The Dark Hours - Eragon Fanfic

Chapter Eight: Repercussions

The words Murtagh spoke held no meaning for him–he recited them after Galbatorix, in a language he did not understand, his mind clouded with pain, all his energy focused on the box on the floor.

But as the last of the strange words left his mouth, he felt a heaviness all around him, a pressing conscious awareness of what he had done. A shackle over his whole body. It was over. He was a slave.

He'd immediately collapsed when they let him off the stone slab, and had practically crawled over to the heavy crate, leaning onto it and fumbling for the metal latches with shaking, clumsy hands.

"Op–open, open it," He panted, his mind still whirling, unable to think of anything but Thorn.

Your fault your fault your fault.

"Open it!!" He shrieked, and one of the black-clad men hurried forward, after receiving a permissive nod from the King.

Murtagh weakly pushed at the lid, but the black-clad men had to do all of the lifting, his limbs had no strength left, and his bare skin shivered in the cold of the room.

When he saw Thorn he thought he might sob and laugh and throw up all at once. The dragon wearily lifted his head and churred at Murtagh, who threw his arms around Thorn's neck and cradled him, shaking and weeping.

The color of Thorn's scales was slightly off–they were pale and dull. He had hideous patches of empty or mottled skin along his underbelly, and his right eye was swollen and discolored. He was bigger than the last time Murtagh had seen him–he'd grown during the span of their days of torture, but he was trembling and weak.

The dragon shifted clumsily, trying to work himself out of the box, which had him crammed in so tightly he could hardly move.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Murtagh thought, burying his face in Thorn's shoulder, his whole body wracked with sobs.

Murtagh... Thorn thought, his voice tenuous.

"Alright, then," The King's voice floated over them soothingly. "Thorn. It is now your turn. I will have your oath, and then we may leave this unpleasant business behind us."

Murtagh felt a lurch in his gut, holding Thorn ever tighter. He couldn't. Not Thorn.

"Please just let him–"

"Murtagh, tell your partner–"

"Please don't—"

"Murtagh!" The King's voice filled the chamber, and Murtagh felt a clamp around his throat. He wanted to take a swing at the king, to lunge for him, to defy him, but he felt the oath in his skull, in his bones, in every sinew of his body.

I will obey your commands. I will recognize your authority. I will refrain from any attack–magical or mundane.

He hadn't known the language, but he knew the meaning of the oath. He was bound to Galbatorix's command; he could not fight back, he could only beg.

"Please..." Murtagh whispered, his head hanging, "I can't ask him... I can't do...i-if I made him..."

He couldn't finish, but the King did not lash out again, an icy silence stretching between them instead.

"I understand," The King finally said, "It would break your bond of trust with him, to demand his submission, after you told him never to submit."

Thorn's head lay heavy on the edge of the crate, his breathing labored, his heartbeat pulsing against Murtagh's skin.

"Very well. I will not require this of you. I respect the bond of rider and dragon."

Galbatorix folded his long hands.