"Son of Morzan." Eragon repeats, voice strange.
Murtagh looked away, curling his lips.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Do you hear yourself?" Murtagh snaps and stops pacing. Eragon looks at him in confusion. "Your tone, dear brother." Murtagh squares off against him. "You think I don't notice the way you keep your distance all of a sudden? I don't hear your fucking suspicion and disgust when I've done nothing to deserve it but for the man who sired me?" Murtagh stops, panting, looking over his half-brother.
Eragons eyebrows come down. "I think the fact you kept it a secret says something about your honesty-"
"You wanna get off your high horse for a minute and talk about honesty?"
Eragon flushed.
"You don't think I see you watching me when I change, bathe?" He gives a cruel laugh. "Oh I notice. Any excuse to touch me, wrestle me to the ground, get off to the sound of my voice."
"That's not fair-"
"Well that look isn't either. The one you reserve for enemies and spies, of which I am neither. I had pure intentions coming to you and I was his son then and I have not changed. The only difference is now you know and you are letting it cloud your judgement."
"Listen, Murtagh. I can't help it if I look at you different now- you are different. You were a stranger and our savior and our guide and my brother and you are still all of those things- but now you are also the son of the kings most prized… dog and that makes you… tainted."
Murtagh scoffs in disbelief and turns away, hands laced behind his neck. He didn't know why he expected anything different. Anything more. The first time he'd been in court, little past twelve, half of the people there looked at him in blatant derision and the other half in glee, calling him 'Morzan's Legacy'.
Morzan, the man he'd come to hate. Morzan, the man who'd hurled his sword at his retreating back, a child of barley three. Morzan, who left Murtagh with a permanent remaindered of his shame. Morzan, who drove his mother away. Morzan, whose name followed him like a poisoned shadow. Morzan, his father.
His childhood was laughably pathetic and lonely. He distanced himself from the intrigues of court as much as possible but those who wanted to use him sought him out no matter where he hid. Those who meant to use him to gain favor with the king who, rarely, thankfully showed him special attention, or just for his body. The loyalist were the worst. The ones who cornered him, pinned him to the wall and whispered his father's name in his ear. The ones who praised him for his likeness to a man he despised in impossible ways.
Tonac, his weponsmaster, was his only real friend in the castle. Tornac was like a father to Murtagh. He taught him, comforted him and berated him when he was too arrogant. He was really the only parental figure he recognized.
When they fled he was cut down first and that was his fault. Because Murtagh wanted to run. Because he wasn't good enough. Because he was born to destroy. Because he was born broken. And months earlier when Galbatorix sat with him at the great table and weaved him a story of majestic proportions and he said yes, the king smiled and called him Morzan. And he should have realized then his father was a blot he couldn't wipe clean with good deeds.
"Of all the people Eragon, you were the last I'd suspect to get caught up on a name." Murtagh drops his arms to his sides, not turning to look at Eragon. His voice is raw sounding and odd for the normally cock-sure man.
Eragon shivers a little. "You should know the power a name has over someone."
"I'm never allowed to forget."