Posted by: juveniliare | October 2, 2009

Mad Dog

Mad Dog

“My mind is the only sanctuary that has not been stolen from me. Men have tried to breach it before, but I’ve learned to defend it vigorously, for I am only safe with my innermost thoughts.”
– Murtagh

“Galbatorix forced us to swear loyalty to him in the ancient language. We cannot disobey him now.”
– Murtagh

“To know who you are without any delusions or sympathy is a moment of revelation that no one experiances unscathed. […] But much as the name will give others power, so you may gain power over yourself, if the truth doesn’t break you.”
-Brom


He’s free.

The word feels bitter on his tongue. Freedom’s price is never too high, this he’s learned. But the price he’s payed may kill him anyway, in the end.

Better to die a free man.

Better to die-

Thorn had found the book, in the enormous castle library. Murtagh had decided that most of the books must have been looted from the dragon riders, because many looked scarcely-touched, as if they were only there to provide a feeling of wealth. To provide Galbatorix with the sense that he belonged here.


It had been a few scraps of parchment, really, attached together to form a booklet, hastily penned spells and instructions hand-written none too neatly. The entire thing had been crammed between the last two pages of a book containing censors for a certain province near the Beor Mountains.

They’d found it by accident, searching though any and every book for a way to free themselves.

Murtagh isn’t sure he really remembers what being alive entails. He’s been stuck so long, slippery voices whispering suggestions into his ears until they deafen him, overpower him. One thousand tongues, murmured smooth words, tunneling into his thoughts, irresistable.

His head is empty, now. Because they have won. Because their sheer force of will has finally drowned out the other voices. Because they’ve pushed and pushed and fought until their minds are free. Galbatorix’s hold in him, the mental hooks, all gone.

A name isn’t something others use against you. It’s a power you give them. A power of the mind. They weren’t strong enough, then, when the King first took without asking. It’s been a long time, since the first time. Murtagh remembers, Thorn said to him, let’s try something. He couldn’t stand it anymore. Once was enough. Once was more than enough.

Years of his life had been spent building up strong barriers, stronger than anyone else’s. Stronger than anyone could break. All of that, broken by one man. Broken by Murtagh’s own stupidity, his own rage at the Varden, his feelings of betrayal, his willingness to turn to anyone else, anyone, his emotions and his idiot thoughts. Getting in over his head before he knew how horrible the king was. Following Eragon to the Varden, knowing the price he would have to pay, all for a misguided sense of loyalty and friendship and something that might have fit the idea of what others called-

Well, never again. There are new walls. There are new forces. Perhaps there are those who could match him on the battlefield, or high in the air on the backs of dragons. But never again will any of humankind- or elf or dwarve or dragon- best him in his own realm again. This space is his; he just took a time to learn how to protect it.

No more holds, Thorn had roared, as he had leapt into the sky. Never again.

Murtagh will be gone by morning’s light, far away from Galbatorix or this blasted war. Far away from anything that resembles his old life. Any of them. He’ll be free.

He wishes he could see Era- the Varden once more, one last time again, just to explain.

Just to explain.

But, he reasons, the lack of an extra rider against him- them- will have to be gift enough.

[You have to,] Thorn had told him. [No choices.]

“Never,” Murtagh said. “There must be another way.”

Thorn snorted impatiently, as an adult with a child. [There is no other way.]

“I-” Murtagh turned away. “I don’t want to lose you.” He remembered staring at the shelves, hundreds of books, more than he’d even seen, anywhere else, except he wasn’t seeing them at all. “You’re all I have,” he whispered.

[No,] smiled Thorn, if dragons could smile, but Murtagh could feel it in his words. [You are in pain, Murtagh. You told your brother that your life was more sacred to you than any stranger’s: I know you lied. You will not have to kill the innocent. You will have freedom. You will have the mountains. You once told me it was all you’d ever wanted.]

“You’re all I ever wanted.”

The huge mass of red rolled it’s shoulders, neck stretching up to the sky. [We will do this, Murtagh. I will do this. You have no choice.]

When Eragon wakes, the first thing he feels is a lack of something. But then a messenger sweeps into his tent, demands he meet Nasauda at the tables immediately, and runs out.

Well, fine, he thinks, and quickly dresses. Saphira? Are you there?

[Yes, Eragon. What is it?]

Meet me at the council tables, he replies, now.

[Alright.]

To change one’s name is not easy. It is not painless, and it is definitely not comfortable. It is only done- it can only be done- in the greatest need.

It requires sacrifice.

It requires hurt.

It requires blood.

And blood will have blood.

“We have discovered something,” Nasauda says, “concerning all of us.”

Roran seems not to have woken up yet, but Eragon can feel his own sleepiness rolling off in waves. Nasauda looks somber, tall and strong and with an edge of triumph and sadness.

“The army of Galbatorix has lost their dragon rider.”

He can feel as his blood turns to ice.

It hurts, worse than anything he’s ever felt. Thorn is singing, roaring. Murtagh’s heart feels like it’s coming apart into pulled pieces; his mind is like a battle field, bloody and bruise and barren.


Galbatorix- voices, so many voices are screaming in his head. Angry, demanding submission.

All Murtagh can hear is Thorn. All he can hear is that-

Dragonsong.

All he can see, is through his- Thorn’s eyes. The rocky cravice, rushing up to meet him.

Death, and Thorn is singing. Freeing him. One word.

Murtagh’s true name, and he doesn’t know if the stark reality or the feeling of his mindmate leaving him forever, hurts more.

Death of a dragon, given like this, changes a man. Changes his core, what he is.

[My Unconquerable, my Edoc’sil, I name you Aiedail. You are the Morning Star, that which gives the wanderer direction. You are hope.]

It fit, somehow, fit horribly. Hope, the last out of the box given to Androica by the Gods, the mitigating virtue or perhaps the worst monster of all. Even in his pain, Murtagh could still laugh at the ironic.

Even as blood splattered the ravine below him, turning the water red, he stood on the cliff and laughed.

And then he turned his back and left.

[/part1]

——————————————————————————

This is just an excerpt of Talk_back’s livejournal. All credits, praises, fan girls squells goes to him, or her, or what ever….

[You have to,] Thorn had told him. [No choices.]“Never,” Murtagh said. “There must be another way.”

Thorn snorted impatiently, as an adult with a child. [There is no other way.]

“I-” Murtagh turned away. “I don’t want to lose you.” He remembered staring at the shelves, hundreds of books, more than he’d even seen, anywhere else, except he wasn’t seeing them at all. “You’re all I have,” he whispered.

[No,] smiled Thorn, if dragons could smile, but Murtagh could feel it in his words. [You are in pain, Murtagh. You told your brother that your life was more sacred to you than any stranger’s: I know you lied. You will not have to kill the innocent. You will have freedom. You will have the mountains. You once told me it was all you’d ever wanted.]

“You’re all I ever wanted.”

The huge mass of red rolled it’s shoulders, neck stretching up to the sky. [We will do this, Murtagh. I will do this. You have no choice.]

When Eragon wakes, the first thing he feels is a lack of something. But then a messenger sweeps into his tent, demands he meet Nasauda at the tables immediately, and runs out.

Well, fine, he thinks, and quickly dresses. Saphira? Are you there?

[Yes, Eragon. What is it?]

Meet me at the council tables, he replies, now.

[Alright.]

To change one’s name is not easy. It is not painless, and it is definitely not comfortable. It is only done- it can only be done- in the greatest need.

It requires sacrifice.

It requires hurt.

It requires blood.

And blood will have blood.

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Responses

  1. taneeeee
    part 2 nya mana?


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