Murtagh

Murtagh kept trying to talk with him, but the dragon’s mind remained closed, armored by unreasoning fear. Helpless to do more, Murtagh strove to impress a sense of calm and safety on Thorn, despite his own upset. He wanted to rage and curse and weep, but he knew that would only worsen Thorn’s state, so he crushed his own feelings and focused on maintaining an even frame of mind. Thorn needed to know that he wasn’t alone and that both he and Murtagh were safe. Only then would he regain his senses.

Every wingbeat caused a painful jostle as the scales along Thorn’s knobby fingers cut into Murtagh’s skin. The rush of cold air was loud and distracting and leeched the life from his limbs, though he clung to his bedroll for warmth. Soon he began to shiver.

Murtagh tried to track their path, but he could only see a small patch of the ground. He could tell they were heading north and east, and that was all.

The sight of the burning buildings kept filling his mind, and he kept pushing it away, not wanting his own distress to worsen Thorn’s. But he couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of inevitability at what they had done.

***

The sun was directly above them when, at long last, Thorn angled downward and glided to a stop upon a small hill by the edge of the vast eastern plains.

They landed with a jolt, and Thorn opened his paw. Murtagh dropped onto the dry grass hard enough to cause him to let out his breath in a whuff.

He unclamped his grip on the bedroll and slowly got to his feet.

Thorn was crouched next to him, shoulders and wings hunched as if to ward off a blow, eyes half closed, his entire body racked with tiny tremors.

Murtagh wrapped his arms around Thorn’s head. “Shh. It’s all right,” he said, both out loud and with his mind. “We’re safe. Be at ease.” He repeated the words until he felt the tremors begin to subside.

It is not all right. Thorn blinked and hunkered lower. It will never be all right.

“The elves will have put out the fires. It’s easy enough with a word or two.”

Thorn laid his head on the ground and let out his breath in a great sigh. His scales felt uncommonly cold to Murtagh; normally the dragon ran hotter than a human. How many do you think I killed?

“…I don’t know. Maybe no one.” But they both knew that was unlikely.

I hate this weakness in me. This is not how I should be. It is unbecoming for a dragon, much less a dragon with a Rider. I dishonor you and my kind.

“No, no, no,” said Murtagh. The words tumbled out in a rush. “This isn’t your fault. It never was.”

Thorn turned doleful eyes on him. Galbatorix is dead. My actions are my own. What he did to me—

“What he did to us.”

We cannot be blamed for it, but the fault here is still mine.

A strange desire to weep came over Murtagh. He remembered Thorn as a hatchling, pure and innocent, free of any misdeed, and despite all they had done, he saw the youngling in Thorn yet. “You’re not helpless,” he said with fierce conviction. “You can overcome this fear of yours. Nothing in this world is mightier than a dragon.”

Thorn snuffed the ground by his feet. Nothing but a dragon’s own mind. To that, Murtagh had no answer, and his helplessness turned into coiled frustration. Thorn noticed. But I will try, however I can.

“I know you will. Tomorrow, let’s find some trees, and we’ll work on this together.”

Together.

With his right hand, Murtagh stroked the scales along Thorn’s jaw. They were still cold against his palm. “Thank you for coming to get me. I would have died if you hadn’t.”

I flew…very fast. Thorn shivered again, and his eyelids drooped lower, although his shoulders and wings remained hunched.

“You need to eat,” said Murtagh. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”

No. Do not go….

But Murtagh was already trotting down the hill.

***

Thorn’s approach had scared away any nearby game, and Murtagh had to range longer and wider than he wanted before he spotted a herd of red deer grazing along the banks of a creek.

He stopped some distance away. A pair of does looked in his direction before returning to feeding. They seemed entirely unfrightened; he was too far away to be a threat, and he saw no settlements in the area. The animals weren’t used to being hunted by humans.

He cast about the ground, looking for a rock, but unlike the land near the Spine, the soil of the plains was rich and black and had no stones in it. What he found instead was a piece of wind-scoured bone, a fragment of a deer’s thigh or foreleg.

It would do.

He concentrated on the largest deer, lifted the bone on his outstretched palm, and said, “Thrysta!”