Assume that the Varden held a meeting the night prior to the battle at the end of Eragon, during which Eragon began to harbor doubt and fear and had to get away. Three guesses as to who's the poor soul they send out after him. It's a story about having normal worries even when you're extraordinary, and how refreshing and comforting it can be to realize your worth through another's eyes. Non-slash.

I feel like I've been trying to get this piece off the ground for months. Probably because I have, but that is neither here nor there.

Cookies to anyone who can spot the semi-hidden irony.

The Worth of a Rider

Damn you, Eragon, how could you just up and disappear? Don't you know we have a battle to win tomorrow?

Murtagh's patience was wearing dangerously thin. He had been searching for his friend for the better part of two hours, and so far had met with absolutely no success.

He had cautiously asked around at several dwellings, and had suffered through what seemed like a hundred doors being slammed in his face, having himself unceremoniously thrown back into the street, and barely managing to duck from a burly man who had not appreciated having his sleep disturbed. Furthermore, it seemed like he'd already been in every tavern, bar, and inn that was located in the great Varden stronghold. Sometimes he swore he was going in circles, but he doggedly kept at his search. He was nothing if not determined.

The reason he'd taken on this retrieval mission was that he was finally allowed to walk about freely. The Varden had granted him permission to leave the cage (for lack of a better term) that they had placed him in upon his arrival and subsequent disclosure of his true identity as the son of Morzan the traitor, but only if he promised to come back with the Rider and not object to returning to incarceration afterwards.

Still, he finally had decided that if Eragon was not loitering about in this next tavern he was rapidly approaching, he would give up for a couple of hours and rest. He was getting tired, and the Rider, for all his lustrous reputation, had proven to be very good at hiding.

Murtagh walked into the latest establishment on his route, holding onto no illusions that this would be the last place he'd visit. He glanced around briefly, then marched right up to the man behind the bar, who paused long enough in his wiping of a glass to listen to Murtagh's question of the owner's whereabouts and jerk his head sharply to the left. Murtagh followed the direction, and saw a burly man talking to a group of women at the other end of the bar. With a sigh, he approached him, one hand straying to his hip—a foolish gesture indeed, for there was no weapon there, but it was purely out of force of habit. The man looked up, and much to Murtagh's relief, did not seem annoyed at being interrupted. He politely nodded when Murtagh inquired if he owned this establishment.

Murtagh was glad; he didn't feel like asking everyone in here and this would save him a great deal of time. "Has a boy passed through here?" he asked the tavern owner. "About my height...blonde hair...answers to the name of Eragon..." From the flatness of his tone, Murtagh clearly was finished harboring any hope that his friend had indeed been spotted, so the look of surprise on his face was genuine when the man answered that yes, such a boy had been here.

The owner, however, did not immediately divulge everything. He knew Eragon's status as a Dragon Rider, and he did not wish to give the right information to the wrong person. "Who are you, anyway?" he asked the dark-clothed stranger standing before him.

Under ordinary circumstances, Murtagh might have bristled at the suspicious tone and the distrusting expression he was presented with, but this man had no idea who he was and Murtagh would have been the first to readily admit he did not at first glance logically fit into Eragon's entourage. There was boyishly good-looking Eragon, his enormous and powerful dragon Saphira, and the beautiful princess Arya. And then there was Murtagh. He had to acknowledge that he looked quite a bit out of place. So he calmly explained, his temper firmly in check, "I am Murtagh, and I came here with Eragon. He is a friend of mine." He chose not to add that he had more or less taken the younger boy under his wing and that Eragon owed him his life. "I was instructed by Lord Ajihad to locate his whereabouts, as he managed to extract himself from a meeting about the impending battle tomorrow, and has not been seen since."

The man was confused. The boy looked like a beggar and spoke like a prince. His eyes narrowed a bit. Could he trust this stranger? If Eragon was harmed, he'd be responsible, and truth be told, he'd already taken a liking to the Rider amongst them. "Why would he be travelling with you?"

Murtagh sighed. It was a fair question, but he was tiring of this debate. "I led him here. I took it upon myself to follow the Dragon Rider to whatever end, and directed him to the Varden, as the Elf in his company had been poisoned and...well, this is all neither here nor there, sir. May I please know the direction he took when he left your establishment? It is imperative that I find him."

There was a long moment in which the man gave him another careful once-over, his lids lowered to suspicious slits. Murtagh fought the urge to fidget. Finally, the owner answered, and it was most certainly not an expected one.

"He's back there."

The man shrugged unapologetically when Murtagh's jaw dropped at the realization that his charge had been less than fifty feet away during this entire complicated discussion about his intentions and his merit. A few choice phrases tickled the tip of Murtagh's tongue, but he wisely forced them to stay there. "He's here," he replied flatly, giving the man a look that would give a charging dragon pause.

The owner winced. "I did not want to put Eragon in harm's way," he gently informed Murtagh, whose stare softened. That, he could understand.

"Well, belated or not, I appreciate your honesty, sir."

"He should be around here somewhere. He definitely hasn't left, for if he had, half my patrons would have vacated the premises to follow him and try to catch a glimpse of his dragon. Check the darker areas. He seemed in a great hurry to find somewhere inconspicuous and hide there. I would have asked him from what he was hiding, but, well...he's the Rider. I didn't feel it was my place."

Murtagh nodded absently, already looking around for his wayward charge. He nearly groaned aloud in frustration when he finally spotted Eragon. The boy was residing in a booth at the far corner of the establishment, his arms folded on the crude wooden tabletop, his head tucked into the valley between them. Six or seven mugs were before him, none of which contained a single drop of liquid.

Murtagh rolled his eyes and left the owner's side, walking briskly to the table. Ah, our Dragon Rider, long thought a legend and now the last hope for our world. Alone in a tavern the night before battle, drunk and only mostly alert when the Urgals who are even now approaching would fetch a hefty price for his head.

Eragon did not seem to notice his friend's presence, even when he rather loudly dropped onto the bench opposite his. "Well, hello, handsome," Murtagh drawled, sarcasm lacing his tone.

Startled, Eragon jerked his head up, his eyes opening wildly to meet Murtagh's with a mixture of fear and suspicion. When he recognized his friend, it turned quickly to embarrassment. "Murtagh? What are you doing here?"

"The question, dear Rider, is what are you doing here? Did you conveniently forget that we have a host of the enemy due to arrive and attempt to destroy us tomorrow?"

Eragon lifted his hand as a tavern maid walked by, and she nodded to him. He ignored Murtagh as the woman brought over another mug of whatever potent concoction he had been imbibing for the last few hours. He refused to meet his friend's stare as he lifted the mug and drained its contents. He made the mistake, however, of looking up after he'd finished. Upon seeing the look of frustrated disgust Murtagh shot him, he quickly began justifying this latest stupid decision. "I need this, Murtagh. I've never been in a battle before. I would really rather not tell you this, as you're a seasoned fighter and all, but I'm completely unprepared and more than a little terrified." He cleared his throat and then warned, "If you laugh, I'll punch you."

"Believe me," Murtagh replied with a snort, "you needn't worry. Nothing about this is amusing to me. I think this is pathetic, not comedic."

"I don't frankly care what you think." He raised his hand for another mug, but Murtagh was faster, and before the maid could take notice, his hand darted across the table and grabbed Eragon's wrist, slamming it mercilessly down onto the wooden surface. Eragon swore through clenched teeth as a bolt of pain shot up his arm. "What is the matter with you?!" he half-shouted, glaring furiously at his friend as he tried without success to extract his hand.

"If I have to go into that battle tomorrow sober," Murtagh hissed, his grip tightening on the thin wrist as his blue eyes glinted dangerously, "by the gods, Eragon, so will you."

"Let go of me," Eragon ordered coldly.

Murtagh released Eragon from his grip but not his glare, and the Rider yanked back his hand as if he'd been burned. He glowered back at his friend as he rubbed his sore wrist, but Murtagh was undeterred. "No more, Eragon. If you order another, I will toss it in your face."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me."

"What has gotten into you?"

Murtagh ignored the question, choosing instead to plow into a lecture. "You have a responsibility to these people. You may not care what I think, but what of everyone else? How would they feel if they saw you in such a state? They are counting on you, Eragon. You represent the only flicker of hope they've witnessed in years."

"I know all this!" Eragon was swiftly losing his grip on his temper. "I know my importance here! I simply do not think I am capable of living up to such expectations, and I worry that they will lose this battle because I am not yet ready to fight it at their sides. I am no warrior, if you hadn't noticed. I'm a farm boy."

"You are a Dragon Rider," Murtagh reminded him quietly.

"Yes, I am a Dragon Rider, which means that I can ride Saphira, not save Alagaesia."

Murtagh sighed heavily. His effort at comfort had been wildly unsuccessful. He tried a different approach. "You can drink all you want, Eragon, but the battle is still happening tomorrow. I doubt very much Durza and the Urgals will lay down their weapons for a day or so to give you a reprieve to nurse a hangover."

"Judge me if you so desire, Murtagh, but I somehow doubt you're perfect enough to cast the first stone."

"I never claimed to be perfect." Murtagh shuddered dramatically. "Imagine the pressure."

"Then what is your excuse for your arrogance?"

Murtagh was too busy fishing out his pouch of money to reply. Once the item had been produced, he extracted several small coins and set them on the table. "This round's on me, because I know you're young and stupid and entitled to your mistake, as you have had a rough time of it lately." When the other refused to meet his eyes, he just took his friend's chin in his hand, causing Eragon to look up, startled. Murtagh's stare was intense, boring into him severely, as he continued, "However, that being said, the next time I catch you doing this, I will beat you senseless with the hilt of your own sword. Understood?"

Eragon ignored him, managing somehow to break the stare-down and look away. Murtagh's grip on his jaw tightened. "I mean it, Eragon. There had better not be a next time."

"Fine, all right. Understood."

Evidently satisfied that the boy would not repeat this idiocy, Murtagh got up out of the booth and stepped over to his friend's bench, looking down at him expectantly.

"What? Do you want me to shake on it?" Eragon was indignant now.

"No, I want you to stand up."

"I don't want to go back."

"Very well. I'll just have Arya come fetch you. How would you like her to see you like this?"

"All right, let her come. She's far easier on the eyes. Very pretty, isn't she?" Eragon had clearly missed the point.

Murtagh sighed. "Quite, if cold, uppity royalty is your thing." He could not stop himself from adding, "She's going to be pretty annoyed, and this I can tell you for certain, when she finds out that the hero among us vanished off to get inebriated in the hope that he might numb himself to the worries he's harboring about the coming war."

"Do we have to tell her?"

"She's pretty, Eragon, not stupid. She'll know when she sees you tomorrow blinking owlishly at the sunlight and holding your head as if you fear it'll throb right off your neck."

"Is there a spell to reverse this?"

"Ask Durza tomorrow while you're trying to kill him. I'm not well-versed in magic," Murtagh retorted. He was getting more irritated by the minute. He just wanted to get Eragon back and be done with it, and the boy was making this situation far more difficult and time-consuming than it needed to be. By now, the Varden probably suspected that Murtagh had taken advantage of their trust and escaped. It would go along well with their already-low opinion of him.

The tavern maid stopped by the table to collect the empty containers. "I've been keepin' an eye on him, sir," she said quietly to Murtagh, who thanked her sincerely, setting a few coins near her hand in gratitude for her kindness. He then bestowed on her a smile that nearly brought her to her knees. She stared at him a little too long, then snapped herself back to reality, took the proffered coins, and quickly scurried off.

Murtagh paid her little heed after offering his thanks for her surveillance. He just wanted to get back. This was taking far longer than he would have deemed necessary, and he was quite sure Ajihad was thinking the same thing. Although the imposing leader of the Varden had imprisoned him, Murtagh knew, deep down, that the man didn't have another choice. It was also entirely possible that Murtagh had been caged for his own protection; the people of the Varden, after all, would not take kindly to the child of Morzan running free amongst them, and might react viciously or violently. Murtagh trusted that Ajihad was a fair leader, and respected him with little grudge, but he still did not wish to press his luck.

He decided it was time to try again. In the interest of completing his mission, he curled his fingers around Eragon's shoulder and gave it a gentle pull. "All right, Rider, on your feet. Come on. Up." When this failed to do the trick, Murtagh resorted to tugging on his friend's arm. "Up!" he repeated.

When it became clear that Eragon had no intentions whatsoever to work with him, Murtagh was grudgingly forced to attempt to haul him to his feet. The manhandling prompted several impolite words from the young Rider, who was sitting there with a flat expression on his face as if no force could compel him to move. A challenging smirk came to Eragon's lips after a particularly intense pull that accomplished absolutely nothing, and Murtagh's patience snapped. "Get UP!" he growled through clenched teeth as he pulled with all his strength. He practically dislocated both shoulders, but he managed to get the Rider off the bench. His momentum proved too much, however, and they both toppled to the floor with a resounding thud.

There was a collective gasp that echoed through the tavern, and then everyone froze. Silence reigned ominously for a few minutes, then was shattered by a hearty bark of laughter, which Murtagh was surprised to realize came from the boy on top of him.

Eragon had obviously come to the conclusion that this situation was hysterically funny. He was roaring with hilarity as he imagined the scene they had created, and how ridiculous they looked; he, an admired dragon rider, drunk as could be, and Murtagh, a rogue criminal by the Varden's standards who had been forced to play babysitter, both piled in a confusing heap on the floor.

Murtagh was considerably less amused. He shoved his friend off with what could only be described as a snarl, then swore loudly, cuffing the side of Eragon's head smartly. "Happy now?" When this only caused the Rider to laugh harder, he scowled and irritably pushed back the thick curtain of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead and was currently sparing Eragon from the brunt of his glare. "I fail to see what's so funny, Eragon."

In response, Eragon only threw back his head and howled with more laughter, which left Murtagh wishing he'd insisted on the return of his sword. Finally, he decided to just let Eragon laugh himself either into boredom or unconsciousness.

A few long minutes passed before Eragon's hilarity died down, then the Rider adopted a very confused expression. "Why didn't the Varden just ask Saphira to find me?" he asked, as if the idea had just occurred to him.

Murtagh sighed. "Oh, believe me, they tried, but that dragon proved as stubborn as her Rider. She kept insisting that if you wanted to be found, you'd make yourself noticed. Or that you'd simply come back when you were ready."

"Remind me to thank her when we return." Murtagh's upper lip curled, and he struggled against an urge to smack the Rider again. Eragon seemed to read his mind, and winced, quickly changing the subject. "I don't understand why you, of all people, would be the next logical choice after Saphira."

"Your guess is as good as mine, Rider."

"They had you locked up. I didn't think they'd take their eyes off you for even a second."

"Don't blink," Murtagh commented dryly, "lest Morzan's son vanish in a puff of smoke."

Eragon chuckled softly. "Don't let their suspicion get to you. Give them time. You told me that I'd learn to trust you, and I have. You're not the easiest person to get to know, after all, but I have faith that they'll lower their defenses around you eventually."

"Literally or figuratively?"

The Rider smiled, knowing he was referring to the cage. "Well, both."

"I suppose they figured if I was good enough to track you down the first time, I could do it again. In any case, they offered me a few hours of freedom from their incarceration if I could find you and coerce you to return." Murtagh shrugged, then added with his trademark half-crooked grin, "Looking back, I should have refused and stayed there."

Eragon made a face. "As if you had anything better to do."

"A good point," Murtagh conceded, then decided it was time to go, if he had to drag the boy out by the hair. "We've tarried here long enough. Ajihad and the others will be displeased if we keep them waiting much longer. On your feet, handsome." He set the example, extracting himself and straightening to his full height for a stretch before extending a hand to Eragon.

He fought back a sigh of relief when Eragon rested one hand firmly on the table to steady himself before accepting the assistance. His hand clasped firmly in his friend's, the Rider carefully rose to a standing position without a great deal of undue staggering. "You know, you are handsome too, in a slightly more…sinister way," Eragon asserted as he adjusted his weight against his friend's side.

"Can't hear that enough," Murtagh deadpanned.

"Well, you are."

"And you are apparently still quite drunk. Can you walk on your own?" Experimentally, Murtagh released Eragon, edging away his supporting shoulder, but he was quickly forced to steady his friend once more when Eragon swayed and nearly tipped over. He sighed and answered his own question: "No." Wrapping his arm about the boy's waist, he assisted him as they both made their slow, lumbering way to the door.

Eragon seemed to be cooperating, so Murtagh was too busy reveling in his success to immediately notice when his charge suddenly braced his feet and resisted moving another step forward. When he finally did notice, he sighed. "What, Eragon?"

"I can't go back. Especially not like this."

"It takes awhile to get back. You'll sober up before you have to report to Ajihad."

"No, not drunk." The boy swallowed. "Frightened. I can't go back while I'm so frightened."

"We're all frightened, Eragon," Murtagh told him with a shrug. "Some of us just hide it better than you do. What's not to be frightened of? The odds are heavily stacked against us, as is the force we plan to oppose. The Urgals are worrisome enough, and they fight alongside a Shade. The Ra'zac may be there, and those winged beasts of theirs are terrifying. Galbatorix himself might come to the battle, and he is stronger than any of us."

Eragon groaned, closing his eyes as he rubbed his throbbing temples. "Murtagh, you are not helping."

"We're all frightened," Murtagh repeated, then added, "but we're all determined, too. The enemy may have Urgals, a Shade, the Ra'zac, and a powerful king, but we have something better."

"The advantage of fighting on familiar territory?"

"A Rider," Murtagh corrected him with a nudge.

"Me?"

"No, me," came the sarcastic retort, complete with a shake of a dark head and a roll of light eyes.

"Some Rider I am. I somehow doubt that I'll be successful in slaying Durza when my sword-arm won't stop shaking from anxiety."

"I know you are under a lot of pressure, but you have to understand that we all put this much faith in you because we realize you are deserving of it. We have waited long years for your appearance. Leave it to us to judge the worth of a Rider."

"I appreciate your words of comfort, Murtagh, but none of you know me well enough to mark me as a hero with any real certainty."

"Perhaps we don't, but your dragon does, and Saphira is not stupid. She waited all that time for someone to be her Rider, and she wouldn't hatch even for the Elves, Eragon, but she couldn't get out of her shell fast enough for you." When said Rider appeared firmly unconvinced, Murtagh struggled with an unexpected desire to choke him sensible. He counted to ten in his head, slowly, then leveled upon Eragon a look that indicated he was not in the mood for this.

Eragon winced. "I'm not arguing!" he muttered, throwing up both hands in a clear gesture of surrender.

"You're not listening, either."

"I heard you. Saphira is not stupid."

"That is all you took out of this discussion?" Murtagh sighed as his friend scowled, then changed the subject. "Do you think I traveled all this way at your side for lack of anything better to do?" When Eragon fixed him with a look that suggested that he honestly did, Murtagh smirked. "All right, so that is half of it," he conceded.

Eragon chuckled, but his tone was serious as he asked, "What's the other half?"

"I saw something in you. I knew that you would be fine without me, but I was compelled to make your journey that much less difficult if I could. I wanted to see what you were capable of, and why you deserved the dragon." With a shrug, he added, "Besides, anyone who's good enough for Saphira is good enough for me. She's wonderful, Eragon, and you are lucky to have her. She will see to it that you are unharmed."

"I am lucky, and I am nothing without her."

"You were something before her. She did not make you. She enhanced you. You are lucky to have her, but she is also lucky to have you."

"Before her, I was a farm boy."

"Yes, well, you were a farm boy, but now you're a Dragon Rider. I was born into a noble family, but now I am at your service. You were trained by Brom, and I am the son of Morzan, yet we are friends. Fate is strange, Eragon."

"I think the only thing you inherited from your father is your ability to persuade," the Dragon Rider in question said quietly. "You have a way with words."

"I'll say anything you want if you'll return to the Varden," Murtagh told him, but Eragon knew there was more to it than that, and he hid a grin.

"Say that I'm a better swordsman than you."

The older boy smirked. "I will say anything you want, Rider, but I will not lie."

Eragon laughed, and a companionable silence fell over them as they once again attempted to more or less lurch their way toward the exit. After several minutes, Eragon spoke up. "Murtagh?" A grunt from his friend was all he received by way of reply. Eragon worried his lower lip for a moment, then murmured, "Thank you."

"For what?" Murtagh asked absently. He already had his gaze on the door. So close now.

"For, well...you know..." Eragon paused and shuffled his feet shyly. For the day you saved me. For the weeks you kept me company. For today. For deeming me worthy and unhesitatingly reminding me why.

Murtagh suppressed a knowing smile. He understood. He also knew that the Rider needed all the dignity he could get, and so did not press him to divulge all the debts he owed by this point. Instead, he gently squeezed the boy in a half-hug. "Don't let this happen again," he answered neutrally, "or I'll tell your dragon you're too drunk to fight and ride her into battle myself."

This surprised a small laugh out of Eragon. "We both know you'd fall right off," he rebutted. "You have the grace and sense of balance of an Urgal."

"Speak for yourself," Murtagh snapped playfully. "You can't even stand without my assistance at the moment."

The two boys continued bickering the entire duration of their walk back to the Varden's headquarters. The people they passed along the way seemed quite amused and simply chalked the endless exchange of light-hearted insults up to brotherly affection.