where it starts is valuable.”
“I think I’ve gotten stronger already,” Vanora said, thinking back to Ellesméra. “The first time I used jierda, it was too much, but the second time I was able to do it from much farther away and stay awake.”
“The first was your first use of magic, was it not?” Vanora nodded, and Murtagh went on. “One’s first use of magic is often the most tiring, especially if it’s done without direction, out of frustration or stress. Your mind has never touched magic before, and in its inexperience and the immediacy of the moment, it draws upon too much. Once you know what magic is, what it feels like, and how to direct it, it becomes much easier.” He paused. “There is also the fact that you are a young Rider. The bond brings… certain changes, one of which is a gradual enhancement of your natural abilities.”
Vanora looked down at her hands, her gaze lingering on the silvery mark on her right palm. “So being bonded to Verja is making me stronger?”
“Strength, speed, senses. I’d wager you can already see things clearly at a far greater distance than you could before.” He paused, a hint of a grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Unfortunately, those are not the only changes. I hate showing this to anyone, but you should know…”
He pulled his hair back from his ears. They were longer than they should have been and tapered to a slight point.
Vanora recoiled, feeling sick. “It turns us into elves?”
Murtagh’s grimace came out in full. “Not entirely, but enough.”
Vanora reached up to feel the tips of her ears. They didn’t seem longer than they had been, but was that a point? Her breath came in quick gasps as she ran her hands over it, trying to feel it more accurately. “I need a mirror,” she stammered.
She felt Murtagh’s hand on her shoulder. “Deep breaths. You don’t have them yet, not enough to see it. You’ve only been a Rider what, two months, three at the most?”
“Three, I think.”
“That’s far too early. It usually takes half a year at least to get a visible point. That’s what I saw in Eragon before they truly turned him into an elf, and it’s what I saw in myself.”
She shuddered. “I don’t want to be an elf. I can’t. They killed my father, they killed Verja’s family, they—”
“Deep breaths,” Murtagh said again. “I wasn’t expecting to talk about this today… I think we should leave magic for another time.”
Vanora nodded.
They put on coats and hats and headed for one of the towers. The fortress was built out of one of the mountain’s western ridges, in between two avalanche chutes, lending the towers a commanding view of the frozen landscape in all directions but the east. It had snowed the previous night, and the trees further down the mountainside were laden with the stuff, some so much that they resembled soft, white columns with only the occasional protruding branch to hint at their true nature. The weather was clear now, though, and the view extended all the way to a horizon that was faintly blue and subtly curved.
“What is that?” Vanora asked, pointing to it.
“The sea,” said Murtagh. “We can fly there sometime if you’d like.”
“Why is it curved?”
“Because the world is round.”
Vanora looked back at him. “They told me that in school before the war, but I didn’t think you could actually see it.”
“It’s hard to see if you’re not looking at the ocean from far above. From the shore, you might be able to make it out if you look very closely, but if you aren’t looking for it, then it’s not as apparent. Inland, the hills and mountains make it hard to tell unless you’re very, very high up, and even then the landscape can confuse the eye.”
They sat in silence for a moment before Vanora spoke again. “Do any other people live out here?”
“Very few,” said Murtagh. “The shore to the north is dotted with tribes of ice-fishermen, who speak a language completely foreign to any in Alagaësia. In the winter, they crack holes in the sea-ice to cast their lines, and in the summer, when the sea-ice melts, they go out on boats with jagged spears and hunt whales.”
“Aren’t whales the size of a dragon?”
“Most are about Verja’s size, but a few can grow nearly as big as Thorn.”
Vanora leaned against the battlements, looking out to the northern shore. “I think I’d like to see that someday.”
A chill wind tugged at their cloaks as the conversation lulled once more. Thousands of questions burned in the back of Vanora’s mind, but it was hard to bring herself to ask them. Biting her lip, she eventually managed to steel herself enough to speak again.
“Can you tell me more about the Rider War?”
There was a long pause before Murtagh answered. “Which one?”
“The one five years ago.”
Murtagh took a deep breath that rattled slightly on its way out. “What do you want to know?”
She snapped one of her knuckles through her glove. “I always thought Galbatorix was a good king, especially with Nasuada to compare him to, and I didn’t believe what the elves said about him being mad. But you said he forced you to serve under him in the war. I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“Galbatorix was…” Murtagh paused, staring into the sky. “He was complicated. He believed strongly in humanity’s right to be equal with the elves, but when it came to equality among us, he was inconsistent. He kept eyes on the other cities, even interfered if their governors proved corrupt, but otherwise he rarely did much for citizens beyond Uru’baen. He spoke of magic as the great injustice of the world, which grants the few power over the many, but his solution was to control those few.”
Vanora blinked. “That’s exactly what Queen Nasuada is doing.”
“Yes, it is. And I cannot help but think that she got the idea from him, or perhaps that he ingrained it into her mind. Because yes, he did force me, and many others, into his service.” He shuddered. “He was an expert in breaking into other minds, and once inside he could twist your thoughts and perceptions, make you see almost anything, especially if you weren’t prepared for it. I was trained to defend myself, and I learned on my own to refine that skill, so I was more resilient than most, but he was still able to use what he found to extract my true name.”
“Your…”
“Every person has a true name, a word or phrase in the Ancient Language that sums up the core of who you are, and if someone knows it, they hold power over you.”
It was Vanora’s turn to shiver. “That’s horrible.”
“It is. And it was deeply confusing… There were times when the control took hold, and I thought that Galbatorix had done me a favor; after all, he had taught me many things, given me such power, how could I not be grateful? And there were times when I thought that because he was wrong, and he was to control anyone the way he did, that the Varden must be right. But no, the atrocity of one side does not make the other moral. And that itself was difficult to come to terms with. I wanted someone to be right, so deeply that I could not face the fact I knew even then: that both sides were wrong.”
Vanora was silent, staring out at the snow-covered landscape as her thoughts raced in circles through her head.
“You’re asking yourself whether you’re just another wrong side, aren’t you?”
She nodded, and Murtagh rested a hand on her shoulder. “That’s good. That question itself is further than many ever go. I don’t think Eragon has ever had the insight to make the leap from ‘why am I right?’ to ‘could I be wrong?’”
As always, comments and critiques are most welcome
Chapter Seven
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Chapter Nine
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For Restitution, I am certain the dragons of the Forsworn broke their own Eldunarya, in order to escape from the Riders. Seeing as they were soon affected by the Banishing of Names, the pain from the loss of their Eldunarya was very light in comparison.
I think it might be comparatively easy for Thorn to lose his Eldunarí in that way, since he has already suffered much during his time under Galbatorix.
And I am quite certain the destruction of the Eldunarí would make using magic more difficult, though not impossible, as it functions as a focus for magical energy.