Notes to be retrieved at page end. Onwards!
Innocence
Two and a half years.
It had been two and a half years since he had left the castle; a time divided unequally between freedom, solitude and servitude.
And now, he wandered, secret, hidden and bound to one fate, one eventuality, an unwilling monster. His pale face radiated in the window of the door he passed. He paused for the barest of moments to see himself, before hurrying on again. He didn't want to see, because it was no longer Murtagh that he saw.
All there was left was the mirror image of Morzan.
He pulled the cloak tighter around his face as if to hide from himself. People gave the cloaked figure a wide berth, and though he was grateful, he was still sad. It was depressing to be so universally hated; by one, all, and himself, depressing to be so . . . alone, in this great world of people. He cursed the king, the cause of all this trouble, cursed the dragon that he was connected to be such strong bonds that he couldn't even bear to have it killed, despite the loathing he felt for it.
oOo
He released an anguished scream, as the gloved hand before him dangled the tiny damp dragon hatchling before him. He clutched his head in his hands, on his knees.
'No!' the cry tore without conscious effort from his throat, as with all of his heart, he cursed the gods for doing this to him. Tears streamed down his face. The man before him smiled, a malevolent, sadistic smile.
'No?'
'No.'
The word was sobbed from his heart, in great gulping tear, and he could feel it ripping through his chest, a new scar, at the same time.
The man who had become the monster tightened his fingers about the small neck, and he screamed again. It was as if his entire head was bursting with flaming daggers, not enough to kill him, or to drive him to complete madness, but just enough to make him feel that death, any type of death would be far preferable to this.
'Do you swear fealty to me, Murtagh son of Morzan?' a voice spoke lucid and clear through his darkening mind.
But he couldn't speak. He could swear he tasted blood merely from the force of his screams.
And suddenly it became worse.
He felt the other consciousness brush his own with a frightening force, helpless and bound to him, as fingers closed tighter about its throat.
And then he spoke their true names.
'Will you swear fealty?' he asked again, and Murtagh could say nothing other than, 'yes.'
The tiny creature was flung at him, and the only thing Murtagh could hear as he faded from true life was his manic laughter, which sounded so merry it was sickening, and the agonised squealing of that poor creature damned to the same half-life as he.
oOo
For he had ceased to actually exist as a human being from that point onwards. Granted, however, his life previous to that point could by no means have been called easy or pleasurable, but for a brief time in its course, at least, he had owed no allegiance.
Wandering down streets he had once dreamed of visiting as a free man, not bound to his father's fate, but free as anyone else in this town was surreal. Such dreams seemed to belong to a far younger self, a more innocent self, if he had ever been truly innocent in his whole corrupted life.
There was that market he had yearned to wander through as a child, full of mysteries and colours; the sharp pungent and burning smell of spices in the air; the bright flags and robes; the cacophony of voice crying wares; the hustled, bustle and madness of life and living.
It was all grey now.
Murtagh sloped to the top of the street, to look out on the square, with clashing remorse and craving in his eyes. And then he saw Her.
It was Her. He knew it, even now, even after all of those years, those two and a half years, in which time he would have forgotten her face, if he could; if it wasn't burned into his eyes forevermore.
He could remember her as beautiful.
Her dark hair was brown; her dark eyes were brown. But they weren't brown. In her hair danced amber and auburn and gold, precious strands of spun treasures, shimmering and glittering in the sunlight as she turned, or moved, catching the eye and enchanting the heart. Her eyes were liquid gems, carnelian and topaz in the light, and onyx in the dark. Her ruby lips glowed in her alabaster skin, and pearls gleamed when she laughed.
She was a jewel among flowers.
She had been perfect, and it hadn't mattered to him that she was a maid of Galbatorix's castle. It hadn't mattered in the slightest to him. She was pale and sylph-like, an angel, a sprite come to tempt him, always looking her best, with that infuriating single curls winding from her flower-adorned twist of hair bundled onto the nape of her neck, in a pretty disorder. He had loved her first, and she was the fragile hope he had clung to all those years. The hope that, someday, he could return to her, and she would be his forever to cherish and adore.
She. Her. Feliciana.
So much had changed since then. He remembered everything she had ever said to her. What compliments he had lavished on her; how he had praised her beauty, her kindness, her goodness. How he had always stumbled on the words, but how she would smile coyly, and curtsy, and say, 'you are too kind, my lord,' before carrying on her task around the blushing young man.
He remembered dreaming of her, watching her giggle in the grounds with her friends, watching her sashay across corridors and halls, and leave Tornac cursing his foolish heart when he would skip lessons to moon after her.
He almost smiled, now. Almost. It was close, he had to admit, but there was a faint flicker of something close to joy in his heart. A memory of joy, perhaps. He knew he couldn't go to her; he was a monster in everyone's eyes now. She would be included. She would be revolted by him, but to stand near her, and allow himself to pretend he could was more than he had ever hoped for again.
He leaned his head against the brickwork, and sighed. She stood, partially hidden by a swaying tent-flap, talking earnestly to another woman. She laughed – oh, that he was close enough to hear her laugh – and the flap floated out of the way to reveal her patting her belly, swollen with the child of another man.
Murtagh momentarily forgot how to breathe.
Suddenly, she wasn't Feliciana, this strange foreign girl. Of course it wasn't her. Feliciana had fawned on him, had always been around the castle doing jobs. She was Feliciana. His Feliciana. How could this be her?
The man standing next to her turned to smile at her, and loosely swung an arm around her waist, joy bright in his eyes. She smiled back, as he bent to kiss her lightly, before turning again to chatter to the woman on the stall, her bright gold ring suddenly catching the light, the same gold as strands of her beauteous hair and winked cruelly at Murtagh. He blinked, and stared at it in horror.
Feliciana.
Married.
Pregnant.
And utterly lost to him.
There it was, hard and true. He awoke, as if from a dream, or was it a nightmare? He realised that she was different now, as different as he was, in a different way. Vain, beautiful Feliciana was gone. In her place was Feliciana at a different stage of her life. She was tanned, now, as if outside more. Her once elegantly coiled hair now flowed straight down her back, the two sides twisted messily out of her way. Her fine dresses were replaced with a coarse linen shift-like garment. But she was still beautiful in a different way. She smiled, and looked utterly joyful. She grinned up at her ordinary husband. Motherhood became her.
For a moment, Murtagh was glad he had not pursued her. She could never be happy in that hell that was his life. He would not have wanted her to succumb to his fate.
But he was angry. How could she? Did she not love him as he loved her? Could she not have stayed true for a few years?
Murtagh blinked. That was stupid. She had never loved him. And he had never loved her, truly. Not the way she loved the man next to her. He loved a fancy and thought, nothing more. A beautiful girl and a dream. It was the mere comfort of feeling that there was something precious in his life left to him that he had loved. He had been innocent, once, Murtagh realised. He had innocently doted on this pretty creature, with all the airs and sophistication of any fifteen year old boy. Perhaps he had loved her, in his own little way, but his way was a shallow, dreamy way. He had worshipped briefly at the shrine of love, but that was all. He was beyond that now, and he was glad that she had found someone of her own.
She was far more beautiful now, natural, free and at ease. He loved her more than ever for what she had shown him, though it was a bitter-sweet love.
He made to withdraw, but couldn't. He remained staring at her, as if by doing so, something would change. He watched her cradle her belly tenderly, and thought of the child within. It was innocent, still. Innocent to the cruelty of the world it should soon be unleashed into. Innocent of the pain and suffering all around it. Completely and utterly innocent.
He would have smiled, if his unfamiliar face didn't protest so much. Little child, may you remain innocent for as long as you can. May you never know the pain I had to. May you make her life a joy.
He made a half-step forwards, as if to reach out to her, before he controlled himself, and mouthed a blessing in the ancient language.
Be happy.
He turned, and resolutely walked away, longing to love her with every step he took, but knowing that avenue of emotion was locked to him forever, now.
And Morzan returns . . . he thought, staring at the castle ahead of him, and ducking his head to walk the faster towards his doom, her laugh still ringing in his ears.
xXx
A/N: Wow. I write chirpy little ditties, don't I? Well, on about page sixty of Brisingr, I was siezed with the urge to write this.
I'd love reviews grins hopefully and I hope you likey! It was a rabid plot-bunny that attacked me until I paid it attention. Story of my life. Okey, BAI!! (Yes. You too can has. ) ;)
Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle. Christopher Paolini does, the lucky backstard. (Thank you, Father Ted!) And neither do I own darling Murty. Yet. -grins menacingly-