#gil'ead

Queen Islanzadí drew herself up before him, expression unreadable. “Enough. I must meet my war council.” A tension that Torin had been unaware of building suddenly released, and he slumped slightly. So she wasn’t stopping to kill him. That was a good sign. He stood slowly, joints sore, and stepped back further into his cell before pausing.

Unsure if it was the right thing to do, Torin awkwardly shuffled his feet and bowed low. “Y-yes, ma’am.” When he straightened the elf was regarding him with what he thought could be the barest hint of amusement, as well as some mild thoughtfulness. 

“One of my people will come to you shortly.” The door to Torin’s cell clicked shut, guided by silent magic. The display made him shiver again. “I cannot confirm your account until tomorrow at the earliest, and cannot trust you to roam free. However, that does not mean that you will remain here in your own filth. You will bathe and be provided with new clothing before we next meet. 

“If you cause any disturbance or attempt to flee, you will be killed without hesitation. Am I clear?”

Torin heard himself speak in affirmation, but his mind was reeling as the Queen departed down the ward’s hall. 

Confirmation. So some of the men from the High Security Ward had survived the battle. He wondered if they would be truthful when asked about their former comrade, and the consequences for both if they were not. 

Suddenly lightheaded, Torin stumbled to his cot and collapsed on to it. His face pressed against the cool cinderblock, providing some anchor to the world. Every nerve tingled with static, fizzling anxiety and long forgotten hope all clamoring for the top spot in his consciousness. The dulled realization that he had forgotten to ask if the elf he had met back then was alive drifted through his mind with a pang of guilt before it too faded. 

It took til the sun had set and the moon had risen to peer over the rim of the world for Torin’s overstimulated brain to wrestle the revelations and relivings of the day down. He shifted in his cot and sat up, back to the wall, as he laid out the processed information in simplified pieces.

The elves were fully in control of Gil’ead, not the Empire. The Elven Queen, Islanzadí, had visited him at his cell. She was interested in the fire-eyed elf that had been imprisoned here, and in Torin’s interactions with her. The Queen would come speak to him again, probably tomorrow, and another elf was going to come and take Torin somewhere to bathe and give him a new prison uniform. 

The last pieces to the day’s puzzle lingered in the young man’s mind as he tucked the rest of the information away. 

Torin was not exactly a prisoner anymore, but was not free either. Not only that, but the question that had stayed with him since his arrest may yet be answered.

What happened to the elf after her escape from Gil’ead?

A knock against the cell door roused Torin from his thoughts. He stood, a bit more than surprised that anyone would be so kind as to knock, and warily approached the barred window. “Y-yes?” His throat was dry from his earlier marathon of speech. 

An elven woman was outside, peering into the cell with the same curiosity Torin once held as he looked in on the imprisoned elf all that time ago. “Stars watch over you, Torin Aldsson. I am Naela, of House Varan.” Her voice was the pitch and tone of a shallow river gliding over rounded stones, a smooth, rich alto with hints of lilting tones and rolling ripples.  

“It is nice to meet you, Naela.” 

The young man could not help but feel a small sense of relief as his gaze caught on the woman’s hazel eyes. It was clear, through them, that Naela carried the same power as the other elves Torin had encountered. But there was something different about the way she held it, almost cupped in her hands. There was a softness, almost gentle touch at the edges. 

Her eyes were...warm. Like laying in the beams of light that graced the ground on a chill day. Whereas the imprisoned elf’s eyes blazed with an undying fire of ferocity and determination, and Queen Islanzadí’s were the sharp, crisp chill of a winters day, Naela’s eyes were the warm sun of approaching autumn, the last vestiges of warmth and comfort at the edge of the cold seasons ahead.  

Torin wondered. If the elf from before were safe, with friends, away from this awful place and free from pain...would her eyes look the same? 

With a murmured word and a gentle tug, Naela unlocked and opened the door. “The Queen has assigned me to be your guard.” She stepped aside, offering a clear path into the hall. “If you would follow me, please.”

Torin went to fall in, but stopped at the threshold of his cell. It felt as though iron shackles had snapped around his ankles, pulling tight as he tried to step over the invisible line separating him from the world outside the four little walls. A wave of panic washed through him, ice cold to the point that it made his lungs seize. 

What if there were spells set on his cell? What if he couldn’t leave? The world seemed to tremble at the edges, and for an instant he felt his foot moving back, away from the door back to the relative safety of his cell–

Gentle hands on his forearms snapped the world back to an anchored clarity. Naela was in front of him, concern tipping her sharp brows inwards. “You are safe, Aldsson.” 

Torin could not stop his shaking. He wanted to believe her, he really did. But how could she know? He had only left his cell with another guard before. What if there were things set in the stones to kill him if he left? Or what if the burns on the imprisoned elf’s feet were a result of an escape attempt? What if–

Naela was speaking, then. But the words were...different. They were not in common tongue, yet deep in the marrow of his bones, the very cells of his nerves, Torin somehow...understood. He did not know what she had said but in that moment he understood her meaning, that there was absolute truth in her words. 

“Listen to my voice, Alddson. You are safe. Nothing will harm you here.” 

The trembling eased to a manageable level. 

“Would you like me to help you?” Torin nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak just yet. Following the pressure that the elf exerted on his arms, unable to resist her guiding strength, the young man took his first steps out of his cell in months.

The hall was the same as it always was. But in that moment, as Torin breathed deeply and tried to get his hammering heart under control, the air felt crisp and clear. The lights felt bright, almost too much so. Beneath his bare feet, the cool concrete felt polished and mirror smooth. 

It felt...good. And at the same time, everything almost overwhelmed him. 

“Are you back with us, Aldsson?” The young man focused back in on the elf that still held his arms. Her concern was evident through the tilt of her head and tightening around her eyes. 

A pang of guilt and shame washed through him. This woman had come to let him out of a dank and filthy prison cell, and instead of thanking her and doing the only sane thing and walking out, he had to have her physically drag him through the door like a nervous cat from under a bed. 

“Yes.” Torin instinctively flexed his fingers, that telltale itch and tingle forming in his muscles that was only pacified through worrying at his knuckles. “I’m s-sorry. I don’t– I didn’t–”

“Do not be sorry for this.” Naela’s voice was firm, and the combination of that and the soothing pressure as she squeezed his forearms drew Torin’s eyes back to hers. “You are feeling things that are natural for some after such isolation.” She suddenly smiled at him, bright and reassuring. “If it will make this easier for you, I can keep contact with you as we walk. Would you prefer to remain indoors? There is a path that does not lead outside if you are not yet ready.”

A soft blanket of solace settled over Torin’s shoulders. He gave Naela a shaky smile, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

With a reassuring pat to his arm, the elf shifted to a position slightly behind his right and settled a hand on his shoulder. Together, the elf and the freed man moved to the stairs.

~~~

Despite Naela’s gentle presence, Torin felt a twinge of unease in his stomach as they passed the door that led to the High Risk Ward’s open-floor showers. Another turn saw the two pass the ward common room and finally stop at the small barracks, where Naela held the door for her charge to enter and beckoned him to the door at the back.

Torin followed obediently, eyes darting to take in the state of his former bunk. Second on the right, lower berth. Like all the other beds it had been stripped, the mattress removed and placed elsewhere. The footlockers were pulled from their places beneath the bunks and sat lined up in front of the empty frames, all cleared of their contents.

With a jolt of sudden homesickness he had not felt since childhood, Torin remembered that the last picture of his family was in his locker when he was arrested. I hope they didn’t throw it away. Maybe I can ask Naela if there were any prisoner effects left in lockup. 

“This is to be your room for the time being.” Naela pressed her hand to the door at the end of the barracks, unlocking it with another spell. 

Torin blinked. “This is the commander’s room though....” He followed his guard inside, taking in the space. He had only been inside twice before, and had spent most of the time staring at a particular cracked cinderblock in the wall as the commander berated him for whatever he had done. 

The space was well over half again the size of his cell, but was still quite small. There was only room for a soldiers bed along the far wall, a writing desk beside the door, and a small dresser to the right. At the end of the bed was another door, revealing a tiny bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower. 

Naela clasped her hands behind her back, hiding a small grin. “The Queen thought this would be the most convenient accommodation until she could investigate your claims.” She gestured towards the dresser and then the shadowed washroom when Torin turned at her voice. “There are several sets of clothes of various sizes for you to find your proper fit once you have washed.”  

For a moment, Torin couldn’t speak through the sudden lump in his throat. He turned back to survey the room and hide the watering of his eyes from the elf, warmth blooming in his chest. 

This was the kindness those of his own race had abandoned. The simple right to basic living conditions, to proper hygiene, space to move more than two paces and enough light to see and not feel oppressed by constant gloom. To be suddenly provided with it all, even when he could not leave and was still technically a prisoner…. 

...So the Queen is not as cold as she puts off. At least, not entirely. 

Torin wiped his eyes and breathed deeply before facing Naela again. “Thank you.” Feeling mere words not sincere enough to convey the wealth of emotions now inside him, Torin bowed.

Naela laughed and took the young man by the shoulders to right him. “You don’t need to bow to me, Aldsson!” 

The sound of laughter, after so long, made Torin smile. “Are there any restrictions that I should follow while here?” 

“Ah. Unfortunately, the washroom door must remain open, but I will turn my back when privacy is needed.” Torin nodded. The decreased privacy was not something he was unfamiliar with. He was living, and often showering, with twelve other men before his arrest. And it was not like the cell he was in previously was the most private of places. “If you find yourself needing anything, do not hesitate to ask. I will remain at the door.”

Everything hurt.

That wasn’t new. Durza being the one to take her back to her cell was unusual, but it wasn’t new. He kept his hand wrapped firmly around the wild start of her braid, tight against the base of her skull. Half pushing, half pulling her forward as the cracked bones in her left leg forced muscles to give out every other step. 

The fact that he had stopped the torture before she had gone unconscious even once…that was new. And it wasn’t like it hadn’t been ‘productive’ for him. Arya’s throat was raw from screaming, the lingering feeling of red hot iron pushing against bone pulsing through her body. It had been difficult to stay awake, even more difficult to struggle onto her hands and knees and try to stand after he released her restraints.

Always get up. Her rule for surviving this place. Spitting in Durza’s face was a close runner up to that, but it wasn’t always feasible, water being withheld and all.

The cell door crashed shut. Everything flared white and searing when her body hit the ground, shocking her back to a brittle alertness. 

She took a few moments to breathe, bands of muscle and ribs clamoring in protest of the deep inhales and tight exhales, and then forced herself to roll onto her back. The cell floor was always cool. It would take some time for the chill to seep through the tunic, he hadn’t left the snaps open this time, but it would reach the wounds that lined her back eventually. Some modicum of relief.

Arya froze a split second. 

Durza was looming over her. Still inside the cell. 

That was definitely new.

She tried to rise up on her elbows, start clawing her way back to upright. Get up. Always get up.

He pounced. Slammed her back to the floor with an animalistic growl. Her raw wrists were clamped in one of his pale hands, pinned above her head, his other palm pressing hard into her collarbone. His weight settled on her hips, knees tight to her sides, jamming into the bruised flesh.

Arya snarled and thrashed, tried to lift herself against his hold. He pushed back, squeezed tighter, leaned closer. Closer….

His eyes. There was something different about his eyes. 

A cold jolt of lightning struck in Arya’s belly. It made her still, eyes wide, teeth locked and lips tight. 

What was that look? That…that wasn’t there before when he looked at her. He’d always been predatory, always regarded her with a certain calculating gaze that bordered on gleeful, amused, hungry even. Bloodlust dominated it, thrilled at having such a resilient plaything at his disposal.

But this was…this was an altogether different gleam of hunger.

His perch on her hips was suddenly much more alarming. 

She turned her head away, tried to free her wrists as blood slickened his grip. He responded by digging his nails in deep, her bare flesh giving way as easily as if he had pierced her with blades. 

“Now, now.” Arya jerked involuntarily, fingers trying desperately to claw at empty air, anything to loosen his hold. His breath was cold against her exposed neck, suddenly very close. “None of that. Where would you go, little elf? There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.” Fuck, she could feel him smiling. 

A harsh growl rattled from deep in her chest when his free hand trailed over her throat. The soft laugh he responded with was far from comforting. His fingertips, nails pricking as they went, drifted from the near-black cut arching up from her jaw, down the soft underside and lingered over her jugular. He seemed to revel in the frantic beat of her thready pulse and leaned closer, inspecting the bright lines of blood that welled up in the wake of his touch. 

A sudden thrash of her pinned hips nearly dislodged him. The desperate twist sliced agony from the base of her skull to the bottom of her heels, a clipped cry tearing from her as fresh burns ripped open, half sealed wounds oozing blood onto the floor. 

Durza released a growl of his own at the sound, desperate and hungry. His hand found a renewed grip on her throat and tore away the prison tunic. 

The elf snapped her teeth back at him, hands finally free, scratching and clawing like a feral animal. The damp air of the cell on her bare chest was a bucket of ice water in her veins, blotting out the pain, the bile rising. 

If she could get him off, then she could fight properly. His fingers around her throat were the only thing controlling her upper body, and with them there he had to fend off both her hands tearing at his face with only one of his own. 

Eyes. Those fucking disgusting eyes. 

Arya surged forward, vision fading at the edges, lunging for his head. She felt her fingers latch on, thumbs driving up and in and

Two of his fingers. Between her ribs. 

Inside. Her ribs. 

Well, if that wasn’t a metaphor….

“Does this hurt, little elf?” His chuckle was low, deep in his throat. He knocked her trembling grasp away with a shake of his head, crimson hair wild and flashing bloody in the moonlight. 

‘Yes!’ If his other hand hadn’t been around her throat she was sure she would have screamed her response, everything in her body spasming as his clawed fingertips grazed something inside her chest. 

She could feel him searching for it again, the disgustingly satisfied noise he made when her eyes shocked wide and a strangled gurgle rose from her mouth when he made contact.

Durza eased his weight back from her neck. Licked his lips when the woman’s eyes rolled back at the influx of air, the reflexive gasp. 

The sensation of her lung pressing against his fingertips, warm, wet. The thrashing as her body tried to get away from the source of pain, pulsing the muscles to contract around him, clamp her ribs tight down on his fingers. Her ragged half screams that ended in growls of frustration, only to be replaced by new, unavoidable agony as her starved blood forced her to take another breath. Begin the cycle again.

Oh, yes. This was what he was drawn to. What he wanted. The feeling of her writhing beneath him. Corded muscle under his hand, the strength she still had, her fighting back with every ounce of it only to find a fresh reserve. Her nails, blunted, half missing from his treatment, digging into his forearm as she dragged up more and more resolve in the face of agony unimaginable. 

The Shade did nothing to hide the delighted shudder that rushed up his spine, eyelids fluttering as he inhaled. No fear. He never smelled fear on her. The sharp scent of anger, of boiling blood, of glass-shard tenacity….

This one…this one would never stop fighting. Such a resilient, resistant plaything. 

He wanted that. He hadn’t felt this in a long time.

And then the logic surged forward, drowning out the rabble and screaming of the spirits to take, take, take. 

Not now, not yet. Mustn't break such a delightful toy, ravage such a treat, so soon. He should savor it. If he pushed too far, if he took his pleasure now, all at once, gorged himself on it, then it would be gone forever. She would fight far longer than this. More, now that she had seen his intent.

Intent.

Her eyes were somehow still open. Even when he twisted the two fingers buried in her chest cavity, they stayed open. Burning. Boring into him. Unmistakable in her intent. A promise.

If he did this, and she didn’t manage to kill him, then it would be the death of her. She would do her damnedest to take him over into the abyss with her. 

No matter his fate, she would die with a smile on her lips through the screams. 

And he didn’t want that. 

Slowly, with every molecule of his mind and the spirits swirling within it screaming in discontent, Durza slid his fingers from between her ribs. Wordless spells closed the rifts left as they retreated until, with a quiet squelch of blood and crackle of cartilage, he broke the connection between their bodies. All that remained as evidence was a ragged scab. 

His arm twitched. He ripped the scab open. 

The spirits were nothing if not petty in their spite.

Arya coughed hard, the oxygen rush spotting her vision just as the frothy blood splattered the ground. He’d stopped. Why would he stop? If he was going to have his way then get it done with. If anything it could distract him enough for her to get at his eyes again. Rip them out and crush them.

The second she could feel her muscles, she tried to twist out from under him. 

All it earned her was his hand around her throat yet again, the side of his palm digging into the underside of her jaw. His thumb wandering, running over her skin as if stroking to soothe. Possessive.

Rat bastard.

“If I did not think it would kill us both,” The man-shaped monster mused, dragging his claws across her abdomen, over the silvered scar bolting from her hip, as her body flexed and tensed with her jerking movements. “I would have you for myself.” 

He was suddenly at her neck again. Faster than she could suck in a breath his filed teeth sank into her collarbone. It splintered like old wood, snapped to pieces under the force. 

She didn't even have the breath to scream.

And then he was off her. Staring down at the mess he had made, tracing her form with eyes gleaming in the ghostly moonlight that dripped from the barred window. Licking the blood from his thin lips slowly. Savoring it.

If she had anything in her stomach, Arya would have lost it at the sight. 

As it was she struggled to sit up. Her right arm popped and ground against its own weight, sagging limp at her side as she pushed off the floor with her left. She met his gaze with the malice of a fucking god, ignored the carnal smile that curled his lips as she shifted her good leg under and started to rise, still barechested and her body on display. 

She wore the lack of modesty as she would full battle rattle, head high, tenacity in her veins, fight on, fight on.

Get up. Always get up. Doesn’t matter what’s going on, what’s been done, what you have or don’t have. 

Get. Up. Now.

And then Durza’s stupid, shiny boot connected with her right shoulder with a resounding snap. 

The elf howled, slammed back to the ground again in bright flashes of blinding white and the smell of burning. It felt as though a landmine had gone off inside her trapezius, shredded muscle and bone and nerves and she could feel her shoulder blade in pieces pressing up against the back of her ribs and into the flesh above her shoulder. Her right side was on fire, rivaling the irons and the spells and it was all so much.

“I think that’s enough for today, little elf.” Cartilage and bone fragments crackled as Durza shifted his weight, leaned over her to pluck the discarded prisoner tunic from the bloodstained floor. “You have been most…giving, for me today.”

She couldn’t answer, not even with a glare. Her eyes were screwed shut, left hand pawing pathetically at his boot.  

He removed it after a few long moments of contemplation, reveling in the sight of the agony he had caused. A quick check and brief spell healed the tiny tears in her arteries and veins that threatened to rupture, protected them from bone shards until he deigned to heal the ruined arm. The elf lay gasping in air when he finally stepped away.

The cell door closed behind him with a satisfying clang. He waited. He knew she wouldn’t let herself stay there for long. 

It was a handful of minutes. Longer than most times he had left her conscious. But he soon heard the scuffle, the hissed noises of a creature fighting through pain. The stumbling patter of her bare feet as she staggered to the cell door and fell against it. 

Oh, how brave and foolish of her. She curled her left fingers around the bars in the window for support and glared out at him, wheezing through clenched teeth. 

The look was easy enough to decipher. It’s why he had waited, after all. One last humiliation for the day.

Durza let his face split with a languid smile, all bloodstained teeth and ill contained satisfaction. He hooked the bloodied tunic with the tips of his index and pointer fingers, held it up for her to see. “Want this back, do you?”

Her expression didn’t change, all fire in her eyes and stone on her face. A trickle of sweat fell from her temple, the effort of standing even with the door’s support taxing her to the ends of her failing strength. 

The Shade hummed. He stepped back, twisted mirth in his maroon gaze, and held her shirt out to her. Beyond her reach. And she was not quite so foolish as to put her last good arm through the bars.

The smile widened. 

He let the garment fall from the tips of his fingers. It landed on the floor in a sad pile, snaps clicking on the concrete.

Her gaze followed it. Flicked back to him and she narrowed her eyes.

Slowly, painfully, the woman unfurled just her middle finger from where it was clamped around the bars. 

Durza merely tossed back his head and laughed. 

And then his hand was through the window, fingers fisted in her hair. He slammed her face against the bars, her cheek tight to the metal as he leaned in and whispered in her ear. 

“Do not make me revisit my decision, little elf. I could have you whenever I wish.” He bared his teeth as she did. He could feel her shaking in his grip, pain or weakness or some combination of the two. 

It wasn’t fear. She still smelled of cold rage. No fear, no terror. He smiled again, renewed heat stirring in his belly. “A worthy death, taking one of your kind. And such a feisty one at that.”

She snapped her teeth and rumbled a growl pierced by the crackling of trapped air deep inside her chest. Rammed her intact shoulder into the door even harder than he had yanked her forward. It rattled on its hinges, another reserve of strength neither of them expected. 

But the jolt was enough. The woman gave a ragged groan and sank to the ground, curled against the reinforced oak as the waves of agony overwhelmed her mind. Her consciousness faded, disappeared, as she was dragged into the darkness, away from it all.

Durza stood before the door for several moments longer, focusing deep within himself. Quelled the ache and heat and placated the spirits screaming for him to continue, to forget his higher self.  The rabble subdued to a murmur, he turned back to the stairs at the end of the hall.

“‘EY!” A red auto injector pinged off the Shade's temple, knocking his head to the side by a full inch. Both he and the young Rider whirled to find the elf woman standing tall, her sword drawn and pointed at the man-shaped monster. Her voice was rough, months of nothing but silence, screaming and swearing having taken their toll. But the vehement growl was audible enough. 

“You're fighting me.”

That look. There was a wild, raging fire in her eyes, sharp and directed at the Shade and the Shade alone. Eragon had never seen such unbridled determination in any creature’s eyes but Saphira’s, the strength and tenacity to back it up. 

There was no way Eragon could convince her to stand down. He stepped back, perpendicular to the line drawn between these two beings steeped in magic. 

Or at least, he tried to. 

He felt rather than saw the Shade moving, the change in the air pressing against his cheek only noticeable due to his attunement with Saphira’s natural instincts in the sky. Another surge ripped in front of him, sent him flying back ten feet to slide across the top of a table, scrabbling to grab the sheeting across it and stop his momentum. 

The crash of metal on metal was near instantaneous with the burst of motion, and the Shade and the elf were suddenly locked together where the boy had stood. 

Eragon stared, dumbfounded, from where he had landed in a pile of tablecloth and protective sheeting on the floor. It couldn’t have even been more than a second.

The Shade’s cold chuckle filled the room. “Do you really think you can best me, little elf?” His smile held a wild undercurrent of its own, eyes wide with unexpected glee as he leaned in over their crossed blades. “I know all your weaknesses, I can take you apart in every way that makes you scream, and you think you can–”

The elf snapped her head back and slammed it into the bridge of the Shade’s nose. 

Black blood sprayed across the monster’s face with a satisfying, squelching crunch. He howled and disengaged, shoved his sword against the elf’s to propel himself back as she did the same. 

“Shut the fuck up and fight, you rat-faced bastard!” 

With that the woman drove forward again, and Eragon lost track of who was who and what was what in the blur of blade and limb. 

“A little help!” 

Murtagh’s shout cut through his stupor. Eragon scrambled to his feet and leapt over the fallen benches. A guard was gaping at the servant’s entrance to Murtagh’s right, the rogue’s hands full with the crossbeam. Eragon cut the intruder down just as he began to turn back and shout down into the hall, rushed footsteps echoing against the stone.

“Doors!” Murtagh grunted. The tendons in his neck stood out as he heaved one end of the beam into the bracket. “And tell Saphira to get on with it!”

As if on cue the entire dining hall boomed. Masonry dust rained down. Eragon looked up, alarmed, only to throw himself against the servants entrance door and scrabble for the deadbolt when two guards clattered into the entry. “Working on it!”

“Left!” Loud Urû’baenite swearing replaced coherent language as the large main doors jolted, dislodging the beam. “Other door!”

Screaming echoed down from the rooftop. It was soon drowned out by the screech of what had to be metal on stone, ear piercing and enough to make both Durza and Arya flinch. Neither one gave, their blades a blur in the dust laden air as chunks of mortar and wood began to rain down about their heads.

Arya wouldn’t lie to herself. Hell, she could never lie during battle. This was not a fight she could win definitively, but she would try her damndest. And she had at least one advantage over the Shade. 

‘He can’t kill me. He’s been ordered not to.’ A surge of battle-joy despite the pain creeping in between her shoulder blades made her gnash her teeth in a determined smile. ‘And I’ve got a score to settle.’

His blade suddenly came up dangerously close to her face. She leapt back, threw out her right wrist when the space wasn’t enough and deflected it on the shackle still clamped around her arm. It skated off with a shower of sparks. 

Her hand went numb from the force of the blow. That was closer than expected. ‘Alright, maybe he is trying to kill me.’ She was back in his space again, slipped a foot behind his and dipped under his slash to slam her elbow into his chest. In retaliation he brought his other leg up and shoved her back, flipped over her trip and landed with the ease and elegance of a dancer.

Then it was back to the whirlwind. 

Eragon slammed the latch on the last servant's entrance closed and turned only to shove his body against the main doors as they juddered inward again. 

“Jes’ hold ‘et!” Murtagh’s face was beet red with strain. “Hold ‘et closed!” Eragon swore in response, sweat rolling down his own forehead and into the corner of his eye as he crouched and threw all of his weight into the doors. With a mighty roar his companion managed to scoop the beam up in his arms and staggered forward. 

He had to raise on his tiptoes to clear the tips of the brackets, but he did it. The beam fell into place with a solid clatter, and Murtagh slumped down, chest heaving. He gulped in two mouthfuls of air before he wiped his mouth on his ragged sleeve and choked out, “Get under something.” 

Despite his leaden limbs Eragon shook his head. Feeling was coming back the more air he took in, the lightheadedness fading. “What about–”

“Shut up and do it!” The man ran and grabbed one of the benches and began sliding it over to the doors. “If you get your head caved in then we’re all dead.”

The combat stims were wearing off. Arya grit her teeth and tried to push through the lead collecting in her veins. Wyrda had never felt heavy before. She was dimly aware that something on her back had opened, probably more than one something, and she was rapidly losing more blood than she could spare. 

Durza threw an arm out, and with a panicked jolt the elf realized he wasn’t pointing towards her. Her gaze snapped to the side, where the Rider boy had been, foot already planted and pivoting. Weight shifting, twisting through the heavy air to put herself in front of the Shade again, block his view.

It was only when his blade, unyielding and just suddenly there, bit deep into her hip did she see the Rider over his shoulder, dashing for a table as rubble rained from the sky. Entirely opposite where Durza was pointing. 

‘Oh fuck me.’ 

Her leg gave out and her knee slammed to the floor hard. She could see Durza smiling, lips moving, the familiar cold of his hand around her throat. She let out a clipped cough when her ribs slammed into the side of a table, tossed like no more than a damn ragdoll. 

Despite what had to be the absolute cacophony of the chaos above, the soldiers crashing against the doors as the young man in rags barred them, the screaming of slate and metal, all Arya could hear were the softly hissed words from Durza’s mouth as she struggled to get back on her knees. 

That spell. 

Desperation was a hell of a painkiller. She needed only one leg to launch herself at him, forced herself up, dug her nails into the flagstones for purchase and gripped Wyrda’s hilt tight as the world spun and dipped and shoved off–

And her nerves, her blood, her bones, brain, whatever the fuck was left of her soul, her entire broken body was shattered in an instant. 

Hitting the ground felt like…there was no word for it. 

All she could do now was wait for it to stop. 

Eragon whipped around at a crash of one of the tables slamming into another. The elf woman was already up again, nearly up, on her knees, looked about ready to throw herself at the Shade– 

And not even a second later her eyes flared wide and she collapsed with a sound he would never forget. A scream beyond agonized, ragged, torn, like her mind was being ripped away. 

Eragon didn’t know what possessed him. A surge of something new, something primal, screaming at him to protect. 

The Rider leapt from his cover and barked out a command to Murtagh. “Help her!” 

Without hesitation Eragon was scrambling, dashing, swooped down to pick up one of the fist sized chunks of rock from the shaking ceiling and, with perfect aim, slammed to a stop and whipped his arm through the air.

For the second time that day, that fucking hour, a projectile collided with the Shade’s temple. 

The creature staggered. The scream stopped, and the elf curled into a shaking ball with a strangled groan. Murtagh was already halfway to her, rifle slung under his arm, a trauma dressing package from the pilfered supplies clamped in his teeth.

The Shade started towards them, hand again beginning to reach out from where he had clutched the gash on his head.

“I’m not done with you!” Eragon roared. Stunned at his sudden appearance, the Shade lifted his arm and was rewarded by Zar’roc slashing through the meat of his forearm. He snarled and spun to face the young Rider. 

The first strike nearly spun Zar’roc out of his hands. Eragon shifted his stance as the next blow came, tilted the wine red blade so that the Shade’s sword slid across it rather than slammed into the edge. 

He spun away and approached from another angle. This wasn’t going to be a battle of strength. It was wits that would save him.

He didn’t dare flick his gaze up. ‘Hurry, Saphira.’ 

Murtagh hit his knees next to the elf and shoved the mahogany bench away. The sheet on the table had been ripped off at some point, and with the stone coming down around them Murtagh grabbed the woman by the shoulder of her prison tunic and dragged her under with him.

“Hey, ya’ alright.” Her eyes were glassy when they snapped to him, a hand clamping around his wrist as he tried to pry her from her side onto her back. “Easy! I’m helping!” 

He could feel blood cooling on his skin when her fingers slipped off. She tried to sit up, trembling and holding her side while trying to keep hold of the sword still in her nearly limp left hand. 

“Not a good idea!” A rock the size of an Urgal’s head bounced off the bench opposite their hiding place. He pushed her back down, alarmed at how easy it was. She had ripped apart a locker with what amounted to her bare hands earlier, and now she was shaking like a leaf and couldn’t push him away.

“You gotta stay with me, lass.” Murtagh pleaded. “You’re hurt, you’ll just make it worse.” Elves, Shades, dragons, Dragon Riders. The entire roof coming down over his head because a dragon was ripping it apart. He was rapidly starting to find he had a wits end and was maybe, just maybe, in a little bit over his head. 

“He’ll kill him.”

Murtagh nearly missed the rasped words, busy tearing the dressing packet open with his teeth while his free hand held pressure on the elf’s bleeding hip. He tossed aside the packaging with a practiced flick of his wrist, and with a gruff word of warning, none-too-gently shoved the thick gauze material into the gash. 

When he looked at her face she was craning her neck, trying to watch Eragon and the Shade with unfocused eyes. Murtagh followed her gaze, drawn to the flickers of red and white steel that flashed in the melee. 

Eragon was a skilled swordsman. Murtagh knew that fact well, still wearing the fading welts from their last sparring session. But there was no way he could best a Shade. The monster was just playing with him, dragging out the inevitable end where the boy would be overpowered and recaptured. 

But Eragon didn’t have to beat him. He just had to stall him, and the Shade was playing right into their hand.

“Don’t worry about him, yeah?” Murtagh smiled. Zar’roc bobbed and dipped, a familiar flourish that the Rider had picked up from his sparring bouts with the young man. Executed perfectly after so many nights practicing. “Eragon’s got it handled. Saphira’s almost here, we’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Saphira?” The rogue snapped his full attention back to the woman. The mumble was more slur than words, and Murtagh grabbed the side of her neck when he realized her eyes were closed. Her skin was disturbingly pale, pulse erratic under his thumb. “‘Fira’s dead.” 

“Hey!” She didn’t answer, head lolling to the side. “I just fucking said– Damn it!” 

The Shade had lost his mocking smile, a snarl full of filed teeth and fury filling his pale face. A harsh growl ripped from his throat when the young Rider managed to skate his blade across the flat of Zar’roc again, a deft mix of footwork and unpredictable half strikes putting the boy just out of his reach. 

The next blow was no longer at a fraction of his strength. Eragon’s trembling hands went numb, wrists zinging with pain when their swords connected one final time. The impact drove him to his knees, and with a clipped shout Zar’roc was ripped from his grasp and smashed to the shaking floor.

“Your resistance is laughable, boy.” Eragon raised his eyes to meet the Shade’s, lungs burning with exhaustion. “You are the last gasp of a dying creed, and a pitiful one at that.” The snarl was turning up again, triumph and mockery dripping from his thin lips. “If you are all the Riders have to offer in their time of need, then the fact that Galbatorix required the thirteen to destroy your order is yet another sign of just how weak and unfit the Riders were.”

A flicker of sapphire blue flashed over the last remaining skylight. 

Ah. That made sense then. 

A calm settled over Eragon’s racing mind. He reached out and twined his mental threads with his partner’s, felt her strength flow to him. 

‘Saphira. Now would be a good time.’

“I think you’re forgetting something.” The unnervingly serene tone to the boy’s voice made the Shade’s step falter. 

No matter. He continued to stride toward his prize. “Oh really? And what, pray tell, could that be?”

A skull shaking roar rippled into the room, and suddenly the night sky filled a corner of the hall. 

Eragon threw himself back, reclaimed Zar’roc in hand, and let the falling rubble separate him from his foe. “THE DRAGONS!”

The Shade’s face transformed from that of a mocking victor to a shocked and confused witness. Eragon was already out of reach by the time he recovered and with a wordless howl the man-shaped monster launched himself forward to reclaim his captive.

Eragon hit the floor and rolled to his knees just in time to see a puff of black blood spray from the Shade’s outstretched arm. The Rider snapped his head to the side and silently cheered. Murtagh had his rifle up, kneeling in the dust and debris. The elf was slung over his shoulders, her pack on the young man’s back, none of it affecting his aim. 

The Shade stopped. The split second of surprise was overridden when he slowly turned his gaze to the rogue. “You’ll have to do much. Better. Than that. To stop m–”

The rifle coughed again. Murtagh didn’t blink. The Shade’s head snapped back.

Even among the crashing stone and splintering wood, the shriek was earsplitting. Despite the hole in his head, the shattered bullet lodged in the massive doors behind him, the monster lifted his rapidly changing hands to his blood splattered face. His skin was fading, stretching tighter and tighter, translucent and taut. 

Something pulsed beneath the membrane. In a final, horrific scream the Shade exploded, blood coalescing into a black mist. When it settled to the ground, all that was left was a pile of clothing and the beast’s white steel sword.

Eragon scrambled to his feet and dashed to Murtagh’s side. “You killed him!” 

“I’m not so sure.” The young man’s face was grim. He lowered the rifle. “Saphira! Get in here!”

At Murtagh’s call a pair of taloned claws gripped the sagging chunk of roof beside the gaping hole and ripped it back. Saphira stuck her head in the new space and growled, warning any who dared harm her Rider that they would soon be joining the masonry at the bottom of the keep’s walls should they enter. 

The clatter outside the doors suddenly fell silent.

Eragon threw open his arms, unable to contain himself any longer. “Saphira!”

Her glittering eyes caught on him. A bugle of elation and relief rippled from her throat, and without a moment’s hesitation Saphira dropped down into the dining hall. Tables crunched under her weight, her tail sweeping away piles of rock and broken wood as she barreled into her Rider’s embrace. Eragon fell to the floor, the wind knocked from his ribs, but was up just as fast, trying to envelop all of his Partner of Heart and Mind with his too-small arms.

‘Little One.’ Her hum rumbled through his chest. His aching muscles eased, the burning tightness and anxiety that had riddled him since their separation finally abating. They were whole again. ‘I’ve missed you.’ The dragon lowered her head, gently nosed him closer to her even though he was hanging on as tightly as he could. ‘Have they hurt you? Shall I tear them from this world?’

The offer made him laugh. He knew she was entirely serious. ‘I’ve missed you more than anything.’ Despite the sharpness of her scales he nuzzled his face against her chest. 

“Very sweet, very touching.” Murtagh grunted. He was already by Saphira’s side, shoving the stuffed laundry sack into her saddlebags. “Can we get a move on? She’s heavier than she looks.”

‘Excuse me?’ Saphira balked at the comment. She pulled away from her Rider and swung her head to fix Murtagh with a sharp glare. ‘Are you calling mWhat is that?’ A sudden hiss shot through her teeth. ‘An elf? How–’

Eragon bolted to Murtagh’s side and hurriedly released the elf’s pack from his back, lashing it to Saphira’s saddle. ‘She’s the woman I’ve been seeing. The Shade had her captive here this whole time.’ Alarm at the mention of a Shade crashed through their link. ‘Can you carry us all? We can’t just leave her here.’

‘Of course I can.’ He could hear the almost offended sniff in her mental tone. He smiled and placed a hand on her warm shoulder. ‘But we should hurry. You’ve really kicked the hornet’s nest this time.’

‘To be fair, I did have help.’ 

With Eragon’s help, Murtagh hoisted the elf up into the saddle. The Rider followed her up, then helped his friend clamber on. The banging on the doors had started again, this time with the deep rhythm of a battering ram. 

Sure her passengers were secure, Saphira bunched her powerful hind limbs and leapt onto the remnants of the dining hall’s roof. Shouts from across the keep rang out, a clatter and host of clicks rising into the night as weapons began hauling around to aim inside rather than out. 

“Get a move on!” Murtagh’s voice held an edge of panic. 

Saphira snorted. ‘Featherless chicken. Now you shall learn to fly!’ And with that, she took three great bounds and launched herself from the roof and into the night beyond.

Eragon ducked out of instinct. The whiz of bullets cutting through the air buzzed in his ears. ‘Climb!’ He gripped the saddle tightly as Saphira tilted in an attempt to evade. ‘Saphira, higher!’

‘Stop getting seconds, then!’ She snapped back. A savage growl ripped from her throat as she drove her wings down, struggling to gain altitude. Pain lanced through Eragon’s arms as several projectiles tore through the thin membrane of her wings. 

It was a few more panic laden seconds before Saphira breached the thin layer of clouds, bursting through with a hiss deep in her chest. Eragon pressed his palm against her scales, feeling her trembling beneath them. ‘You’re hurt.’ It wasn’t a question.

Saphira strained and flapped hard twice more, getting further into the sky before finally gliding a stretch. ‘There’s…there’s something in the muscle.’ Burning, grating, so dangerously close to bone. ‘I…I will be fine, Little One. Brom is not far.’

‘I’ll heal you when we land. I’m sorry.’ He tilted his head back to let the wind catch and carry his words to Murtagh. “Saphira’s hurt! I have to heal her when we land.” The young man grunted in affirmation. He didn’t seem all that thrilled to be so high up. “Is the elf okay?”

“She’s out cold.” Murtagh had to yell to make himself heard. “I got her patched up as best I could, but she’s not in good shape. Brom should take a look at her before we go further.”

“Will do.” 

With that decided, Eragon returned his hands to either side of Saphira’s neck. Her shaking was regular, breath labored. ‘You are amazing, Saphira.’ Careful of her spikes, he lowered his forehead to rest on her scales. ‘Absolutely amazing.’

The dry grin of ivory teeth reached his mind’s eye, her words half panted and half chuckled. ‘You could stand to mention that more often.’ 

Eragon smiled. ‘Every day.’

They sailed off into the night, bedraggled, limping, but finally, together again.

~~~

(Post-A/N: Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed or commented or whatever it's called nowadays. I'll keep the blog updated on progress for the next sections and hopefully can have something out in a month? I gotta stop giving timelines. Don't you ever start actually expecting stuff to be out when I say it will. This was a fluke since I had to break this monster up into sections. As promised to another reader I will be listening to Murtagh over this next week at work, so might have to slow down on this, but I'll keep it in mind.

The self satisfied hum was unnecessary. So was tossing the broken lock to Murtagh before she opened the door. 

“You get yours, I’ll get his.” The elf nodded and slipped inside, moving immediately to one of the corners where a military style pack was tucked away on a shelf, a pile of clothes and a set of boots beside it. 

Zar’roc wasn’t all that hard to find. The wine red sheath stood out among the greys, blacks and whites that dominated the standard supplies for the guards and inmates. 

He had to force his hands to close around it. Murtagh lifted the sheathed blade carefully. His mouth felt dry at the cool leather’s touch, the etched glyph’s edges razor sharp against his fingers as he wrapped the first half of the sheath with the belt still dangling from the sheath’s loop. 

His back twinged, familiar patches of static springing to life along the white scar where it brushed against his clothing. If it were any other situation, Murtagh was certain he would have left the bloodied blade there, shoved it under some shelf or taken it with him only long enough to chuck it down the nearest well. 

But Eragon needed a sword. He needed a Rider’s sword. 

Murtagh swallowed the bile rising in his throat at contact with his father’s weapon and tucked it under his arm. Did everything in his power to push the thoughts out of his head.

Murtagh gathered up Eragon's other things and paused. There was plenty here they could use. He grabbed a laundry bag and started stuffing it with spare clothing, toiletry kits, half a box of MREs, anything that looked useful. On the wall by the door he spotted a metal cabinet, bright red and painted with a stark white medical cross. 

Medicine. They were sorely lacking any sort of medical supplies. Eragon looked okay, he wasn’t moving like he was injured, but the elf’s arms and neck were covered with mottled bruises. She’d need some sort of treatment at some point, he was sure, and they could use all the help they could get now that they were officially on the run. 

Murtagh beelined for the cabinet and tugged on the door before letting out a sharp curse. Of course it was locked. 

“Oi, elf.” Murtagh looked over his shoulder and suddenly found himself stifling a bark of laughter. Far from the image of beauty and grace in all the stories of elves he had heard, the woman was hopping on one leg, tugging on what he assumed was one of her boots. 

Her teeth were bared in a soundless, frustrated growl, and from his angle Murtagh saw, with a twinge of sudden unease, that her canines were larger than most humans. Not only that, but there was a sharp point and cutting edge to the similarly sized premolars behind them. They mirrored the teeth that sat just beside Saphira’s fangs, for gripping and slashing into pinned prey.

The hair on the back of his neck rose. Despite the oh so familiar, so very human dance she was currently doing with her boots, it sank in for him then that she was not of his kind. 

Murtagh cleared his throat. “Hey.” 

The elf yanked the laces tight and bounced on her toes to double check the fit before she went to him. A fine sheath and blade were strapped into the snap-lock holster on her right side, stolen pistol discarded for a much sturdier and heavier looking gun with an unfamiliar bluish tint to the metal. She showed it to him as she approached, displeasure and near disgust flitting across her face at the open breech and locked slide stop indicating a lack of ammunition. 

“Live rounds are probably in the guard shack. We don’t have time to get any.” The woman made a dismissive tsk from the corner of her mouth and thumbed the slide release before she holstered the pistol. “Medical cabinet. Think you can get this one open?” 

She gave him a deadpan look and pointed to the laundry bag. Getting her hint, he handed her one of the shirts and watched her wrap her right fist with it, knuckles covered in thick improvised padding. 

And then she slugged the cabinet door right next to the lock. Metal crumpled like paper, the lock popping free with a ragged rip of stressed steel. She grabbed the top of the door and ripped it off the hinges, tugged it away from the crimped parts and tossed it behind them. 

Murtagh stared. After the lock outside, he should have expected something like this. But damn. He sure as hell couldn’t forget she wasn’t human now. “Well, now you’re just showing off.” 

She ignored him, dragged a finger down the rows of medicine vials, injectors and pills that sat above the shelves of bandages and other more mundane supplies. She tossed several vials into the laundry bag Murtagh still held open and stuffed a handful of yellow auto-injectors into the pouch on her pilfered belt. Lastly she grabbed a packet of tablets, and, before he could stop her, popped three of the white discs out of the foil and tossed them in her mouth. 

When he sputtered, incredulous, the elf held up the packaging and tapped the medication name. Murtagh recognized it as a strong painkiller, one frequently handed out to troops due to its non-drowsy formula. 

“Alright, fair enough.” If the blood was anything to go by, the elf would certainly need that as the adrenaline surge of their escape wore off. She helped him stuff practically all the bandages, syringes, and other first aid supplies into the laundry sack. “That’s enough. Let’s get out of here.”

He was already halfway out the door when, out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh saw the woman rake her eyes over the medical cabinet one last time. She seemed annoyed, or that might have been half concealed panic, but he couldn’t worry about it now. Eragon had been alone for all of ten minutes, and that was plenty of time for him to attract masses of trouble.

He missed the click of an auto injector. Behind him, Arya rubbed the newly blossoming sore spot on her right shoulder and stuffed the empty red syringe into the side of her pack. She paused one more time, grabbed a bundle of red combat stim pens and chucked them into the remaining pouch on her stolen belt. 

As satisfied as she could be without the antidote in hand, Arya grit her teeth, slung her pack onto her shoulder, and jogged after the already retreating Murtagh. 

There was a bit more activity now. They could hear shouting down the hall, the tromp of boots bouncing around the space. The cacophony eased somewhat when they came to the carpeted dining entry, disappeared completely when they slipped inside.

Murtagh didn’t know if he should sigh in relief or hold his breath when he saw the massive room was empty. It took Eragon’s mop of honey streaked hair popping out from one of the tables close to the center for him to relax, even if it were just a tiny bit. 

Murtagh was already holding Zar’roc out to the Rider as the trio met at the midpoint, the smooth sheath burning his fingertips until Eragon gratefully accepted the blade. They let him strap it on over his prison tunic and pull on his hunting boots, the elf and young man exchanging a bemused glance as he did it all with a large chunk of bread clamped in his teeth.

With that done, Murtagh led the two former prisoners to the first row of tables back from the opposite end of the hall, where an open space for performances gave them easy sight to the doors. He waved them down to crouch between the mahogany benches, eyes flickering to check the entrances and exits out of habit.

“We’re going to wait here for now. There’s too much rabble.” He slipped his rifle from under his arm to across his chest, two fingers tapping along the edge of the trigger guard. “Keep a low profile.” 

Eragon stuffed a torn piece of sourdough into his mouth. “When should I tell Saphira to come?” As if he had known her for years, the young Rider ripped the remaining loaf in half and casually offered it to the elf. She accepted it with the same odd hand gesture as in the cell and attacked it like it was the first food she had seen in days. Probably was. 

“Shift change. We’re going to have to wait it out.” He checked the battered timepiece Seig had given him. “Tell her…about thirty minutes.”

Eragon’s face tightened. It could have been the moonbeams from the skylights, but he seemed to go pale. “I know we had to stall to get our gear, but that’s too long.”

“There’s gunners on the roof.” Murtagh explained. “Saphira’s going to be coming in to a hotzone if we don’t wait till–”

“I know. But…” The boy leaned forward, food forgotten. “I don’t want her flying into that, and you know I wouldn’t ask her to unless it was necessary. We need to get out, now.” His gaze flicked to the elf, who nodded in agreement. “There’s a Shade here. He’s the one in charge of this place.”

A cold stone dropped into Murtagh’s stomach. 

A Shade?

He felt his mouth moving on its own. “Are you sure?”

Eragon nodded, lips tight and eyes grim. Beside him, the elf made another gesture, a sharp nod of her fist with her thumb pressed flat against the side of her hand and first two fingers bent at the second knuckle. She bared her teeth and clicked them together, aggression and muffled hatred echoing in the soft sound.

That was that, then. Plan right out the window.

Murtagh leapt to his feet. His movements were automatic, the next steps falling into place as his gaze swept around the dining hall. “Tell Saphira we need her now.” He pointed to the two servant entrances on the side of the room they had entered in. “Elf, secure those. I’ll get those main doors. Eragon, you get the set here.” He felt Tornac’s training rising in his mind, a strange mix of deadly calm and absolutely terrified at the situation he found himself in. That he now had to get them all out of. “Secure this room, now!”

The elf was already gone, Murtagh following her darting figure to the opposite side of the room again. Eragon held his tongue and sent out a mental call to his partner, felt her tilt and dive like an arrow cutting through the wind. 

Murtagh was dragging the massive beam used for barring the main doors out from its resting place when a chill tingled up the back of his neck. The hairs stood on end, a sense of bone deep foreboding latching into his muscles. 

“What have we here?” 

Out of the corner of his eye Murtagh saw the elf freeze. And then she was gone, melted into the shadows cast by the moonlight through the windows above.