A brief one-shot about the relationship between Murtagh and Tornac. It sort of falls together with my other brief story, "Path to the Sword," but because of the time skip I decided to keep it separate. I hope you'll enjoy it~ Thank you for taking the time to read my works, I appreciate it!
A Teacher's Pride
Shouting arose near the knights' barracks and brought several people running to learn of the cause. Tornac was among them, and he had a sinking feeling in his gut.
A group of about ten young men grappled at each other, pulling hair, twisting arms, and kicking out legs. It was difficult to tell who was fighting whom, and a ring of young knights around the scuffle made it significantly more difficult to get a better view. By the time Tornac arrived, several senior knights arrived alongside him, and together they struggled to break up the fight.
Just as Tornac feared, fifteen-year-old Murtagh was in the middle of the pile, his dark brown hair wild across his head and his gray eyes blazing.
Murtagh was gripping the tunic of one of the knights, holding him steady while trying to punch him in the face. The knight resisted, jerking Murtagh's arm aside in an effort to break his hold. Both looked like madmen and were covered in sweat and bleeding. Tornac and the senior knights first shoved aside the crowd gathered to watch and then tried to haul Murtagh and his opponent apart. Two men had to hold the young knight, and Tornac caught Murtagh at the waist, hoisted him off his feet, and spun him around.
Several obscenities went flying from the mouths of both Murtagh and the young knight.
"Break it up!" shouted the senior knights.
Meanwhile, all of the spectators were hooting and hollering until their commanding officers scowled at them and made most of them scatter. Only a few remained, and they gathered around Murtagh's opponent.
"He threw the first punch!" snapped the young man who had been Murtagh's target. He wiped blood off his chin from his swollen lip. The flesh around one of his eyes was already a bright shade of purple.
"You started it!" Murtagh said and tried to attack again, but Tornac held him back and stood between them. If Murtagh tried any harder, he would have knocked Tornac to the ground.
"Go to the training grounds," Tornac commanded him, and when Murtagh tried to move past him to get in his opponent's face, he grabbed the front of his pupil's tunic and hauled him close. "Now. I will deal with you soon enough."
A few of the young knights hummed at the threat, mouths in wide grins, and nearly set Murtagh off again. Tornac twisted Murtagh's arm to keep him from throwing another punch, forcing the young man backwards before shoving him on his way. His student stared beyond him to the young knight, fury raging in his stormy eyes. Then, wiping blood from his lip, he spun on his heels and departed.
One of the young knights laughed, and several others echoed him, until their commanding officers scolded them into silence.
Tornac did not bother learning of the situation from them, for he doubted they would give an honest testimony. Instead he apologized for Murtagh's behavior and ensured the knight he struck was not severely harmed. Apparently his student had landed several blows before his victim was able to defend himself and before the rest of the young men got involved. By the time Tornac left, the knight's lip and eye had swelled considerably.
All of the knights in the scuffle were twenty years of age or older.
Tornac went to Galbatorix's private practice grounds where Murtagh daily practiced with the sword. His pupil sat on the wooden walkway that protruded from the practice hall along the edge of a broad field. Murtagh kicked at the dirt in frustration and nursed his injured lip. His eye was swollen now and brightly colored, as was his jaw.
"Well?" Tornac leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"He started it!" yelled Murtagh, and he stood so quickly that he wobbled. "They all went off about it—what should I have done!?"
"Murtagh," Tornac said in a low tone. It was one that suggested the boy quiet himself now or else.
"No! They started it and I finished it!" Murtagh shouted. "I—"
"Until you can control your anger well enough to speak with me proper," Tornac snapped, and he stepped out of the doorway and stood face to face with Murtagh. His student was shaking, and anyone else might have expected him to strike at any moment, but Tornac knew he never would. "Run the training grounds. Do not stop until I tell you to."
"He started it!" Murtagh's voice only rose.
"Murtagh," said Tornac, and he gave the boy a look. "Go."
Murtagh trembled and snarled, close to tears, and then spun around. He took off running the vast training grounds without another word. His pace was sporadic, shifting between speedy bursts and steady jogs.
Tornac sighed and went inside, fully aware that Murtagh would do exactly as he asked even if he was not there to supervise him, just as he was fully aware that Murtagh would not start a fight unless provoked. He knew his pupil better than anyone. Even so, he would not condone the boy reacting with violence. Murtagh had a temper that he needed to learn how to control.
After tending to a few other affairs and then gathering supplies, he returned to the training hall. Murtagh was still running, drenched in sweat and huffing for air, and his pace had slowed considerably. Tornac waved him back. To his surprise, Murtagh was just as angry as before, and likely the only reason his tone lowered was because he was out of breath.
"Anything else you want me to do to punish me?" he asked.
Tornac pulled a broom off the wall. He thrust it at Murtagh, who took it first with wide eyes, and then his pupil growled in the back of his throat.
"The training hall needs a thorough cleaning," explained Tornac. "Organize the shelves, sweep and mop—polish the floors if they need. You know the routine."
And certainly Murtagh did. This was one of Tornac's favorite forms of discipline. Not only was it physical, but it also required his student to focus on his surroundings, notice things that were out of place or broken and fix them. Usually by the end of an afternoon spent cleaning the facility, Murtagh was too worn to be much of a handful, and more often than not most of his anger would abate.
Starting the process was not fun, though. Murtagh gritted his teeth, hitting the end of the broom on the floor before climbing up into the hall. He muttered an obscenity that Tornac was going to let slide until another one followed.
"Watch your mouth, young man, or you will be cleaning the barracks along with those other boys," he warned, and he meant it.
Murtagh was close to tears again—from anger, not sorrow—and started cleaning in silence. Tornac watched him for a moment, waiting for some other reaction, and when he was certain his pupil would now do as he was told without defiance, he departed.
Tornac left Murtagh for several hours.
When he returned that evening, he found Murtagh sitting on the walkway overlooking the training field. The training hall was pristine, and all of the cleaning supplies had been put away. Tornac brought a bowl of chilled water and a few small towels, and these he set aside. Taking a practice sword off the wall, he approached his pupil and stood in the dirt in front of him. Murtagh did not raise his head, and from his heavy posture Tornac gleaned all of his anger had left him.
Tornac put the end of the training sword under Murtagh's chin and lifted his head. The boy looked at him with only one eye, for the other eye had swelled shut. His lip was swollen and bruised, and flecks of blood splattered his chin. Bright purple bruises covered his swollen jaw all the way down his neck and under his shirt.
Briefly Tornac wondered what the other boy looked like now.
"Are you ready to speak with me?" he asked in a stern tone.
Murtagh averted his gaze after a moment but nodded. Though Tornac doubted it was possible, the boy's shoulders sank lower than before. He withdrew the sword from Murtagh's chin. Returning to the training hall, he replaced it on the wall and took the bowl and towels onto the walkway. He sat beside Murtagh and dipped a towel in the cold water, wringing it out, and then he turned the boy's chin so he could clearly see his face.
"What a mess you are," he commented, dabbing the blood off Murtagh's face. Drenching the towel again, he placed it gently over his swollen eye and encouraged Murtagh to hold it there. "What happened?"
"The usual," Murtagh murmured with a shrug. There was little anger left in his voice, but it was obviously still eating away at him. "They insulted me, so I reacted."
"Oh?" For some reason, Tornac did not believe him. Murtagh did not lie to him, but his response was too simple. Usually, if he wanted to explain himself, he explained himself and stated his case quite intensely.
Murtagh said nothing else, and so Tornac wet a second towel and pressed it to his swollen lip. After a moment, he moved it to his jaw and then his neck. Finally he pulled Murtagh's shirt out to inspect the damage beneath and was thankful to see the bruising stopped at his collarbone. A gentle touch there assured him no bones were broken. He put the towel back on his swollen lip.
"I'm sorry," Murtagh finally said, and he lowered the towel from his eye and turned it over in his hands. Tornac removed the cloth from his lip. His pupil sighed heavy and rubbed the back of his head. "I caused trouble for you again, as I always do."
"Yes, well," Tornac began, and he dipped the towel in water again before putting it against Murtagh's swollen jaw. "You do tend to hit everything that makes you angry." Once again, Murtagh's head and shoulders sank, and he stared at the dirt. Tornac deposited the towel in the bowl and gave Murtagh's shoulder a squeeze. "You cannot control how others will perceive you or treat you. You can, however, control how you respond to them. Even in anger you can respond more wisely than this. What has this earned you?"
"I felt better," countered Murtagh, his brow furrowed. Tornac pressed the bruise over his collarbone and made him flinch.
"Do you now?" he asked, and his pupil looked at him rather pathetically. Tornac crossed his arms. "And do you feel the situation has been resolved?" Murtagh did not answer. Tornac pressed further and asked, "Does the young man you fought have a different opinion of you? Have you been vindicated in his eyes, or in anyone else's for that matter?" Finally, slowly, Murtagh shook his head and frowned at the towel in his hands. "If you want others to perceive you differently, you must act above reproach."
"You know I do," Murtagh grumbled, and now he sounded like a tired child having a bad day. Weary and miserable, he said, "You know I avoid trouble, but it always seems to find me. When people like that say things to me, I can't ignore it."
"Learn how," said Tornac.
"It is not that simple." Murtagh reached over Tornac and put the towel in the bowl. Staring once again at the dirt, he said, "If I do not fight for myself, no one will fight for me at all. None of those knights stood up for me, you know."
"Walk away and do not engage them," Tornac suggested. What Murtagh said was true, and certain people went out of their way to give him a hard time, but there were better solutions than a fist fight. "Many times they instigate only because you react."
"I will just stay in my room for the remainder of my life, as it seems an easier solution," muttered Murtagh.
"Oh, so overdramatic," chuckled Tornac, and he rubbed the back of Murtagh's head. Standing, he took the bowl and towels inside the hall. "At the very least, the servants appreciate your outbursts. Every time you clean, you save them hours of work."
Murtagh groaned and sprawled on the walkway, stretching his arms out.
"Go get washed up," Tornac told him. "You and I will have a late dinner."
It took a while, and Murtagh heaved a sigh, but then he complied.
Several days later, Tornac received a surprise visit from the commanding officer of the knight Murtagh fought with. He had been preparing weapons for his next lesson when the man arrived at the training grounds. They exchanged pleasantries and discussed the happenings in the Empire as of late.
"Truthfully, I wanted to apologize for what my subordinate said the other day," said the commanding officer, his eyes flitting across the field.
Tornac frowned. "What he said?"
"Yes," said the officer. "He finally admitted to me what happened. When he told me that the whole lot of them were suggesting that you were a traitor using Morzan's son to reach the king, even I was appalled. Rumors like that are dangerous."
Tornac set a sword back on the rack without remembering why he picked it up.
"Anyway, I'm sure Morzan's son told you everything," continued the officer, "but I wanted to apologize. I will make sure those fools are properly dealt with."
"Thank you," Tornac said, and the officer left.
Forgetting his preparations, Tornac stepped into the doorway and stared out at the training field while he processed his thoughts. Now he at least understood why Murtagh did not go into a defensive rant—he had never been the target at all, he was defending Tornac's honor. Furthermore, when Tornac intervened, he likely added fuel to the fire by suggesting he would deal with Murtagh personally.
From anyone's perspective, especially to those who were looking for it, Tornac had easy access to Galbatorix by way of Murtagh. His unique relationship with Murtagh put him in a strangely powerful position, and if he requested to see the king, he would be given an audience without fail. The king was the least of Tornac's concerns, though, and he never dreamed of using Murtagh to reach him for good or bad.
It was a strange revelation. People saw Murtagh negatively, and now they expanded that hostility towards those around him as well. If someone dared to treat Murtagh well, then surely they were up to no good. What an unfortunate lot humans were.
Tornac turned when Murtagh entered.
As soon as Murtagh closed the door, he started chattering about his previous lesson in archery and how he could hit a moving target with his eyes blindfolded—probably an exaggeration—and how he shot his instructor's arrow out of midair—probably the truth. Then he went on about a book he had read about the golden age of dragons and the intricacies of magic that he thought would be interesting to study. After he rambled for five minutes, he frowned at Tornac.
"Are you all right?"
Tornac smiled. No, he would never use Murtagh for his own gain. He loved this boy too much to ever think of betraying him like that. As pride welled up in his chest, he said, "No. I am quite well, actually."
Crossing the room, he gripped Murtagh's shoulder and squeezed, and then he tipped the boy's head and looked at the bruises that still discolored his face and neck. They were bruises Murtagh had received for him. He could not bring himself to discuss the subject again, for the last thing he wanted to do was encourage his pupil to pick fights for his sake, but somehow it still pleased him. When Murtagh started to tip his head, Tornac tightly gripped his chin and squeezed his face, forcing eye contact.
"You had better not get into the habit of lying to me," Tornac warned him, and then he released him and went to take a sword off the rack.
Murtagh rubbed his chin ruefully and then grumbled, "Well I was not completely blindfolded, but my eye still hurts and that is close enough."
Tornac kept his back turned and stifled a laugh. He waited until he could stop smiling before facing his pupil again, and he passed Murtagh a sword. "Let us see if you can handle a sword blindfolded as well, shall we?"
"With ease," Murtagh declared, and he slipped back onto the field and bounced on his feet. "I will best you in a matter of seconds!"
Arrogant little brat. Tornac took a sword after his student, and it took approximately thirty seconds for him to disarm Murtagh and put him in the dirt. "Hm." For good measure, he helped Murtagh up and then did it again in twenty seconds.
Overwhelming pride stirred in Tornac for Murtagh, but he kept it to himself. Apparently Murtagh had more than enough pride of his own.