Memories

By Lindsay R. Honosky

"Did you hear?"

"That boy is Morzan's son?"

"He must be a horrible little thing!"

"A real demon!"

"What of his mother?"

"The son of Morzan and the fabled 'Black Hand'? He must be a very troubled child."

"Indeed, an orphan at that."

"Who in their right mind would want to raise that. . . that beast?"

That beast. . . beast. . .

Yes, beast; that is how they addressed this poor green-eyed child of no more that four, if even that. I watched him closely for a long while, trying to understand the mindless gossip of the local nobility while His Majesty placed a white rose respectfully over the woman Selena's grave. Of course, this was all show; he was quite furious that someone as valuable as the Black Hand managed to be bested by an illness. Poor, dear Selena, having to die here in the wretched place with the title of the Black Hand, instead of what you should have been. A beautiful, kind woman who fell in love with a monster she thought a prince, used for the monster's gain, then being kept prisoner by the threat of something dire happening to a child she barely saw. I wonder even now, "Did she ever find happiness?" I hope with every fiber of my being that you did, dear Selena, and that the lowly gardener you were so fond of was your real prince.

The crowd dwindled down to nothing soon enough. The king and a few of the higher nobles remained, discussing some droll political topic that would never interest the castellan of His Majesty's castle. The boy, he remained as well, staring blankly at the fresh mound that covered his mother. No tears stained his cheeks, for how would one cry tears for the dead if they rarely knew them alive? A wet nurse and an empty castle room were his only companions in life; not even his father had shown him affection. No, that black-haired beast only showed him cruelty, the scar on his back a testament of that. A sudden swell of pity made my heart feel as though it would shatter as I thought, "And he will wear his father's face for the rest of his life." Undoubtedly the king would try to use the boy in the future for some cruel purpose; train him to be as heartless as the rest of his generals and other unsightly minions.

My fingers were digging into my palms as I whispered, "No." This boy will not suffer the same fate as his mother. This boy will not grow to be as cruel as his father.

The soft autumn leaves that had fallen to the ground crunched softly beneath my feet as I walked closer to the grave, standing in front of the small boy. He stiffened, but did not look up, as if he were afraid I would be offended by his gaze. As softly as I could, I asked, "Did you know her?"

Shocked that I had actually spoken to him, the boy managed to mumble, "Sh. . . she was my mother." And all at once, the boy began to cry. The king and his party raised their eyes for a moment, watching him. No pity showed on their elegantly painted or stately faces, only a slight disgust at a display of weakness. The king himself only smiled his wolfish half smile, as if he drew pleasure from the small boy's wailing sobs.

An anger I never knew I had erupted then, and when anger rears its head, bravery or stupidity take control of your body and mouth. I marched over to the group, bowed to the king, and asked, "Sir, I would like to raise the child."

Three nobles gasped, the other two only stared, while the king studied me for a very long while. Finally, when I thought he would say nothing, he asked, "And why do you wish this, Tornac? Surely you do not wish to burden yourself with such a, " he looked at the boy again, who was still crying, "burden."

An elderly woman who resembled that of a peacock sneered at the boy, "And he has such horrid breeding! Morzan as a father is fine enough, but that. . . that harlot! Such an unsightly creature could never hope to breed anything but bastards."

An idea hit me then, and I held back a smile, "A child of such low standing would never do in a house of higher birth, my lady. I request that I take him, so as not to sully the hands of ones such as yourselves."

The king's face became unreadable, "Morzan was a dear friend of mine; I planned to raise him myself."

Stunned silence filled the graveyard. Fear gripped my every being. Not for myself, but for that pitiful crying boy behind us. Panic threatened to take over my thoughts, making me stupid, until the boy's cry cracked through the air once more. "He is weak, Your Majesty. Let me, the leader of your guard, the protector of your castle, raise him into a warrior that would put his father's skill to shame!"

"And you are sure you can accomplish this? I have very high hopes for young Murtagh."

I bowed as low as I could without my nose touching my toes, "I do, Your Majesty."

Many things ran through my mind as to what his "high hopes" could have been, but hopefully, on some whim of the Fates, I could save the child from them. It was quite for another long moment, the boy had stopped crying. A bird chirped in the willow nearby. Galbatorix looked at me then to the boy, then back to me, "Then raise him to the best of your ability, Tornac, but remember this: when his time comes and I deem him ready, I shall take and use him as I see fit." Before I could respond, the king spun on his heel, walking briskly toward the nearest gate to the castle's left side garden.

A sigh escaped my lips, and I felt weak. I did not know of what fate the king had in store for the boy, but hopefully I could save him from it.

The boy hadn't moved, the only thing different in his appearance were the puffy red eyes and glittering paths down his cheeks from his sorrow. I knelt by him, once again watching him stiffen at my approach, once again seeing that spark of fear ignite in his eyes. I never wanted to see him like that ever again. "What is your name, boy?"

He looked as though he'd forgotten it, as if it were nothing more than a title someone addressed him by on very rare occasions. Still keeping his eyes on the grave, he stammered, "M-M-Murtagh. Murtagh," then, the look of the innocent child vanished, and I saw then and there the capability for this innocent being to become the monster his father was, "Morzanson." He said it like a curse.

Then I put my hand on his shoulder, and again he turned into that frightened boy of four.

I smiled, "Well, Murtagh, I am Tornac Son of None. You are to be my ward from now on, do you understand?"

For a while he just looked at me, as if I were some monster peering out of the cracked door of his closet. Then, ever so slowly, he shook his tiny head, dark brown hair swaying back and forth into his wide green eyes. I sighed, then laughed slightly, "Do you fear me so, boy?"

"I . . . !" He bit his lower lip, "No?"

I laughed at the question; of course he would fear me. He had no reason to trust me, no reason to trust anyone for that matter. I stood, "You'll have your answer soon enough, Murtagh. In the meantime, however, you will accompany me wherever I go, do whatever I need to be done, and listen to my every command. Understood?"

A defiant look flashed across his face and vanished just as quickly, and he meekly replied, "Yes, sir."

And that was that. This boy was no more of a beast than I was at that age. If only I had known how dear he would be to me then, maybe I would not have made the same mistake.