Story Title: Innocence
Story Author: Eärillë
Chapter Summary: Murtagh was a big brother for that wide-eyed, brown-eyed boy before it was ever a fact, without even knowing what the boy's name was. But indeed on the face of honest innocence, reason and caution would flee, especially for a bitter heart that longed for open warmth.
Chapter Rating: G
Chapter Warnings: none
Chapter Genres: Character Study, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Spiritual, Stream-of-Consciousness, Vignette
Chapter Characters: Eragon II, Murtagh, Saphira II
Chapter Point of View: First-person limited: Murtagh
Chapter Word Count: 716 in MS Word 2003
Chapter Notes: The scene and underlined quotations are taken from Eragon, the first book of The Inheritance Cycle, from the chapter titled "Murtagh." Murtagh's bearing and reaction during the one-sided introduction always fascinates me. I also find it odd that for such a cautious man who is also on the run, he would readily give his name to Eragon without any apparent hesitation. Plus, I have always been … a little bit incredulous that such a proud man would stoop to being a "pack-horse" and shield to Eragon, even if the said person was a Dragon Rider, and would still try to protect him later although they stood on opposite sides. So I tried to formulate why he would react and behave that way. I hope you'll like it, although there's no action in it. (I warned you, it's a character study.)
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1. Innocence
I have never thought that meeting a Dragon Rider could be like this. Of course, my only examples were Galbatorix and Father, and they were never good examples even as I took them as such. But now …
The dragon is certainly fearsome, beautiful and noble-looking, like everybody has always said or whispered to me or around me about those creatures.
But the boy who has just claimed unspokenly that he is her Rider …
People said Dragon Riders of old wore fine clothes and finer armour.
The boy wears tattared farmer clothes and no armour whatsoever.
People said Dragon Riders of old were adept at magic, adept at fighting skills, powerful and nearly invinsible.
The boy looks quite hesitant, vulnerable and weaponless, and he and his dragon have just lost to a pair of Ra'zac rather easily.
People said that Dragon Riders of old looked majestic and kindly-impassive, talked eloquently, and behaved distantly.
The boy looks like a peasant, behaves like a peasant, and talks like a peasant. He wears his thoughts and emotions on his sleeve, and seems to approach everything with wonder and openness.
But somehow, I like this version of a Dragon Rider more than those in the stories. It presents an almost … ideal image, though rather odd.
And the boy's face …
His nose is my mother's. His cheeks are hers. His built is hers. His gaze is too much like hers. His hair is like hers as well.
Who is he?
Did she leave me a younger brother? – No, she would have told me or left me a clue, or I would have known when she embraced me in the rare times we could be together.
Did she have a relative unknown to me who bore a son? – A possibility.
Is the boy a completely-unrelated stranger that just somehow bears some inheritance of my mother? – Most likely.
But it … hurts. I would rather not admit it even to myself, but it does hurt: to know that a complete stranger, a common passer-by, even though he is a Dragon Rider, could so easily mimic her look and bearing, the legacy that I have been yearning to get but only have in small measures.
And those eyes, wide and suspicious but so open and hesitant …
It would be quite easy for me to invision him as the sibling that I never have, to help him and trust him and accompany him and think that I am protecting my younger brother.
But is it wise?
It would be quite heartening if I would have a mission, a hope to cling on to, beyond just "run away from the palace and search for a possible safe place." It would warm my heart immensely, if I were to open myself again to another person, after that damned knife-throwing, back-stabbing soldier killed Tornac.
But is it possible?
But the boy looks so open, so vulnerable, so honest, so confused.
So innocent.
"Who are you?" he is asking.
So uncertain, so … weak, so tired of being suspicious, unaccustomed to how cruel the world is.
No, I do not need guessworks. I do not need fantacies, dreams, reasons, motives.
He has won me over completely to him without realising it, without knowing how much power he has over me, without understanding how hard others far more richer, far more powerful, far more dignified and eloquent have tried to do the same throughout the bitter years of my life with little success.
"Murtagh," I say softly, to him and to myself. I barely manage to retain my bearing.
I have never given my name to a complete stranger before this.
And it is quite frightening that I know I will do almost everything for him, far beyond giving him my identity.
But it is indeed heartening, somehow, that I will finally be useful, even if I will be just a shield against misfortune for this boy.
This innocent boy.
Because I wish him to stay like this: open and honest and innocent. And I will do almost anything to keep it this way.
Because then he will show me, and show this harsh world perhaps, that not everything has gone bad.
Not everything is tainted and evil and cruel and cold.
Because something stays innocent.