Disclaimer : I do not own any hero of the Inheritance Cycle.
A/N : This story is dedicated to Restrained Freedom for his continued help and support.
Forgiveness.
More than two hundred years had passed since the day Murtagh came to live in the castle of the Dragon Riders. Ever since he came he had known very well what lay behind the heavy doors of the castle's "secret room". However, during all these years he hadn't dared open the lock, albeit he had visited the vaulted, cavernous hallway many a time. He was used to returning to these doors during the nights. During these lonely hours when the Dragon Thorn was fast asleep curled up on his thick, clean straw, dreaming about seizing desirable prey; craving for many young, red-scaled descendants who would run up and down the long corridors of the castle playfully chasing one another, or flying merrily in the huge, cavernous rooms. These were the hours Murtagh usually spent alone; the hours where his only companions were a book and a glass of strong, red wine that reduced all the bad memories. The hours he could spend, if he liked, with his brother Eragon who never slept; or with one of the elves who shared with them the days and nights of this voluntary exile. However, despite Murtagh's need of their presence, he had never sought their companionship.
The days of the two brothers and most of their evenings were full of a good, constructive cooperation. They would exchange serious discussions and plans for the future. They would teach the few young Riders in the martial arts and the magic, and practice with them – a practice that never ended. Some times Murtagh participated in the others' mirth and amusement, keeping a distant, condescending cordiality; even when the elves sang and danced playing the triangular harps, and their golden flutes; even when Eragon united his melodious voice with the voices of the swift-legged representatives of the beautiful race. He would partake allowing the lower, deeper tones of his voice to cover the treble of the younger brother's and the high-pitched melodies of the inhabitants of Alagaësia's distant, green forest.
But when the nights would fall … these deep, long winter nights, when the dark, heavy clouds in the sky threatened to swallow the moon, and the gales bet to pulverize the rocks of the mountains into dust, then he would go out and stand on the massive walls of the castle. And from up there, like a lonely, vigilant guard, he would let his gaze wander; either to the wild, rocky cliffs that formed a protective semicircle at the back of the castle, or to the vast, sandy, dune-filled plains that extended up to the great river and, even farther, up to the sea. And there were some other nights, those of the warm summer and of the cool autumn; when the heather and thyme, growing in the nearby ravines, scattered their odors far and wide. Then, a full moon was lighting from above the lonely figure of the man who was striding around the battlements.
He always ended up outside these doors; the arched, double, cedar doors. The magically carved doors with images of the Dragons and of the ancient battles, lost and won; with images of the lithe-bodied elves and the broad-chested humans; images of the strong-boned dwarfs with thick, knit beards, of spiral-horned Urgals, and magical werecats. The doors that Murtagh hadn't had the courage to open so far and enter. He just wandered about into the dark corridor for a while, to withdraw soon after from the great hall of the castle's treasure.
For in this hall there was hidden the treasure of all treasures; the greatest secret of the Dragon Riders that very few in the whole world knew about. In this hall, there were kept the ancient "hearts" of the Dragons, either resting on the soft pillows made of the offered, silky hair of the elves, or in their stone cases carved out of moonstone. The ancient Eldunarí that most of them the Dragon Rider Eragon had discovered in the vault of the secret mountain in Vroengard, and the rest he had freed from the dark treasuries of the tyrant Galbatorix.
Murtagh knew very well this room. He had seen it many times through his brother's eyes. Eragon had become accustomed to spending many of his hours there, in the company of the Dragons' hearts. He either talked to them, or took care of them, arranging them according to their age and size, their knowledge and experiences. All of them had been placed in this quarter of the castle divided into different, vaulted chambers; all the precious gems, the hearts of the ancient Dragons. And in the last chamber, apart from the others, stood that Eldunarí …
…The Eldunarí that had caused Murtagh's reluctance to enter this room so far. One of the oldest ... a thousand years old ... a golden one ... one that had suffered a thousand torments...
Some times he would stand outside these doors for a while. He would stretch his hand, and with his silver, shining palm he would touch the dark wood whispering words of magic. He would lean his flaming forehead on the carved figures and stay there for a few moments, just remembering …
… 'We have no choice but to take you with us to Urû'baen. Will you go peacefully?' he had asked.
'I would sooner tear out my own heart!' Eragon had answered.
'Better to tear out my hearts' he had cried out to his brother, when the one's blood stained the other's blade in vain. And using these words he had indirectly revealed to him – he, the double traitor – the secret of Galbatorix's power. But Eragon either had not known, or he had not understood …
Murtagh dared not allow the very next memory to ender his mind.
… Golden scales glistening under a glorious sun, reflected on the blue waters of the lake … Enormous eyes looking at them, like two flaming beacons in the sky … and the white dressed elder, seated between the giant wings of his Dragon … Their own rage … The curse he had uttered against them … The sword with the red ruby stubbing unwillingly, but through his own hand; and he himself a simple viewer of the heinous act … Thorn yelping in agony for his maimed tail – and it felt as if his own two legs had been severed, and his own hand ripping off his very existence … And then, the golden one howling and his image faltering, fading, slipping away … and he remembered no more …
Upon this memory he turned his back to leave with a fast pace that echoed through the vaulted corridor. And he always postponed his entry for another time, far into the future… And until this moment, Murtagh had never dared open these doors.
*~*~*~*~*Ω*~*~*~*~*
The night was beautiful. Like an ox's horn the waning moon shimmered with the light of thousands of stars that sparkled on the dome of the sky, pouring their silver gleams on the gray, massive stones of the outer wall. The castle of the Dragon Riders quietened down. The dormant Dragons snorted satiated in their nests, and their few young Riders rested relaxing their aching members and minds from the hard practice in swordsmanship, archery, and the use of magic. And for those who still remained awake in the castle, there was a book in their hands, or a soft whispering song on their lips to make them feel relaxed. Murtagh stood upright on the battlements, figuring the distance to the river with his eagle eye; and from there up to the deep, blue sea, and even further, to the end of the world. And tonight, his heart was full of memories.
… Dark, almond-shaped eyes like two brilliant stars in the night sky – like the stars that watched him from above – an ebony skin, like the dark night's colour … a sweet and tender, but regal voice … and a soft, full of love touch …
Such had been the life he had lived with the woman who had understood, and had forgiven him; the happiness he had felt once; and ever since it had ended, he still doubted if he had ever deserved it … And here, in the depths of the fortress, in the back, vaulted rooms carved out of the mountain caves, the rooms that had been locked behind the double, cedar doors … There lived the golden heart of the ancient master, alone, always mourning … and he had not yet forgiven him.
The Rider descended the massive battlements and with a decisive pace he walked through the magically carved, vaulted corridors. The back of the fortress connected with the natural caves of the mountain rocks, making the rooms a natural extension in the heart of the stone. During the early years, when Eragon and the elves had resided here, the wild Dragons had nested in these caves. But soon, they had stretched their strong wings, and they had flown away, towards the untrodden mountain peaks, where even the eagles dared not nest. And the first one of the Dragon Riders had changed the useless caves, using his magic to melt the walls and the ground. He had formed small and big rooms, united with long corridors, separated with wooden doors brought from the distant, northern forests with the help of the Dragons. Murtagh himself had not yet come to reside with his brother.
Murtagh walked at a brisk pace towards his room, thinking about the lessons and the various responsibilities of the following day, paying no attention around him as he passed by either closed doors or empty, dark chambers.
'Ebrithil!'
He should have become aware of their presence even before he saw them, but he had already passed by without noticing them. The two boys greeted him with respect touching their hands on their chests and bowing slightly. They were two friends who had made their acquaintance in the castle of the Dragon Riders, and since that day they had become inseparable. Everybody knew that these two youths were used to studying together, and sometimes they spent the entire night talking until dawn. Obviously, the day was not enough for the vast accumulation of knowledge that has suddenly enriched their lives.
He returned the greeting silently and walking at a brisk pace he kept in mind that he should never repeat the same mistake again. Peace … security … how easily could they turn an old, experienced soldier to an indolent person. And yet, he knew very well that they needed to sustain peace by being its vigilant guards. Eragon and he himself had been exactly like that for so long; the two vigilant guards who prepared more others. So the smiling peace would stretch her wings of freedom for thousands and thousands of years, covering all the land of Alagaësia, including all the races; nesting in the hearts of all people, making them all brothers. And the noise of the Dragons' wings, as well as the presence of their Riders, would bring tranquility and serenity as the eyes of the people would turn towards the sky full of confidence.
His brother Eragon had never gone back home during all these years. But he himself had often traveled on the back of his great, red Dragon covering the distance over the mountains, the rivers and the plains up to the distant homeland. It was he who had escorted these young lads and maidens in every case, the new blood of their order, as well as their young Dragons. They were just a few, but they maintained tight family-like bonds among them. All of them, masters and students, lived together like brothers.
So far he had come all the way through the cavernous tunnels without noticing where he was going. Tonight seemed that his memories would not let him concentrate. He had already left the door of his chamber many corridors back, and after the next curve of the passageway...
The Rider paused, smiling his favorite half-crooked smile; the one that caused the upturning of the left corner of the mouth. He sensed the boy … and the girl … their kiss in the darkness … both hidden behind the shadows of the curved corridor.
'Love makes you strong' he sent his message to the boy's mind. 'But beware! It is a great weakness too. Your heart is vulnerable … always bound …'
Changing his way to avoid a meeting with the young couple, he advised the boy to accompany the girl right back to her room; and then, he had better return to his own.
And in this way he found himself unintentionally standing out of the double, cedar doors concealing the great secret of the Riders.
He stood still, his hands crossed on his chest, his head slightly bowed, his eyes closed. He let his intellect wander inside the room, and he felt the hearts pulsating rhythmically, diffusing a soft, soothing energy in the space around them. Deep in his core he knew that the Eldunarí were discussing, exchanging their opinions, their thoughts, their old memories ... He closed his mind abruptly, not wishing to be a communicant to a specific memory, and he pushed away the pain that was about to occupy his heart for one more time. He pushed away the remorse that during the nights overpowered his mind; he tried to forget the unintentional strike of his armed hand; to avoid the memory of those moments he had lived again and again, countless times in his worst nightmares. He had been a slave, muffled in his own body, watching in terror the crime he had been forced to commit. And then Thorn's pain, his own pain … the desperation … the shame … being a puppet in the hands of the tyrant. Yes, he had been enraged; he had cursed the ancient couple; he had accused them of hiding away to security instead of trying and help them … but his own hand would have never stricken … But, ultimately, it had been his own hand.
As he opened his eyes ready to leave, he suddenly saw the Eldunarí in front of him. They rested in their cases and on their pillows scattering their bright light all around. Some of them flashed proudly, others with an exultant joy, members of the same family sharing wisdom and knowledge with one another. And, very strangely, he was standing under the double, stretched open doors. How did he really manage to open the doors? How did he miss the moment he uttered the magical words to unlock them? The Eldunarí's divine luster and their melodious humming held him standing there, a spellbound audience, listening to their voices, watching their light reflections. As the one after the other the Eldunarí perceived his presence, their voices filled his head; all pulsing and glowing and brushing up against his mental shields. And they were as many voices, as the treasure of the castle.
... Vibrant voices ... reflections on the dark walls ... callings and questions ... curiosity ... amazement ... wonder ... demands…
…Murtagh! … Murtagh … Dragon Rider … son of Morzan … come … who is he? … Murtagh … come! … the son of Morzan … Murtagh … the son of Selina … come to us … Eragon's brother … the Rider Murtagh … come … Murtagh …
Their voices echoed on the walls and past memories arose in his mind as the cavernous room filled the reflections of the multi facet gems, of scattered light, energy and colour … White like the purest of snow; blue like the clear skies; green like the dense forests; silver like the beams of a pale moon; dark like the obsidian, and red like the spilled blood …
All of them mixed together in colour, energy and sound, calling him near them. And he, as if bewitched, entered the room …
*~*~*~*~*Ω*~*~*~*~*
Through the flashes of light he discerned more openings on the walls at the back of the hall. There were other doors leading to separated chambers, where Eragon had placed some important Eldunarí. Fascinated, he passed by all the intellects claiming his attention. He closed his eyes, his ears, his mind, reaching for the depths of the caves …
… Behind the heavy, velvet curtain … the ancient master was resting …
He bit his lips embarrassed and he breathed deeply holding his breath stubbornly. He had come this far tonight. There was no way back for him now; at least, not before he earned forgiveness.
The very next moment he set the curtain aside and entered decisively.
It was there … in the middle of the small room, its light pulsing gently casting glow, as well as golden reflections and shadows on the nearby walls. It rested in its carved case alone, separated from the others. Murtagh approached hesitantly and he stood in front of the Eldunarí. The precious heart of the Dragon had not yet acknowledged his presence when he spoke to it.
'Master Glaedr.'
Anger and sadness filled the voice that thundered in his mind at the very next moment.
'Murtagh! Rider of Thorn!'
The voice sounded harsh, a curse rather than a calling, and Murtagh felt the ire reverberate through the air, penetrating his body. He sank to one knee in front of the moonstone carved case, and he bowed his head submissively.
'Master …'
The silence that followed lasted for long; every minute elongated like an hour, every second wailing like a sorrow bird – their dark, fluttering wings sounding mournfully, their sharp claws afflicting his brain.
'I know that you live in this castle since long!'
The Dragon decided to honour him with his deep voice, but the pulsing ire continued to tear at the stone walls and his heart.
'Master …'
The reaction to the emotion brought a lump to his throat, the word faded away into a soft whisper.
'Murtagh! What do you want from me?'
'Master, forgive me … I struggle to forget my misdeed for many decades… and the pangs of conscience make me suffer, as they return at nights tormenting my heart and mind.'
The voice of the ancient Dragon ceased for a while. The golden heart shone and thundered and dark swirls stirred on the surfaces of the precious stone.
'You killed my body, and you killed my Rider! I cannot forgive!'
The stern voice echoed in his mind, causing a rising agony inside his body.
'Forgive, o ancient master, the hand that was forced to an involuntary blow; forgive those who suffered as if their own hearts were slaughtered that day.'
'Years ago, I've told you that I have understood. Garbatorix was the one leading your hand to kill. As for the crime, I have understood ... but I cannot forgive you. '
'… forgive …'
'Never! Even if a thousand years pass.'
Amber flashes of light flowed around him expressing the anger and pain of the Dragon's heart; and Murtagh stayed down, his body shrunken, remorse tormenting his heart. Oh, if "he", if the ancient master could come back … just for a while ... to be able to explain to him ... to be forgiven ...
The red Rider remained there motionless for a few more minutes; fallen on his knee, his head bent and his shoulders hunched. His heart pounded with the same intensity the enraged Eldunarí's light throbbed violently in front of him. It was not only the heart's rage, but its pain, its bitterness and mourning that filled the whole room and poisoned Murtagh's soul. He was ready to stand up and leave, regretting that he ever came here, regretting that he ever crossed these doors, when he sensed the light changing around him … From the intense golden and yellow with dark-bronze flashes it became paler, whiter ... He felt the tension ceasing, subsiding ... and a relieving energy spreading about him, covering him like a silken, white cloud.
As Murtagh opened his wet eyes and raised his head in wonder for the magical changes in the room he saw the elder standing in front of him resplendent in his white robes; his body aglow in a bright light …
… A faint light shone around Oromis' ancient face, his features appearing softly diffused … But his gray eyes stood out from this faintness, along with his long, silver hair cascading down his shoulders … eyes that looked at the younger Rider full of sympathy ... understanding ... acceptance ... The elder's right hand stretched out towards Murtagh in a friendly manner, inviting him to touch the silver Dragon-mark in the middle of his palm where the magic seemed to overflow like a river.
Murtagh fell backwards overwhelmed, unable to believe his eyes. The other palm of the elder appeared to be sunken deep in the Dragon's heart; like he was one and the same with the precious stone, his feet not touching the ground, his body rather hovering in the air from his knees a foot and a half above the floor.
'… You! …'
His voice choked with emotion in the depths of his throat. His eyes opened wide, and the awestruck Dragon Rider dragged himself further back unwittingly.
'… It is you! … How? …'
The apparition in front of him remained silent –
... could it be possible for a dead man to speak? ...
– but his lips turned slightly upwards forming a gentle smile, and his gaze fixed on Murtagh. Ancient magic filled the space around him, reaching deeply to his soul, filling him with soothing consolation, and sweeping away his sadness. Taking courage he supported his weight on his knees, and he brought his hand on his chest greeting him in the proper, ancient way.
'Ebrithil!'
His head tilted, Murtagh kept his gaze fixed on the presence in front of him all the time. He didn't know if he had the right to call "Ebrithil" the one whose life he had terminated with his own hand, but from all the existing words this seemed the most proper one. He felt the air pulsing around him; the caresses of a soft, wet breeze played over his face.
… Rider Murtagh …
The voice sounded melodious in his mind, but at the same moment strangely distant. As if the presence were elsewhere, in a strange, alien space, in another dimension.
'What are you?' He expressed his wonder through his mind, as through his mind he had heard the voice calling his name.
… I am the consciousness of the Rider Oromis … Formed from the energy and the memories of the Eldunarí of the Dragon Glaedr … Brought back by you own desire …
Murtagh was left awestruck looking at the apparition; an immaterial figure he apprehended, as he could discern the walls of the room through it.
… I always wanted to meet you … and in different circumstances than those we had met in the sky above Gil'ead …
Oromis' grey eyes made contact with his own penetrating his skull, entering his mind; setting aside the guilt and the anguish; filling his heart with a sense of acceptance and understanding, of love and care …
… like Nasuada's tender love, but at the same time of a different kind …
… And I always wished that I could teach you, Murtagh. Both Glaedr and I wanted to be your teachers since the day Thorn and you became Dragon and Rider …
The grey eyes turned to the bright Eldunarí that had remained still and relaxed during the last, few moments. The sense that the one hand of the apparition still remained submerged in the Dragon's heart was stronger now.
'… Ebrithil …'
… Nevertheless, we can do it now … We have many things to teach you Murtagh and Thorn … we have plenty to discuss … and we have all the time to do it …
Oromis' Dragon-marked palm reached out to Murtagh, and the gedwëy ignasia flared, sprinkling around gleams, like tendrils of molten metal.
… What do you seek for, Murtagh? …
'Forgiveness offered by you, master … Even unwillingly I was the one who took your life.'
The apparition of the Rider standing opposite him nodded deeply grieved.
… Many sorrows exist in this world; and one of the greatest is being unable to help those in pain …
Murtagh straightened himself, but he still remained kneeling on one knee. He made for the offered palm of the ancient Rider, but at the last moment he flinched. Perhaps what Oromis had just said meant that he would never be granted forgiveness? Perhaps, was the Dragon the one who was right? And he, Murtagh, would live with guilt, shame and regret for the ancient couple to the end of his long days? His numb mind dared not ask them. Deep in his core he regretted the moment he passed through this door tonight; he regretted he ever fell to his knees, begging for forgiveness that would never be granted. His pride already whispered in his ear about the big mistake he had made. But the white, the energy-made apparition opposite to him had already continued to speak to his mind.
… From all the couples of Dragons and Riders, since the beginning of their order, you two have been the only one who ever found themselves in this predicament … to be born slaves … without the ability of choice … without any guidance … alone, in the hands of a tyrant …
On hearing these words Murtagh raised his head proudly. It was something Thorn and he had discussed many a time, but their choices had already been made; and the time would never turn back …
'We could have chosen our death …'
The white-clad form nodded sympathising, offering his hand once again.
… I would have never expected you to do something I would have never done …
A sense of warmth spread towards Murtagh's side coming from the ancient master, and the younger man's hand moved steadily to the offered, silver palm of the elder. On his own palm, the mark that the new-born Dragon left once, flashed, and a powerful surge of energy showered him and he felt like he was flying. His palm locked on the other's … he was not touching something tangible, something real, but the pure energy that was revealed to him as a great power …
… A life force ... an invigorating freshness ... warmth ... friendship ... acceptance. And as the ancient voice united to that of the Dragon's Eldunarí, they sounded as one; this time more gentle in his mind.
… Rise! … Murtagh … Whatever has a beginning has an end, the same has happened to us ... Glaedr and I have lived a long life, do not grief over our death … The tyrant King is dead, and along with him our desire for revenge … You, and your Dragon are forgiven …
The powerful hand that gripped his own pulled him on his feet, and Murtagh stood steadily. The gedwëy ignasia in his palm connected with the one of the ancient master's intangible figure. Comforting feelings passed through him in the younger Rider's tired body and mind. Knowledge and power of a thousand years opened in front of Murtagh; a hope for a better future, thousands expectations, and confidence in his ability to help to a better world, a better tomorrow.
As the white light lost its brightness little by little, the apparition faded as well. The only light remained reflected on the cavernous walls was the soft, golden light of the Dragon's heart. The Eldunarí itself relaxed in its carved, moonstone case.
Was it Murtagh's idea, or he felt stronger now? The sense of relief remained, as if a burden was lifted off him; a burden that had oppressed his chest for so many years. For the first time he would face tomorrow feeling so much more confident. As he walked outside the room, courage, optimism and determination followed his steps.
'Ebrithil …' he whispered, and a happy smile bloomed on his lips. He felt his heart warmer, lighter and free. He had received forgiveness.
The End.
A/N : Thank you for reading this story.