A/N: Hi everyone! Before you read this chapter, I just want to thank everyone who reviewed – thank you SO SO SO much! You're all so supportive and encouraging, I cannot thank you enough! Without much further ado, here is the next chapter. It's a bit fluffy and a bit of a filler, but it kind of wrote itself, so I didn't really have much to do with it. Hope you like it, please take just a moment to review at the bottom! It means so much to me when you do.

Chapter 10: Scars

It was quiet, the air still and cold. Thorn had found a rocky outcropping which sheltered an indentation in the mountain's surface, too small to be a cave but large enough for Murtagh and Ariana to hide in, unseen by outside eyes. Thorn was resting on the ledge above their hideout, his spiny red tail hanging down into their field of vision, the rest of his immense bulk hidden from view by the night.

Murtagh hated it, this silence. It drove him mad, it ate away at the vestiges of his sanity he had managed to salvage throughout the travesty that had been his life so far, it seized the fears and darkness and pain of his past from where he had pushed them back, in the depths of his heart and mind, and dangled them before his screaming eyes, until he wanted to retreat inside Thorn's warm wings and never have to face the world. It made a mockery of the very strength and resilience that he had come to pride himself on.

He could feel Thorn stirring in the back of his mind, and threw up his mental blockade once more, curling in upon his own thoughts to shield them. Thorn was so strong, so brave – even as a new hatchling he had resisted Galbatorix's torture. It had been Murtagh's weakness, his inability to bear the tiny dragon's pain, that had led to their enslavement. Even after so long, he was ashamed of it, he always would be. Thorn would rather have died than serve such a cruel, twisted madman, and Murtagh had forced him into what even a newborn dragon knew was a fate worse than death. He needed to control this, this weakness, and he needed to do it alone. He had to prove to himself that he could fight away his darkness without needing his dragon, his brother, his life, to chase it away for him.

A flash of white-hot pain shot through him, and Murtagh gritted his teeth, feeling beads of sweat pop up on his brow as the scar on his back burned with a vengeance. Fighting the urge to scream with the agony, he forced his lips to move, cracking his eyes open to watch his palm glow as he murmured the spells he had devised to subdue the ravaging pain, struggling to remember the words as roiling agony threatened to wipe his mind blank. He persevered, gasping for breath as he slumped against the wall of the cave, his left hand clenched tight, the right shimmering with magic, and suddenly the pain was blasted aside, enabling him to think clearly for the first time in what felt like years. A startling, soothing clarity filled him – the pain was there but held at bay, as Thorn prodded him gently with a tendril of thought. Murtagh finished the spells in almost complete silence, and as the fit faded from his body, he opened his eyes.

Ariana was sitting across the fire from him, her back to him, huddled at the lip of the cave, her hair loose and shielding her face from his gaze. She hadn't noticed. He wasn't sure if it was relief or disappointment he felt, and he didn't want to examine the emotion to find out. It was bad enough that Thorn probably knew.

Little one.

For a long while, Murtagh held his peace, and the dragon waited, letting him ease his breathing and attempt to calm his frenzied mind. Thorn.

Are you alright?

Yes.

Thorn's tail swung back and forth, and in the flickering red of the firelight Ariana raised her head, her hair falling back like live flames as she watched it whip through the air like a deadly pendulum.

Cannot you remove the scar entirely, Murtagh?

I could, he said indifferently. But I will not.

It is part of you.

Yes. How long had he waited for this? For someone, anyone, who understood him this way, so completely, without demanding an explanation for his every action the way the rest of the world did. The first being to see him for who he was, not as the spawn of Morzan, not as the commander of Galbatorix's army, not as an enemy Rider to be feared and hated, not as a wealthy young man with an array of fatal skills, not as a tool or weapon. But as Murtagh. Who was he, though? There was no answer to that question. A kingkiller, a Rider, a human, an heir, a brother, a son, a friend, a foe…but who was he?

Little one, Thorn said again, the tail writhing through the air without any specific destination, more violently than before, and Ariana bolted up into a kneeling position, the skirt of her deep-blue dress billowing around her. Murtagh tried not to notice how tiny her waist was.

Thorn interrupted his mindless mental babble. Let it go, he advised. You want it for a reminder, but of what does it remind you?

Murtagh raised his head in surprise. Thorn was a part of him, they were so deeply connected…how could the ruby-red dragon not know?

Sensing his confusion, Thorn sighed. I do not know, little one. Do not be so surprised. You never speak about it, and whenever it bothers you you simply cast your spell and continue on as if nothing had happened. I only sense emotions from you, and they are…complicated.

Try me.

You're angry, Thorn began, but so am I. That…does not… He trailed off, and Murtagh bit his lip. Sometimes he forgot how young his dragon still was, that Thorn, while so wise at times, was as lost as he was. Theirs was a curious relationship; sometimes Thorn was an older brother, sometimes he was younger, sometimes he was a father, sometimes he was a friend, sometimes he was Murtagh himself.

I am not so young, Thorn scoffed, and Murtagh hid a grin behind his hand, knowing that his amusement would color their connection until it faded. You're furious that your father nearly killed you instead of protecting you. You're angry that from birth you were forced to fend for yourself, even that your mother made a greater effort to shield Eragon than she did you. Murtagh swallowed, feeling suddenly as though his body was turning to ice. Then you feel ashamed for thinking such, because after all he is your brother, and he did not kill you when he had the chance. But beyond this…I cannot comprehend why you would not remove the scar. There is…nostalgia, I think, that I sense from you when you think of it, but that does not –

My father, Murtagh said quietly. He owed Thorn, at least, a proper explanation – and it would distract him from feeling as though someone had run him through with a sharp sword and changed their mind halfway through. He had never heard those words aloud. It's the only time I've ever had any interaction with him that I can remember. He hugged his knees to his chest, resting his chin on them, wondering how to put what he was feeling into words. How to make Thorn understand this. He's still my father. The only one I've ever had. Eragon had Brom, Garrow, even Ajihad, but I've never…It's who I am. The scar, I can't just let it go, it's my –

A loud shriek startled both Murtagh and Thorn – the tail vanished abruptly from their sight, and Murtagh could imagine Thorn curled into a crouch, ready to pounce, even as he shot to his feet, Zar'roc flashing in his hand.

Ariana had fallen back on her hands, frozen in place dangerously close to the fire as she stared at something Murtagh couldn't see. But there didn't seem to be an obvious threat.

"What is it?" he asked softly, taking a few silent steps forward.

She was silent, and with another step forward Murtagh saw it – and he couldn't help it, he gave a snort of laughter. A large black spider was crawling slowly towards Ariana's slipper-clad foot, and she was staring at it as if petrified. Moments later Murtagh was sick with himself. She was obviously terrified, and he had laughed. The spider continued its scurrying journey towards her, and Ariana whimpered softly and scrambled back a little more, flinching as her elbow swung too close to the flames behind her.

Moving forward, Murtagh stuck his foot out, and watched the creature hesitate before gingerly beginning to climb up his boot. Carefully, so as not to shake it off, he walked smoothly to the edge of their miniature cave and tapped the toe of his boot against the rock below it. The spider obediently climbed off his foot and down the mountainside.

When he turned back, she was still where he had left her, staring at the ground. Her cheeks were flooding with color even as he watched; the blush of shame. He hesitated, searching for something to say to her, but her body language said she wanted no speech from him. Her brilliant blue gaze was firmly averted, her shoulders turned away from him and hunched into her own body, her sweet pink lips pressed together firmly. Without a word he belted his scabbard over his hips, slid Zar'roc into it silently, and jumped out onto the red tail hanging once again over the entrance, climbing up the spines to sit with his dragon.

-:-

For a time both Murtagh and Thorn were silent. Murtagh was sprawled back against Thorn's foreleg, the strong limb curled around him as a lioness curls her paw around her cub. Thorn's red wings were partially raised, curtaining the night sky as Murtagh gazed upwards at it, framing the stars and moon above them. To Murtagh it felt as though speaking would disturb the peace, as a thrown pebble ripples a still pool, and he laid his head back on the glittering scales behind him, watching the crescent moon cast its light upon them, acutely aware of the way his chest rose and fell as he breathed languidly.

She's eighteen, Thorn said finally, and Murtagh took a moment to process the words before the shock hit him.

What? She never – how do you know?

I shared her mind while she healed you, and she was wondering how old you were. For her it was natural to reflect on her own age as she pondered yours.

Murtagh's spine snapped straight, and he twisted around to stare up at Thorn. You never told me! He couldn't keep the betrayal from sharpening his tone, and Thorn dropped his head closer to Murtagh's, his large eyes blinking.

It would have made little difference to you. And you should find out from her, not me.

Yes, but…bloody hell…eighteen!

Thorn rumbled deep in his chest, and dropped his head down to rest on the ground beside his Rider. Rubbing his dragon's smooth forehead, Murtagh relaxed against it, drinking in the warmth and safety and sense of home that Thorn always exuded.

He hadn't realized she was so young – practically a girl still! He himself was twenty-one, and still unable to shake the horrors of his past. How had she survived, let alone remained sane?

With a stab of guilt, he remembered how he had snickered at her fear of the spider. How he had walked away from her when she had tried to comfort him – and when she had tried to leave, he'd chased her down and forced her to stay. Letting her go would have been the right decision, he realized belatedly. For a girl who'd been constantly held under someone's thumb, who'd never had the right to make her own decisions, he would just become another tormentor. Unconsciously, Murtagh drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly. He knew how it felt, to be controlled, to be threatened with his own pain – or Thorn's – if he failed or refused. To be afraid. Every moment, afraid. To learn to sleep with your eyes open, to push yourself beyond where most would drop dead from fatigue. He could still remember the guilt after killing the dwarf king, when he'd returned to the palace and slammed his fists into the wall until his hands were broken and the wall slippery with his blood, hating himself for the streak of cruelty that he'd always known he possessed, wondering if he would become what his father had –

Murtagh! Thorn's massive snout was inches from Murtagh's body, and he could feel gusts of the dragon's fiery breath crashing into him. He sighed, resting his forehead on the warm scales.

I'm sorry.

Do not think that way.

Murtagh was silent, but he knew his nonverbal apology would be enough. He ran a hand lightly over one of the small spines jutting out from Thorn's cheek, repeating the motion as Thorn hummed and dropped his wings over them both, shutting out the world. Slowly, the dragon's eyes drifted shut, and Murtagh felt his own mind relax as his dragon lapsed into slumber.

But he couldn't.

In the dim, red remnants of moonlight filtering through the membranous wings above him, all Murtagh could think of was the way she had been covered in blood when he had found her, back in those woods. It seemed as though nearly every day one of them nearly died – because they were such gifted healers, they didn't feel the physical toll, but mentally…She hadn't seemed too fazed by her brush with death, which suggested that it wasn't a novelty for her anymore. That thought was even worse.

He couldn't even bear to remember her helpless, terrified screams when he had rescued her from being killed with a blade coated with Seithr oil, the hopeless look in her dimming eyes when he'd found her. Yet she'd brought herself to life quickly after he'd healed her physical wounds, so quickly that he had a feeling she didn't know how to handle things like this. So she simply ignored it. And after all, what else could she do? What else did he do?

They both had their scars, after all. Mental and physical. He didn't know what hers were, but they had to be there. No one could live the kind of life they had without them. And they were impossible to forget, inescapable.

Somehow he couldn't explain to himself why it had left him so shaken that she was only eighteen. Her eyes looked older, as if they'd seen more of the world than anyone could in such a short time. When he was eighteen…he'd been in quite a similar situation. He'd fled from Galbatorix and the Empire, not knowing he was about to meet a Rider and become one himself, not knowing that he would discover what love and friendship were, not knowing that he would be captured and returned to the one being in Alagaësia he had hoped to never meet again. She was more like him than he'd realized.

A puff of smoke erupted from Thorn's nostrils, and Murtagh coughed as it entered his lungs. Fluidly and silently, he crept away from the dragon, rolling out from beneath the soft wings and emerging into the cool air of the night.

-:-

She was so stupid. Ariana hugged her knees to her chest, still sitting by the fire for warmth, and perhaps because her thoughts kept her mind to busy to coordinate movement. After all that she had done, after all that she had seen and been through, she hadn't been able to shake her fear of spiders. Even though she knew she could kill them with a single word. It was something about the way they moved, the number of legs, the knowledge that they could bite and even kill…Just thinking of them made her stomach heave, so she closed her eyes and began to slowly empty her mind of thought, breathing deeply through her nose, focusing solely on her heartbeat. The tension began to leave her body, and when her muscles were relaxed, she opened her eyes and stood.

Murmuring a quick spell to shield herself from view, Ariana stepped out of the lovely dress Kalimae had given her, changing into black leggings and a forest-green tunic, leaving her usual knee-high boots, worn and soft from use, lying out nearby to wear later. The spell dissipated as she tilted her head to the side, deciding against adding her belt around her hips. She wasn't planning on wearing a sword at the moment anyway, so the tunic fluttered lightly around her as she stepped forward.

Careful to avoid the flames, and keeping her breathing steady, deep, and even, she began to stretch, pulling her body through the Rimgar. She had only recently progressed to the third level – she knew the fourth, having seen it enough times, but lacked the strength and flexibility it required. It was an elvish art, used both to maintain physical fitness and battle-readiness, and Galbatorix had had it taught to every magician trained for combat in his palace. They were the elite, his best, his equivalent of Morzan's Black Hand. She paused in mid-stretch. No one had ever known what exactly it was that Morzan had, probably a group of trained spellcasters, that evoked so much fear. Black Hand. What a name. Galbatorix's Black Hand had been trained by him personally – she had escaped that because of her youth. She had been told that on her sixteenth birthday her training with him would begin; she had been included in the group only because of her elvish blood.

Frowning, she fought to clear her mind again, breathing deeply to calm her heart, which was pounding from the anxiety and fear her memories of those days always brought. She swung into another pose, the blood rushing to her head as she bent her torso to the ground, lifting her right arm and leg while keeping the left firmly on the ground. Her limbs were straightening out just as she heard someone clear their throat, and she flipped instantly to a crouch, mentally accessing her magic.

It was Murtagh. Blowing out a relieved breath, she dropped her hands, watching him. For a moment he studied her, and there was something strange in his eyes, something she couldn't place. But then she'd never been any good at reading people.

He dropped down near the edge of the cave, sitting with his knees raised and his elbows resting on them, his hair and shirt rippling gently in the nighttime breeze. When he tossed an expectant glance at her over his shoulder, she reluctantly joined him, both of them facing the open sky. Out of the corner of her eye, Ariana could see him watching her, and suddenly she wished her tunic covered more of her thighs when she sat. She shouldn't have abandoned the dress for one of her mid-thigh tunics. The leggings weren't too tight but they still clung, which was rather the point, they made practical movement so much easier, but now she wondered if –

"It doesn't get any easier."

Her mouth hanging open, Ariana gaped at him for a moment. "What?"

"The faces." Murtagh's voice was soft, filled with pain – highly uncharacteristic of him. "You still see them, you dream of them, don't you?"

She nodded. There was no use denying this, she'd already admitted it to him anyway. Her throat was tight, so she gazed out at the stars, wishing he'd waited till the morning to bring this up. Fear seemed so much clearer at night.

"It doesn't get better," he sighed. "Sometimes I think I'll see those faces for the rest of my life. Which could be forever."

Swallowing, Ariana searched for her voice. It came out smaller than she'd expected when she finally found it. "I don't know about mine."

It was his turn to look confused, but bewilderment also chased the pain and sorrow from his face. "What?"

"How long I'll live," she said quietly, pushing a loose rock across the ground with her bare toe. "Whether the elvish half of me will…or the human. I don't know."

He let her voice fade away into silence before speaking. "Do you want to?"

She did. More than anything. It frightened her at night, almost as much as her nightmares did; if the dreams didn't steal her sleep, this fear did. Everyone else knew how much time they had – Murtagh had eternity, others had what would one day be a blink of an eye for him. She had blackness.

"There's an herbalist you should find," Murtagh suggested, correctly interpreting her silence as assent. "Her name is Angela. If she agrees to do a fortune-telling for you, you'll know."

Ariana couldn't help the snort that escaped her. "If she does a what?"

His sharp intake of breath silenced her instantly. "This one is different. She uses the" – he glanced upwards, as if checking whether Thorn was listening, before dropping his voice –"knucklebones of a dragon."

"Did she do one for you?"

Murtagh stiffened, but he continued to look straight ahead, avoiding her eyes. "I was only three years old when we met. And I don't…remember much." He sucked in a heavy breath. "She healed me when my father threw Zar'roc at me."

Ariana flinched. She remembered that scar vividly.

"I found out as much as I could about her later, when I was older, but I haven't seen her since then. I do believe she was at the Battle of Tronjheim, but I didn't see her there."

Since she couldn't think of a word to say, Ariana just nodded, and mimicked him, staring out into the distance. Silence settled over them again, like snow on their shoulders and in their hair and eyelashes, comfortable at first, but soon its chill began to seep into her bones. He was quiet; she could barely even hear him breathing. Without making a sound, Ariana stood to leave, but she'd scarcely taken have a step before something snapped tightly shut around her wrist. Adrenaline instantly blocked out any thought she might have had, and she spun around, her left fist slamming forward, only to be caught by Murtagh's free right hand.

For a moment they stared at each other, and all Ariana could think was how large his hands felt around her wrist and hand, how his silver eyes reflected moonlight so beautifully. Then he let her fist go, but the hand on her wrist loosened its grip and slid slowly down to her hand, which he took gently in his. When he pulled her down to sit beside him, Ariana's mind was blissfully blank. But she was glad his hand had left her wrist, because she was certain her pulse would be skyrocketing.

The breeze was dying now, but it stirred his black hair one last time before leaving, and even as she stared into the platinum gleam of his eyes her mind cleared enough for her to notice one thing. Murtagh was still holding her hand. His fingers were warm but calloused and hard and strong; she could feel the bones of his hand as it wrapped around hers, enveloping it, his thumb resting comfortably on the back of her hand, occasionally rubbing her skin lightly. But he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at her hand, so small against his.

Her breaths were coming in small, shallow gulps, and she stared at him, unable to tear her eyes away. Everything about him was perfect, the straight nose, the aristocratic chin, the finely shaped lips, high cheekbones, the dark lashes and the somewhat overgrown wavy hair curling up to meet the night. The thin shirt didn't do much to hide his muscles, since he had the sleeves bunched up to his elbows and the neck was open, the soft cashmere hanging a little away from his skin, giving her a glimpse at the fine tendons in his neck, the strong collarbone, the tanned chest. Something inside her was fighting to be acknowledged, a memory of a pain too encompassing to bear, the throb of a heart so recently broken screaming for her to look away, for her to remember that beautiful men bring only pain to others. That she had promised herself she wouldn't fall for this trick again. But then his eyes rose to hers, and she felt trapped between his dark lashes, falling in a pool of molten silver, glittering like the stars behind him.

"Thorn told me you're only eighteen," he said softly. And just like that, that expansive, blinding, gorgeous feeling of hope and exhilaration and something else she couldn't even describe that had been bubbling up, rushing through her veins like adrenaline, impairing her ability to think and even to breathe, that feeling imploded. Reality settled down on her again, her mind surfaced from the ocean of mistakes in which she had been drowning, and it felt terrible.

As if she were feverish, she was hot and cold at the same time, quivering on the inside but unwilling to show it, pulling the mask she'd been perfecting for so long back over her face to hide the sudden pain in her chest, an actual physical ache, as if he had reached into her and hit where it hurt.

Steeling herself, she separated her hand from his, placing it carefully in her lap and grasping it firmly with the other, turning her body away from him, tilting her head down so her hair would hide her face from him. Closing her eyes and taking deep breaths, willing herself to quash the hot disappointment and shame rising up within her, willing herself to subdue the cold wash of shock.

It came as the last straw when she felt his fingers against her cheek, pushing back her hair and turning her face to his, so gently.

She slapped his hand away, and the sound rang out in the silence, shocking them both. She could see it in his eyes. "I'm not a child," she snarled, knowing by the shock in his eyes that the feral expression of fury on her face was something he hadn't expected. Only eighteen. How dare he? After all she had been through, after all he knew she had been through, he couldn't even respect her enough to treat her as an equal?

For once he was lost for words, his jaw slack as wide silver eyes searched her face. Angrily, she stood up. "I'm sure you've reached a ripe old age by now," she snapped, and stormed to the other end of the little rocky alcove, which really wasn't all that far away, and curled up behind the fire, leaning against the outcropping her mind called a wall, her breast heaving when she knew he could no longer see.

She couldn't help it when the first hot tear escaped, and after that there was no controlling it. One by one they rolled down her cheeks, sliding down her neck and wetting her tunic, but the tears came silently, as they always did. And they eased the pain she had bottled up before him.

When she heard footsteps behind her, Ariana bit her lower lip viciously, twisting it between her teeth, welcoming the pain that distracted her from weeping. A soft shuffling noise told her he was sitting behind her, but at a respectful distance away. Good. In this mood, if he had come any nearer, she might have broken his fingers.

"I'm twenty-one now. When I was eighteen, I lost the man who was the most important to me," Murtagh said hollowly. Brokenly. "I escaped from the mad king, but at such a cost…I was so angry. I was alone when I turned nineteen, alone and in hiding, wondering if I would die that year. I'd been through so much, and sometimes I think that eighteen was the worst year of my life. It was when Galbatorix finally noticed me, invited me to join him; it was when my mentor died trying to help me flee to freedom; it was when I nearly lost my mind. I jumped at shadows, I was so alone, and it wasn't for several months that I finally met Eragon." He sighed, and she heard him swallow. "I didn't mean to offend you," he said, his voice low, the control gone from it so that she heard only distress. "I know what it is to be eighteen and alone."

There was a pause, and Ariana knew he was waiting for her to accept his proffered olive branch. But she didn't, and after a while Murtagh made a small sound, as if he was about to say something more. Instead he stood, and she heard him walk away from her, probably to join Thorn.

Risking a glance over her shoulder, she confirmed that he was indeed gone before sinking flat against the ground, feeling the tears stifling her again. There was no use in holding them back anymore, and she let them out. But her crying stopped as soon as it had started, and it left her feeling empty and cold and shaky all over. She didn't even really know why she was so hurt – it had been a fairly innocent statement, not even a question, but the way he had looked at her – it had been almost paternal – had just stung so badly. As if he was seeing a child next to him, and as if that pained him to see. He'd taken her hand to comfort the child he saw, nothing more. She flexed her fingers, hating how she could still feel the imprint of his hand pressing on hers, the way his thumb had rubbed circles in her skin.

Frustrated with herself, she scrubbed her hand against her clothes, desperate to wipe away whatever his touch had left on her. But even though her skin slowly reddened, she could still feel his fingers, as if he had burned her before releasing her.

Barefoot, she padded across the little space, watching the first rays of dawn part the darkness with their warm light. Not for the first time, she began to wonder if staying had been a good decision. Maybe alone would be better. After all, it was the only thing she had ever known. If she stayed with Murtagh, sooner or later she would have to tell him the truth. And she was beginning to understand that she didn't want to. She wanted him to see her as innocent and pure and beautiful, when in fact she was none of those things. There was blood on her hands, the blood of lambs, and the blood of a man who had been practically a father to him. Murtagh would never forgive her. Might even kill her. But she couldn't persuade herself to leave him.

Ariana hated herself for it, but she wanted to feel her hand in his one more time. She wanted his arms around her again, she wanted to see that dimpled smile directed at her. It would never happen, there were to many obstacles for them – her secret, his love for Nasuada, the manhunt for him that would soon begin – but deep in her mind, she couldn't deny that she wanted just to be with him. Just to be happy with him, to share a smile and a laugh. Just once more. And then she would tell him, after she had that one memory to hold onto and cherish. It would sustain her through any subsequent harm he did to her, and the loneliness that would dog her every footstep until oblivion finally called to her.

The sun hit her face, warming her cold skin, and Ariana hugged herself, closing her eyes and drinking in its pleasant caress. Just one more memory. And then she would give up any hope she'd had for another chance at happiness. Even if she had known all along that hope is all it would ever be.

-:-

Thorn yawned widely, the dawn's light gleaming off his fangs and scales. Good morning, little one.

Murtagh forced a smile, rubbing Thorn's snout fondly. The dragon was not easily fooled.

What have you done now?

I told her you said she was eighteen, Murtagh answered, And she thought I was telling her she was a child.

Hm. Moments later, Murtagh yelped as the dragon delved into his mind and his memory of the night before.

Thorn!

The dragon just chuckled. You did confuse her, if you ask me.

Glaring into one of the large red eyes, Murtagh got to his feet. He made it three steps before a powerful red tail wrapped around his waist, dragging him back. Stop it, Murtagh snarled, folding his arms over his chest and scowling.

Listen to me, and I'll let you go.

You're in my head! I have to listen to you!

I don't want you to block me out, Thorn explained. And don't deny it, you have done it before.

Hmph.

I'm not going to lecture you, Thorn said placatingly. I just want to ask you a question.

Feel free. I'm not going anywhere, am I?

Thorn growled, and Murtagh sighed.

Are you going to tell her?

Tell her what?

That cloaked…thing…you fought. What you think might be behind the attacks.

Murtagh bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. No.

Do you not think that she deserves to know? If she wishes to accompany us still, should she not know what we may be up against?

I am not certain, and neither are you, Murtagh reminded him. Once we are, I will tell her, but for now…Ignorance is bliss.

Thorn's uncertainty filtered across their connection, but he simply blew a puff of smoke through his nostrils. Until we are certain.

Murtagh bowed his head in consent. The tail loosened around his midsection, and he stepped free, rearing back to gaze up at his partner-of-heart-and-mind, as Thorn liked to term it. For a moment they held eye contact, and then Thorn ruffled Murtagh's hair with a puff of air and spread his wings into the sky.

I must hunt, he said quietly, And I believe you have somewhere you should be.

Murtagh nodded, taking the hint. I love you, he said quietly.

And I you, little one.

Squaring his shoulders, Murtagh headed back to the little cave, gusts of air behind him telling him that Thorn was rising into the air. With a furious rush of wind so powerful he was knocked to the ground, a blur of crimson streamed past him, and he clambered back to his feet to watch Thorn angle gracefully into the sky, his shape vanishing slowly into the clouds.

But he hadn't told Thorn the truth, and while he suspected that the dragon already knew, Murtagh was grateful he hadn't mentioned it. It had been a white lie. He didn't want to worry her with something that was only a hunch, but it was more than that, and as he swung down into the cave, and saw her with her back to him, twisting her flaming hair into a simple braid, he had to admit it to himself.

He didn't want to scare her away.

A/N: Pleeease review! Anything goes, anything at all – smiley faces, headcanons, questions, comments, but I love to hear from you guys :)

Oh and if you find typos, feel free to point them out to me – I usually go back and fix any mistakes I make anyway! Again, thank you for reading, hope to hear what you thought!