Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Inheritance Cycle, this is just a fanfiction.
Hi everyone, this is Catharis! First time here, so hope you go easy on me! This fic is rather short, and hopefully, sweet.
When he turned five, Murtagh received a lovely gift from his King. Galbatorix had presented the sword to him wrapped in satin cloth and with beads of pearls. His friend, Mickey the blacksmith's son-who had also turned five, got a new pair of rabbit hide boots. His father threw away his last pair-a present from Murtagh after he grew out of them.
When Murtagh asked when he would begin training, the king had laughed, and decreed he start the very next day. He met Tornac, and gained a friend. The king had inadvertently given him a teacher, an ally, but most of all, a father.
By the time he was twelve, Murtagh was old enough to know who he was, but young enough to be proud of it. On his birthday, to his horror, the king presented him with a pair of whores. They were much older than he, yet they seemed frightened, disgusted by him.
"You're the son of Morzan. Devilspawn!" She refused to service him, and was led away by one of the palace guards, kicking and screaming. The other girl stared at him, unmoving, her face betraying a tiny tremor. He turned away from her, leaving her in the richly decorated rooms, and wandered down to the stables, to Tornac.
"Did you know my father?" He asked. The man hesitated, before nodding.
That night, he sat in the dark with his friend, listening as he slowly realized that he would never be free from his father's mistakes. That day, Galbatorix gave him an identity. No more was he the fawned over pet of the king. He had a duty, a destiny- to finish what his father built, or to destroy it completely.
On his fifteenth birthday, Murtagh solemnly knelt as the king declared him a servant of the Empire, bestowing him with estates in Gil'ead, Tierm, Bellatona and Dras Leona. He had his own household, a miniature court that he could retreat to where he could feel in control of his life. An imagined freedom, though-for the king had captured him completely with his poisonous tongue and his honeyed words.
He was beginning to forget of his promise to himself to rid the name of his father. After all, following is just so much easier.
Tornac refused to follow him to his castle.
"I am needed here, my lord." He had never called Murtagh lord, before.
But that was what he was, now. In his holdings, he explored the rich vaults and the enormous library. He started learning-maths, science, literature, history, and of course, the elusive ancient language-the magic that bound the land together.
One day, in his fifteenth year, as he sat reading Harold's Epic of Dunwalda, Murtagh was interrupted by a steward (one of his many stewards). It was a situation, the man had said, eyes averted. The tanner had been seen stealing jars of medicine from the apothecary.
"It was for my brother!" The man sobbed, as he knelt in front of Murtagh, the gallows looming behind him.
"His brother, my lord, is also a convicted criminal!" The doctor hissed. Murtagh wondered what it was like to have a brother. Someone to risk death for-it seemed impossible. At one time, he might have even thought Tornac was close to fulfilling a role as a brother. But he had learned. The man was only a stable hand, a servant.
"He is my infant brother, my lord, he is but fifteen! Please, let me give him the medicine, spare him!"
Murtagh turned away.
"Have him hanged. I will tolerate no thievery in this city."
Later that night, he was ravaged with a fever that brought him to the brink of death and back in a nauseating, sweaty, lurching two weeks.
"Marsh Fever is highly unlikely at this time of year." Said the physician. "Perhaps my lord would consider a test for others in the city to ensure that the rest of populace is untouched?"
Murtagh barely had time to nod before tearing down the hall in his undergarments. I sentenced an innocent man. He thought, desperately.
"The tanner has been hanged two weeks ago, my lord." A steward told him. "His corpse still swings in the square."
When he reached the square, he found the man, purple and swollen. Around his dangling feet, there lay bundles of flowers and the sweet smell of incense. He returned, shaken to his castle, licking his wounds in private.
It was that year that he had learned of his power-and how fragile it was.
Three years later, Murtagh was summoned back to Uru'Baen by the king himself. Galbatorix gave him a mission for his eighteenth birthday, an assignment.
"This man has been found guilty of treason as a spy for the Varden. Treason to the crown, treason to the country, and treason to his race."
Looking at Tornac's severed head, Murtagh was frozen. He had no time to mourn, though, for the next day he rode to Aberon with the 20 of the Black Hand and murdered the generals of Surda in their sleep. His first taste of duty to the Empire was flushed with victory and guilt.
When he got back, Galbatorix spoke and ate with him, and he laughed, even as the blood on his tunic still had yet to dry.
He slept in his father's room, where Morzan had marked him with the dreadful scar on his back. It burned that night, as he sat in a chair, reading the journal of his mother, Selena.
Selena understood what it was like to have deadly power and yet retain a pure heart. He read as she returned from a cold blooded killer to an adoring mother. He read of her hopes for him, and vowed to avenge her regrets.
He ran away that night, stealing on a black mare, galloping into the night. Newly eighteen, the king had given him a reason-a reason to finally start his life.
To his dismay, Murtagh returns but two years later. He is twenty, a grown man, bound in chains and deposited at the king's feet. He has met Eragon and Saphira and Nasuada and Brom. His friends. He should have known it was too good to last. As he lay writhing in the dank cell, the felt only pleasure as the king examined his memories and found nothing but happiness and acceptance.
Galbatorix shared in his joyous days of roaming with Eragon and talking with Nasuada. A week later, he was moaning as his body was wracked with burns and cuts. But there was nothing else the king could do to him.
"Ah, my dear Murtagh, I think you'll be interested to know that you may see Eragon yet again."
The world fell apart around him; tearing and twisting itself back together in a glorious moment. He had a brother. Happiness bloomed in his chest, and he laughed-for Galbatorix had given him a brother.
And he laughed, even as he placed his hand on the red egg, for it was the best birthday gift the king had ever given him.
END
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