Angst. Our favourite, and a reprieve from the humour of a certain fic which I will not name Unwilling: coughthe starscough. At any rate, angst. Yeah.

This is before the Burning Plains incident, which is why Murtagh doesn't have Zar'roc.

Warnings: Cutting, mild cursing.

Disclaimer: Hi. We don't own this. Die, lawyers, die!

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Damn him! Murtagh thought angrily, making sure Thorn couldn't hear him. This was the last thing the young, conflicted dragon needed to hear.

Damn Morzan to hellfire!

Murtagh lifted his longsword experimentally, drawing it lightly against his skin.

He reached for Thorn, double-checking his shielding. This was something he really didn't need to get caught doing.

His mind suddenly made up, he dug his sword into the sensitive skin at his wrist, wincing as the blade turned red as Zar'roc and the skin was tainted crimson.

He stared at the flesh, mind reeling from what he had done. He silently debated with himself, face and mind as impassive as each other.

He raised the sword again…

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Well, you know the drill! Clickies the purpley-urpley button! And not to report us!

And, yes. We do realise that this is disgustingly, embarrasingly, tinkly-winkly-superly-duperly short.