The Inheritance Trilogy belongs to Christopher Paolini.
Morzan was angry. He had been angry many times before, but no rage could be compared to the one raging through his body at the moment. The irate Forsworn had gotten drunk, which helped him in most situations. This time, there was nothing.
The drunkenness helped him, though. Through the haze, he could see clearer than he could before. He was full of regret. He regretted joining Galbatorix in the beginning, and killing the Elder. He regretted not being able to help Vrael in his time of need. He watched the man, so noble and fair, die a dishonorable death.
All the admiration people had for him was lost in the blink of the eye. Brom, his greatest follower before Galbatorix, had lost his dragon and gone crazy. Everything was so wrong in his life just because he joined Galbatorix.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his three year old son walk by. He wanted to cry for all of the pain he would be put through because he was the son of Morzan. Murtagh was innocent on all accounts. Can a child choose their parents? He had to get his son away and disillusion him from the way of Galbatorix.
He felt Zar'roc in his hand, cold with magic. Silently, he whispered as he threw the blade into his son's back, hoping it would serve as a reminder of what would happen if he stayed with Galbatorix. His only regret now was earning the scorn of his son, but it would make his life better.
He saw his wife run in fear to her son, looking at Morzan angrily, for no good deed goes unpunished.
Author's Note: Everyone has some good in them, and I've been listening to the Wicked soundtrack. This spawns the story. What do you think? Do you want me to write more like this?