Murtagh

Thank you, whispered Silna, but he felt no relief, no absolution, and the nightmares dragged him further down, down, down to the cells beneath Urû’baen, where Galbatorix had bent and broken him, and throughout, he heard the growls and cries of Thorn, of his dragon, his beautiful, newly hatched dragon, suffering in the chamber near his.

***

With morning came frost, and it took Murtagh a good hour or so to warm up enough to face the day. He was sore, and tired too, and the fibers of his being were frayed from use.

After a cup of elderberry tea, he practiced with Zar’roc, and the exercise helped clear his mind and focus his thoughts. And not just his, Thorn’s too. How one of them felt had a large effect on the other, and Murtagh was determined to do everything he could to shore up Thorn’s fortitude.

When he finished with his forms, he and Thorn left their belongings at camp and descended from the hill to a copse of birchwood trees standing along a trickle of a stream.

Murtagh entered first. He walked backward into the copse, feeling with his heels to avoid tripping and keeping his eyes on Thorn the whole while. Once he was a good thirty paces into the stand, he held out his hands.

“To me.”

A dry rustle as Thorn shuffled his wings. He shook himself, and his scales prickled along his glittering length. Then he took a tentative step forward, so his head was just under the reach of the leafless trees. The branches groaned under the influence of a passing breeze.

Thorn stiffened, and Murtagh said again, in a soft voice, “To me.” He smiled for Thorn’s benefit. “You can do it.”

The weight of Thorn’s forefoot crushed dozens of frost-shriveled leaves as he took another step forward. And another.

“That’s it,” Murtagh whispered. If Thorn could break his fear but once, Murtagh knew he could build off that triumph, and the fear would decrease with every success.

As Thorn’s hunched shoulders moved between the pale trunks, the dragon tensed even further. He dropped into a low crouch and dug his talons into the loam, and the tip of his tail whistled as it swung through the air.

“Don’t stop.”

Thorn refused to meet Murtagh’s gaze. He could feel the rising tide of panic swallowing the dragon’s mind, and he fought it with soothing thoughts, but he might as well have tried to beat back the actual sea.

“Try!” commanded Murtagh, his tone suddenly hard. Where enticement would not work, perhaps ferocity would serve. “Now! Don’t think about it!”

An anguished roar escaped Thorn, and he lurched forward on stiff legs, as a wounded animal might, and in his haste, his head brushed a low-hanging branch. Blinding fear swept the dragon’s mind with such strength it sent a bolt through Murtagh’s temples. He cried out and dropped to one knee even as Thorn thrashed and wriggled back out of the copse.

Thorn sat on the open ground, shivering and blinking. His jaws were open, and he panted as if from a desperate run. Then he lifted his snout and loosed a mournful howl that sounded so lonesome and eerie, the entirety of Murtagh’s skin crawled.

I cannot, said Thorn. My legs seize up, and I cannot move. It is as if a spell grips me, and I feel as if I will die.

With an effort, Murtagh got back to his feet and, with slow steps, made his way to Thorn. “They’re just emotions. Emotions aren’t you.” He tapped Thorn’s foreleg. “You can feel them, you can let them pass through you, but who you are doesn’t change. Remember that. Remember the parts of your true name that describe the best parts of you and hold to them.”

Thorn lowered his head in acknowledgment. The doing of it is difficult.

“It always is.” Murtagh gestured at the stand of birchwood trees. “Again. Now.”

Fear and uncertainty flickered at the back of Thorn’s gaze as he regarded Murtagh, but then he drew himself up with a proud arch to his neck, and a puff of smoke swirled from his nostrils. For you.

As before, Murtagh backed into the copse, and as before, Thorn attempted to follow. The red dragon managed to force himself a few feet farther than on his first attempt, but then his nerve broke and he had to retreat. So strong were Thorn’s memories of imprisonment that, for an instant, they overwhelmed Murtagh’s mind, and the dungeons of Urû’baen appeared before him, as seen through Thorn’s eyes. That and the dragon’s visceral aversion were enough to drive Murtagh out from among the trees himself.

They took a few moments to collect themselves. Murtagh’s heart was beating uncomfortably fast.

Then they tried once more with similar results.

“Enough,” said Murtagh, laying a hand on Thorn’s neck. The dragon was coiled into a tight knot upon the matted grass, panting and shivering as if with ague. It was still morning, and they were already wrung out.

They were both uncommonly quiet as they returned to camp and prepared to leave.