"What a long time life takes!" Clarice said at last. "Sometimes I hardly think it's worth encroaching on."—Gormenghast, Mervyn Peake
Well, it wasn't as if it were a complete surprise.
Murtagh stared glumly up at the yellow brick façade of the school building, one hand clutching the strap of his backpack as if for dear life. A few steps ahead of him, Marian was striding confidently up the stairs, Eragon just ahead of her. Why Saphira was allowed to ride a bicycle to school and Eragon was not was something that Murtagh had yet to figure out, but doing so was not high on his list of priorities at the moment.
The junior high was an ugly yellow building, absurdly out of place among the gorgeous suburbia greenery. Blocky black letters on the front of the building proclaimed Roosevelt Junior High School. It was just a stone's throw away from the senior high, which was creatively named Roosevelt Senior High School and twice as ugly.
But hell. Even if it was a boarding school for rich brats, it still was a school. Murtagh's own personal hell on earth. School had been fucked up even when he was a kid, and it hadn't gotten better as he'd gotten older. Even before the Incident with Morzan, Murtagh had never been the kind of kid that teachers adored, the kind with Bright Futures and College Scholarships ahead of them. Constant moving didn't help—the longest he'd stayed in any school was one year when he was eight years old. After that, his education had been splintered into a thousand tiny shards—a few months at one school before his foster parents of the season kicked him out, and off he'd move to another district.
At sixteen, he would be repeating ninth grade for the second time. And (what a wonderful coincidence, that) he would be in the same grade as Eragon and Saphira. Murtagh groaned a little, imagining the smile that would surely appear on Blondie's perfect lips upon hearing that her cousin was not only socially retarded, but an academic idiot to boot.
Hell. He could read and write, knew that the United States was sandwiched between Mexico and Canada, that George Washington was the very first president and the git chopped down a stupid cherry tree when he was six or something and never told a lie, blah blah blah. And so what? Honestly, who gave a shit?
"Murtagh!"
Murtagh stared sullenly at Marian as she beckoned him up the steps. Eragon had already disappeared through the doors; it was Murtagh's turn now. With a dull, martyred sigh he followed, grateful for Thorn's comforting presence in his backpack. He always brought Thorn to school, stowing him in his locker until the end of the day. Even with the threat of torturous teasing should Thorn be discovered, the presence of the doll made him feel safer, somehow.
It certainly looked like he needed the support, anyway. Marian seemed to know the secretary at the office, the two of them babbling away in high-pitched tones of voice Murtagh would normally reserve for talking to dogs. As far as he could tell, their conversation was mostly about Eragon—something about "remedial" and "special" and "individual."
Murtagh managed a thin smirk. It appeared that he wasn't the only one with a shitty academic record, and Eragon didn't even have a good excuse. Murtagh jammed his hands into his pockets and waited impatiently as the conversation wound up and down and around, boring him to death. "Marian," he said after about five minutes.
"Yes, dear?" Marian said, sandwiching the words neatly in between "oh, but that's no problem" and "Wait just one second, Mrs. Geller."
I'm not your dear, Murtagh thought automatically, but he didn't say it out loud. He settled for a surly, "What's going on?"
He saw Marian and the secretary exchange a Look. Murtagh had seen so many Looks like that in his life that he knew what it meant by heart—oh no, what are we going to do about him… And all too soon that would become, Hell, let's make him someone else's problem instead…
"You're Murtagh Morzansson, right?" Mrs. Geller said, her voice suddenly sharpening to a crisp alto. "In ninth grade?"
No fuck, my school record is right there in front of you. "Yeah."
"Ninth graders are required to take five courses: English, civics, science, mathematics, health and physical education. The rest are electives that you can choose—you have to pick at least two. That'll leave you five periods a week for study hall." Mrs. Geller stared intently at him over the black frames of her glasses; Murtagh returned the look darkly. "I'll print out a class schedule for you, but you'll need to choose your electives first."
"Do I have to start today?" Murtagh grumbled. "I just came yesterday."
Mrs. Geller exchanged a look with Marian, who said hastily, "Well, dear, it's best to get you acclimatized as soon as possible." She hesitated. "If you don't feel well, though, I'm sure we can wait till next Monday…"
Murtagh weighed his options. As far as he knew, both Marian and Garrow had to work, which meant that he should have the house to himself. Then again, he didn't actually know anything—what if Garrow was, what did they call it, self-employed? Murtagh would be avoiding the asshole and tiptoeing on eggshells all day.
He sighed. Might as well face the inevitable sooner rather than later.
"I'm fine," he said, turning the words into a surly growl.
Another Look. This one said, Problem child—be careful! Do not touch! "All right, then," Mrs. Geller said briskly, sliding a list of classes across the counter. "Two of them. Go ahead."
Murtagh stared at the list. There were foreign languages, out for obvious reasons—he was getting murdered in plain old English already. There were computer classes, arts and humanities, drama and English…Murtagh ran his finger down the list of classes, wrinkling his nose at some of the names. He picked two of them at random—Stained Glass and Drawing/Cartooning. They sounded easy as hell; wasn't art all about free expression? So basically, whatever he drew would be Art, even if it was just a circle or something.
Armed with a ragged backpack, his class schedule and ten dollars for lunch money, Murtagh set out grimly to begin his school day. To his surprise, he managed to find and open his locker after only one try—it was a new one, too, shiny and smelling faintly of polish. He took it as a good sign that the day would not be entirely fucked up.
"You be careful," he whispered furtively to the hidden Thorn as he set his backpack carefully on the floor of the locker. "I'll be back soon, promise."
He closed the door carefully and sighed, banging his head gently against the polished metal. No use in putting it off any further, then.
To his disappointment, he was only slightly late for first period—English. The teacher was a woman who looked about forty, slightly plump, with frizzy red hair that stuck out in all directions. "Mr. Morzansson," she said in a surprisingly deep voice.
"Uh," Murtagh muttered.
"Take a seat. You have your books?"
Murtagh shook his head and glumly accepted the books she handed him (Carl-Menson Vocabulary: Intermediate Stage, The Canterbury Tales and The Basics of English), weighing them in his arms. They were quite hefty, a testimony to the spirit of academia—if the book is thick, then it must be really good. Not to mention really backbreaking for the poor sods who had to lug them around all day. He slouched his way to the back row and sat down. His fellow back-row inmates looked at him with dully sympathetic expressions, mirroring his feelings perfectly: welcome to hell.
It was only the second week of the second semester, but Murtagh was shocked to find how quickly Mrs. Dunbar—the English teacher—zipped through the book. He paged through the book rebelliously, wondering why they were going so fast. Hell, this was Remedial English, not Advanced! A report, two pages single-spaced, to be turned in on Monday? What the fuck, spelling tests and comprehension worksheets every week? And wasn't Canterbury a kind of chocolate?
That was first period, and the rest of the morning wasn't much better. To his shock and horror, Drawing/Cartooning was not an easy pass; the teacher, Mr. Vinton, worshipped at the foot of Art and did not permit vandals like Murtagh to draw smiley faces all over the sacred altar. No, cartooning was not the simple gimmick amateurs thought it to be; it was a dedication, a legacy, a skill that took several universes to perfect—
His third period was study hall, giving him a chance to sit down and have a good sulk. After weighing his options, he decided to head to the library—a safe haven, at least from his childhood memories. He managed to locate the library after a few false turns, whence he came upon a most unpleasant surprise—Saphira, lounging casually on one of the comfy library sofas. She was chatting with a tall Asian girl who looked every bit as gorgeous as she was—waist-length black hair, huge emerald eyes, a curvy figure and inherent sexiness. No doubt her name was Raven and the head of the cheerleading team (with Blondie as co-captain, of course). Murtagh looked determinedly past them, searching for a place to hide.
"Saphira!"
Murtagh slid to one side as the boyfriend from the night before swaggered confidently into the library, earning dirty looks from the librarian and library aides. Saphira gave a very loud squeal when she saw him. As Mr. America sat down on the sofa, the two of them proceeded to engage in a nauseating bout of tonsil-sucking that beat even last night's display. Raven examined her nails, looking utterly bored.
"Shruikan," Saphira said breathlessly when they parted for air, "Are we still on for tonight?"
"Sure," Shruikan said, sprawling lazily on the couch. "You'll want to meet Galbatorix, believe me. He's driving his convertible all the way from the big city."
"Your cousin better be as hot as you claim, or I'll kill you for wasting my time," Raven murmured.
Shruikan gave an expansive shrug. "Hey, I don't swing that way. But hell knows that the ladies drool after him all the time at the college." He punched Raven on the shoulder. "Lighten up, Arya."
"Hey, you said that other guy, whatshisname, would be hot," Raven—Arya—pouted. "Turns out that he was some ugly skank who was just out for a couple cheap thrills. How do I know you're not lying again?"
Murtagh peered out from behind a bookshelf, noting with interest the spark of jealousy in Saphira's eyes as Shruikan leaned close to whisper in Arya's ear. He didn't quite catch what Shruikan said, but whatever it was set Arya off into convulsions of laughter.
"Miss Drottingnu!"
A librarian, evidently fed up with the noise, strode over to berate the three of them about the lack of respect in regards to the library, the Right Thing for the Right Time, and the disgraceful state of adolescence in general. Saphira and Arya looked the very picture of innocence, while Shruikan turned on charm that sent a soft but insistent twinge into Murtagh's lower body. "Well, I'm so sorry, ma'am," Shruikan said, honey dripping from his every word. "We didn't mean to be so loud."
His voice was a low drawl that could lure birds from their nests. The librarian, a healthy, robust woman who looked about thirty, was no match for it, crumbling in the face of sheer charisma. "All right, but keep it down," she said after a dazed moment.
Murtagh spent the rest of the period skulking behind the bookshelves as Arya, Saphira and Shruikan continued to talk in loud voices, enumerating their (undoubtedly many) conquests and Fascinating Cousin Galbatorix. From what Murtagh could hear (or indeed, the entire library), Galbatorix was Shruikan's older cousin, already a junior in a nearby college. He was, a) sexy, b) rich, c) cool, and d) the greatest thing the world had seen since the invention of sliced cheese.
He was grateful when the bell finally rang to sound the end of the class. Murtagh waited until the trio (still chatting loudly) had exited the library before he skulked out, checking his class schedule along the way. 201, Mr. Duffee. Algebra.
Math. His favorite damn subject in the whole world—not!
Mr. Duffee, his math teacher, was a soft-spoken man with short-cropped hair and glasses. He greeted Murtagh with a nod, directing him to a seat in the front of the class, piling him with yet another tome of knowledge that made Murtagh's spine shiver in dread. "Algebra," Murtagh muttered under his breath as he paged through the textbook.
Slope. Exponents. Quadratics. Factoring, radicals, rational functions…who gave a shit about this stuff, honestly? Except for math nerds who had nothing to do with their pathetic lives. Could it get any worse—
"Ah, Eragon."
Oh, fuck.
Murtagh turned around with a growing sense of dread. Sure enough, it was Eragon framed in the doorway, walking in with a big smile on his face. Eragon Palancar, his nitwit cousin—lesser of two evils, sure, but still one of the last people he wanted to see. "Hi, Mr. Duffee," Eragon said, sliding into the seat next to Murtagh and bending his head to pull down his book even as Murtagh stared at him hostilely. "I didn't get problem nine—oh, hi, Murtagh."
Eragon smiled at him, though it wavered under Murtagh's glare. "Hi," Eragon repeated, sounding much more uncertain. When Murtagh's flat stare failed to cease, Eragon quickly averted his eyes. "Um," he said, as a cold silence followed.
"You two know each other, Eragon?" Mr. Duffee inquired, an uncapped whiteboard marker held gracefully between two fingers.
"Yeah," Eragon said slowly. "Cousins. We're, um, cousins. He's from out of town."
"Ah, Mr. Morzansson—Murtagh, is it?" Mr. Duffee said, checking the attendance list on his desk. "Will you be staying long here in Carvahall, then?"
Murtagh shrugged. As Mr. Duffee continued to watch him steadily, waiting for an answer, Murtagh said grudgingly, "Don't know."
"Well, we'll have to make the most of what time we have, then. Class, settle down," he said as the bell rang, raising his voice to the rest of the students. "I trust you all did the assigned problems, yes, that includes you, Jason. Let's test your knowledge with a little pop quiz…"
The class released a unanimous groan. Mr. Duffee soldiered on heroically and handed out the quiz sheets; Murtagh took his with a dull sense of dread. Quadratics. It might as well be ancient Egyptian, really. He turned his pencil over and over in his fingers, finally making up some complete illogical bullshit, basically reinventing Algebra from scratch. When he turned his paper in, it was with a derogatory sense of accomplishment at having filled the entire test sheet with writing, even if it was just with random scribbles.
He studiously ignored Eragon for the rest of the period and fled as soon as the bell rang. Lunch was not an inviting prospect—for some reason, he wasn't really that hungry. Anyway, he didn't relish having any more opportunities to bump into his darling cousins (especially Saphira and her little entourage).
It was risky, but he took his backpack out from his locker, opening the zipper just enough so that he could rub Thorn's head. Just touching the threadbare ears made him feel better, letting the tension that had been filling him all day drain out slowly.
"Four down, four to go," he whispered softly.
"And the rest of the second semester, don't forget," Thorn said back, nuzzling his cheek.
"Fuck, don't remind me," Murtagh grumbled. He rezipped his backpack and swung it onto his shoulder, kicking his locker closed. "Let's look for somewhere quiet."
"Don't you want to have lunch?" Thorn asked, his nose pressing against Murtagh's back.
"Not hungry," Murtagh shrugged. "Besides, I might as well save the ten bucks Marian gave me just in case of emergencies, you know?"
Thorn didn't answer, because he did know. With some foster parents, you just had to be ready to flee at a moment's notice—even if it was just to the local park. A kid had to have some space; otherwise he'd go nuts and end up shooting people or something. And despite his cynical view that the world might be better off for a couple hydrogen bombs (or maybe just a shotgun), Murtagh wasn't about to go about dusting people personally.
Well. Not yet. Murtagh snorted, jamming his hands into his pockets. Maybe in two years at eighteen, when he was all nice and shiny and officially Independent, he'd think about it.
Roosevelt Junior High School did not have a yard where he could catch a discreet smoke. After a bit of deliberation, Murtagh went back to the library, first checking to make sure that Blondie and her cohorts were not inside. Thankfully, the library was almost deserted, with a lone librarian stacking books on a shelf.
Murtagh settled at the most distant table he could find, placing his backpack carefully on his lap. Slowly, he unzipped the top just a tiny bit, letting Thorn's nose peek out. With a sigh, Murtagh rested his head on the table, letting Thorn press against his chest.
"What do you have this afternoon?" Thorn whispered.
"Physical Science, Stained Glass, Civics and Gym," Murtagh whispered back. He groaned, thumping his forehead against his arms. "I hate gym."
"It's the team sports that get you."
Murtagh grunted in agreement. He was a pretty good distance runner, probably a product of all the times he'd run away from whatever foster home would have him. He was a fair hand at tennis, harboring a triumphant memory at having smacked a ball straight into some sneering asshole's braces—that had been fun. But when it came to team sports like baseball or basketball, he was simply abysmal.
"Maybe the teacher will let me get away with ditching," Murtagh muttered, though not very hopefully. He had managed to ditch almost an entire semester when he was fourteen. The gym teacher, an old man who looked ready to either retire or just keel over at any moment, hadn't bothered with things like roll call. But the odds of that happening again were about nil.
"Or you could really make an effort," Thorn suggested mildly in a voice that sounded almost like reproach. Murtagh didn't bother to reply to such a stupid comment as he let his head drop onto the table again, waiting for the bell to catapult him back into hell.
The rest of the day passed in a sullen, bored crawl. Possibly the only memorable incident was the fact that he got hit in the face with a basketball; Murtagh was sure that he would be known as The-Idiot-Who-Stood-Right-Under-The-Hoop-and-Got-What-He-Deserved for the rest of his school career.
Well, at the rate this was going, his school career at good ol' Roosevelt probably wouldn't last for very long, anyway.
Marian and Eragon were waiting for him by the time he managed to grab his bag and trudge to the front door. "Murtagh!" Marian called out, waving her arms to get his attention. "We're over here!" Murtagh gave a perfunctory wave in acknowledgement and slouched his way over. At the car, he received a rather unpleasant surprise—Saphira and her best buddy Arya were already in the backseat, chatting to each other avidly. Something about hair dye or whatever.
"Murtagh, sit in the front," Marian ordered as she turned on the ignition. "Girls, buckle up back there. You too, Eragon."
"What about your bike?" Eragon asked Saphira quietly.
"Shruikan's riding it," Blondie explained as Arya let loose a peal of laughter. "We drew straws and he lost."
"Sweetheart, I want you to call me once you get to Shruikan's house, okay?" Marian said, looking at her daughter in the rearview mirror. "And remember—your bedtime's at eleven-thirty. I know tomorrow's the weekend, but you have to go to bed on time—"
"Moooom!" Saphira interrupted, making a face so exquisite that would've made Da Vinci bite his paintbrush in two.
"All right, all right, I'll stop embarrassing you in front of your friend," Marian laughed. "But remember to call me. Or better yet, I'll call you. His parents will be home, right?"
"Yes, Mom," Saphira sighed.
"Okay then. And Eragon, what time is Nasuada coming over?"
"Six," Eragon said, looking up. "Six till eight."
"No problem. What does she think about lasagna, then? You ever asked her, sweetie?"
"She likes cheese, I guess," Eragon offered awkwardly.
"Cheese it is." Marian seemed to relax once her children's various affairs had been settled, focusing on the business of driving. Murtagh crossed his arms and stared out the window, watching the scenery fly by.
"So, Murtagh, how was school?"
Eragon's voice startled him. Murtagh glanced at him, forgetting to be hostile for just a moment. "Um—fine," he said. "Boring. Mostly." He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "And why do you care?"
"Murtagh!" Marian said reprovingly.
"Just asking," Eragon said quietly, ducking his head. Murtagh felt an odd tendril of guilt twist his stomach for just a moment before he dismissed it, refocusing on the passing greenery.
Saphira and Arya continued to talk, talk, talk, and talk for the rest of the trip back—Murtagh jumped out of the car as soon as Marian parked it, his head aching from repressing a frustrated scream. Honestly, were all girls that vapid? Shruikan this, Galbatorix that—ooh, I hope he's hot, I like long hair on guys, I should repaint my nails, should I curl my hair tonight—ugh!
Marian opened the door, tossing her keys onto the kitchen counter. Saphira and Arya (still comparing different brands of eyeshadow) sprawled all over the living room couch, while Eragon busied himself with a bag of carrot sticks. Murtagh fled to his room, slamming the door behind him. Maybe he could just miraculously die here or something. Then he wouldn't have to deal with this wonderful, brilliant, homey home home family of his ever again.
"God, I hate my life," Murtagh groaned, tossing his bag onto the bed and flopping down after it.
"Hey, I thought Saphira had some valid points about the oil content of eyeshadow," Thorn said, sounding amused. "Your skin can't breathe through all that—"
"Oh, not you too," Murtagh muttered, burying his head in the pillow.
"Hey, now," Thorn chided softly. "You survived it, didn't you? Your first day at school. Nobody targeted you as the New Kid, you got by. You survived. And that's what it's all about, surviving one day at a time. It could have been a lot worse."
"Yes, Dr. Phil," Murtagh said sarcastically. He sighed, rolling over to flop one limp hand onto his backpack.
Well. Yeah. It could've been a lot worse, now that he came to think about it.
"Well, maybe," he said at last, reluctantly. "But if I hear about Galbatorix one more time I think I'll just scream, Thorn, honestly."
"Hey, he's the Hot College Cousin," Thorn laughed.
"And then there's Blondie and Raven and Shruikan, the dream team, homecoming royal couples, cheerleading captains and football heroes to boot," Murtagh added. He groaned, rubbing his eyes. "It's like they waltzed out of a book, Thorn. A goddamn fairy tale."
"Hey now. Haven't you noticed something about fairy tales? It's always the third sister, the humble goose girl, the poor swineherd that saves the day." Thorn stuck his head out from the backpack, his one button eye smiling at Murtagh. "So I wouldn't put too much stock in the princess, really."
"Gee, thanks, so I'm the swineherd?"
"Waiting by to save the day," Thorn agreed softly, nudging Murtagh's palm with his nose.
Murtagh obliged, stroking the threadbare ears with slow, lazy movements. He sighed again, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand and staring fixedly at the pattern of stars in the ceiling. Thorn wiggled closer, and Murtagh pulled him up to his chest, taking comfort from his presence.
He wasn't aware of falling asleep, but the next thing he was aware of was Marian's knock on the door and the darkness outside the window. "Murtagh. Murtagh!"
Murtagh shoved Thorn under the blankets just as Marian came in. "There you are," she said, sounding relieved. "Did you fall asleep, dear? It's been a long day, I know."
Murtagh rubbed his nose. "Time?" he muttered, figuring he could skip a few words to get the point across.
"Almost six. I called you from downstairs but you didn't answer, so I came up to check. Do you want to take a shower and head back to sleep, or go down and have dinner?"
"Dinner?" Murtagh murmured..
"Yes, dear. Lasagna. Eragon's friend Nasuada is over; you should meet her."
"Nnngh."
"Are you hungry, dear?"
"Uh. Yes."
"Then come on down. Brush your hair first," Marian directed, and then she was gone, closing the door behind her.
Murtagh rubbed his eyes with his hands and groaned under his breath. "Fuck," he said to no one in particular, glancing at the heap of blankets that covered Thorn. That had been close. He'd have to be more careful next time.
He sat up and looked over to the mirror, finger-combing his hair into some semblance of order until it no longer looked like he'd cut it with a lawnmower. He eyed himself critically, noting that even with his hair smoothed down, he still looked like a train wreck.
Well, fuck. He was hardly going to enter a beauty contest anytime soon—besides, it was just dinner. With a complete stranger. And his supposed 'family' who might as well be strangers, for all Murtagh knew.
He sighed and banished the dark thoughts from his mind, at least for now. Okay, Murtagh, he thought to himself, revving himself up. Get through this and you can rest.
With that attitude in mind, he marched downstairs as if about to face his execution. To his mild surprise amd relief, the big dining room table had only four people seated around it—Garrow, Marian, Eragon, and Nasuada, who was an African-American girl with wavy brown hair that was cropped short around her ears, like a helmet. Saphira and Arya must have gone off to Shruikan's house then, thank God. Murtagh slid into a seat next to Eragon, studiously avoiding his cousin.
"Saphira and Arya are at Shruikan's house," Marian explained as she handed him a generous helping of lasagna. Completely involuntarily, Murtagh's mouth watered as he stared down at his plate. Cheesy lasagna, tomato sauce. To a kid who'd been surviving on snack packs and candy bars for the past couple weeks, it smelled like heaven.
Murtagh waited until everybody else had started eating before he picked up his fork. Garrow started the conversation—he apparently owned a little hardware shop in the middle of the town and spent twenty minutes telling a sidesplitting story involving a toilet seat and a nail gun. Mentally, Murtagh awarded Marian the Oscar for Best Fake Laugh as the story drew to an epic conclusion.
Eragon and Nasuada started up their own conversation, leaving Murtagh free to wolf down the food. Once his plate was empty, he stood and dumped his plates in the sink, leaving the table as fast as he could. Marian opened her mouth when he reentered the living room to head up the stairs, but he ran up the stairs and slammed the door before she could say anything.
He retrieved his cigarettes from their hiding place under the bed and glanced out the window. One good thing about stealing thongs was that nobody looked very hard for the other stuff you stole. The cop had found one lighter, but the other two were safely in his possession. "All right, Thorn," he murmured under his breath. "Ready to go?"
Maybe Thorn would've given him yet another lecture on How Cigarettes Were Bad For Your Health (now with color pictures from Health class!) but Murtagh didn't give him a chance as he stuffed Thorn into his backpack and swung it onto his shoulder. He reknotted his rope from the night before and let himself out the window, this time careful not to twist his ankle. Thorn poked his nose out of the backpack as soon as they were safely on the ground, sniffing the crisp evening air.
"Yeah, yeah, stuff it," Murtagh muttered before Thorn could say a word.
"I wasn't about to say anything," Thorn said primly. "Only that somebody's going to see that rope. It's kind of obvious, you know."
"I look like I give a shit?" Murtagh snapped, but the truth was, he did give a shit. Having a great white rope made out of bedsheets hanging out your window was a dead giveaway that something was wrong. He sighed, wishing that he'd planned it out better. Now he'd have to go and knock on the door, or else find a way to climb right back up…
There was a blur of color at the window, and Murtagh tensed. He ducked behind the nearest tree, his heart pounding frantically in his ears. Not because he was afraid of getting caught, because he wasn't. He always knew this whole Happy Family thing couldn't last long anyway. No, it was…it was something else that made his palms all sweaty, his heart beat at what felt like a million times per minute. Something—well, just something, wasn't that enough?
He stayed hunched in the shadow of thre tree for a long moment, but the movement didn't happen again. Murtagh breathed a small sigh of relief and slid down against the tree, his hand fumbling into his backpack for Thorn's support.
"God," he whispered as the comforting roughness of Thorn's ears brushed his skin. "Now I just have to—"
"Have to what?"
Murtagh spun around, muffling a yelp. Eragon stood a few feet away from him, his slender figure emerging from the darkening shadows. "None of your business," Murtagh snapped.
"If you wanted to go out, you could just ask Mom and Dad," Eragon said softly. "No need to jump out of a window or anything."
"That was you? Up in my room?"
Eragon nodded.
"What the hell were you doing up there?"
Eragon flushed, suddenly looking awkward. "Nothing," he mumbled after a long moment. "I just…I just thought you might like some company. That's all. Long day of school and all that."
Murtagh studied him for a long moment—Eragon's slightly defensive pose, his hands twisting around each other, the faint blush in his cheeks. "Why are you doing this?" he said at last, sticking his hands into his pockets.
"Doing what?"
"Trying to be nice. Asking about my day. And don't think I've forgotten about yesterday—your little surprise visit and everything. What are you trying to do? What do you want?"
If possible, Eragon turned an even deeper red—on his tiredly pale complexion, it actually made him look healthier than usual. "I just thought I should get to know you," Eragon said after a moment. "I mean, we're cousins."
"Your parents didn't give a shit about me for ten years," Murtagh said, letting some of the anger he'd harbored for so long seep into his voice. "Garrow may have been my uncle, my mother's sister, but I sure don't remember him dropping by whenever Morzan beat the crap out of her. Or when Morzan drank away whatever money Mom managed to earn in her part-time job as a fucking waitress, and the two of us lived off of whatever we could find in the trash. After Morzan beat Mom to death, I was in the hospital for two fucking weeks, and your half-assed parents didn't drop by even once. For god's sake, they weren't even at the funeral—his sister, your aunt, her sister-in-law! So don't talk pretty shit to me about being cousins, because as far as I'm concerned, blood doesn't count for anything. So just—just—"
He stopped, breathing hard. Eragon stared at him with huge doe-eyes, his mouth slightly open. Murtagh gritted his teeth and turned away, slamming his hand against the rough bark of the tree. He shouldn't have said that. He so should not have said that. Even if he did—even if Marian had—Garrow had—
It was none of their business. He didn't want their pity, because that was just a step away from condescension. Once it started, it was going to morph into, "Awww, does bwaby want a widdle hanky to cwy on?" and that, that Murtagh could not take. Hate he could handle. Disgust, contempt, fine. But the nauseating, gooey, oh-so-false words that were going to spout out of Eragon's mouth, no, no, no!
"I'm—"
"Don't say you're sorry," Murtagh snapped. "Everybody says that, and it never means anything, so just shut up. Shut up. Shut up!"
He shouted the last two words, as if they could erase everything he'd just said. Eragon flinched and took a step back, bumping into the shadow behind him.
Nasuada.
Chills swept up Murtagh's body, followed by the hot rage of shame. What the fuck was she doing here? It was bad enough that Eragon had heard his outburst, but Nasuada—a girl that he didn't know, had no idea who she was, an utter, complete, total stranger—
He wanted to die. He wanted the earth to swallow him whole, for the tree's roots to swarm over him and just make him disappear. The one time, the one time he'd lost control like this and spilled his stupid sob story, the whole world just had to be standing by to hear his performance.
"Goddamn you," he spat at Eragon, hate and humiliation twisting his stomach. "You just had to bring an audience along, didn't you?"
"I—" Eragon began helplessly. Murtagh clenched his fists, wanting so badly to hit something, anything. The logical part of his mind knew that it wasn't Eragon's fault that Nasuada was there, that his cousin had been just as surprised to see her here as he was. But the fury inside him overruled that voice, screaming for him to beat the living shit out of Eragon Palancar, the sanctimonious, holier-than-thou snot who had the gall to be sorry.
"You didn't know my mother," Murtagh said, his voice shaking. "And you don't know me. And I don't want to know you or your perfect sister or your perfect family. So just leave me alone. Just—"
He clenched his teeth and looked away. Wasn't it just a night for true confessions? Too bad he left the tissues in the bathroom…
"Just leave me alone," he concluded finally. He forced his voice to be calm, to tamp down the sick hatred roiling inside of him, fighting to get out. It was the hardest thing he'd ever done in his entire life, and Murtagh was proud of how normal his voice sounded.
Eragon didn't move, and neither did Nasuada. Both of them were looking at him like he was a rabid dog that had just gotten away from its cage, like they expected him to attack them any second. Watching their expressions, Murtagh felt the hate drain away, leaving nothing but an unspeakable weariness in its place.
Look at this place. Look at this perfect house, this perfect family, these perfect friends. The worst thing that Eragon would ever face would be a D on his math test. For Saphira, a chipped nail would probably be enough to constitute the end of the world. They didn't know about digging in the trash for food, about learning how to steal just so they could eat, about defending themselves and being constantly on the guard against those who thought those in the System were their own damn playtoys.
Murtagh walked away, and they didn't bother to stop him. Although honestly, Murtagh wouldn't have stopped them had they tried. He was just so tired of it all, life and all its accompanying bullshit.
"Better start packing, Thorn," he whispered softly as he slid his backpack into his arms. No doubt Eragon would run back to Mommy and Daddy with some horrible sob story about how mean Murtagh was, and out Murtagh would go. Bad doggy, go back to the pound.
He hugged Thorn close, resting his nose against Thorn's head. The red dog didn't say anything, just hugged Murtagh back, soothing the pain that Murtagh refused to admit was there.
It was late when he started to head back—late, late, very late. Murtagh didn't have a watch, but the streets were empty and silent, the streetlamps casting eerie glows on the sidewalks.
And to make matters even better, he was lost.
Every house looked the same, and he didn't really remember what Marian and Garrow's house looked like anyway. He could hardly go knocking on every house and asking if the Palancars lived there…and even if he didn't find the house, how was he supposed to get back in? Even if Eragon hadn't tattled, Marian was sure to have discovered his disappearance.
Thank God he had Marian's ten dollars from earlier that day and a nice dinner of lasagna. It meant that he wasn't totally desperate, at least not yet. He'd lived on the streets before. It wouldn't kill him to spend a night outside, or even a few days if he had to.
He headed away from the main cluster of houses. There was a nice cluster of trees that made up some rich guy's backyard, and Murtagh settled himself down against a tree, sliding his backpack under his head for a pillow. He closed his eyes, resigning himself to a long night.
Maybe it was because he'd already slept earlier that day, but his thoughts just wouldn't settle down. Murtagh squirmed and changed position, rolling onto his side. Thorn made a soft squeak of protest as Murtagh squished him, which Murtagh shushed into silence. He stared blankly out into the trees, sighing a little. Great night to have insomnia, too. He was no tree or plant expert, but maybe it was the smell that was keeping him up, because they gave out some kind of weird odor—
Murtagh sneezed.
Okay, no way in hell was that smell coming from a tree. Not unless trees glowed red and gave off smoke…and smoke, Murtagh realized, was the odor he was smelling. Sharp and pungent and quite eye-watering, and wasn't he lucky that the wind was blowing it right towards him.
He sat up and scooped up his backpack. There were voices from the direction of the glow—some kind of fire. But who the hell would be holding a little outdoors BBQ in the middle of the night?
A tinkly laugh sounded in the air—it was quickly shushed, but Murtagh tensed. It sounded like Arya, that absurdly hyper pal of Saphira's. Weren't they supposed to be at Shruikan's house, though, meeting that awesomeamazingfabulous Galbatorix? Or had the guy ditched them or what? Did that mean Shruikan's house was somewhere nearby?
He edged in for a better look, trying not to make any noise. His feet, however, were not so considerate and stepped on a branch, snapping it was a clear, crisp crack. Murtagh froze in place, as the hum of voices abruptly stopped.
Murtagh took a deep breath. It wasn't like he had anything to lose—he would probably be thrown out tomorrow, so whatever happened tonight wasn't going to be a huge loss. He stepped out of the cover of shadows into the halo of light, examining the people around the flames with the same intensity they were scrutinizing him.
Indeed, he'd been right—there was Arya, that of the tinkly little laugh. Also Shruikan and Saphira, the latter raising a perfect eyebrow in a decidedly annoyed way. Then there was a man who was probably the promised Galbatorix—maybe not as good as sliced cheese, but pretty close. Shruikan hadn't been exaggerating about his cousin's charms.
"Murtagh." Saphira was the first to speak, her sultry voice a startled, but no less sexy, purr. "What brings you out here?"
"Murtagh?" Shruikan said lazily, running his fingers through her hair.
"My cousin," Saphira said, waving a hand dismissively. "Well?" she asked, looking back at Murtagh.
Murtagh shrugged. "Got locked out."
This produced a small round of laughter around the circle. Saphira motioned him closer with one graceful hand. "Another little sojourn out the window?" she inquired.
Murtagh gave a shrug. Tired of all the staring eyes, he pulled out his crumpled pack of cigarettes, figuring it was as good an icebreaker as any. "Want one?"
Saphira evidently hadn't been lying yesterday—she didn't take a cigarette, but Galbatorix did. This seemed to signal that Murtagh had passed some sort of test—the older man gestured to Murtagh to sit down. "So," Galbatorix said, taking a deep drag, "You coming tonight?"
"Galbatorix!" Shruikan said sharply.
"Join you in what?" Murtagh asked.
"Nothing," Saphira said, sounding exasperated. She eyed him for a long moment, then shook her head, sending silky tresses cascading down her neck, the blond locks contrasting vividly with her black tank top. "No offense, cousin, but I don't want you in on this."
Murtagh shrugged, exhaling smoke rings. "Suit yourself. I don't care about your 'this,' anyway."
Saphira raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you here?"
"Told you," Murtagh said, holding his cigarette loosely between two fingers. "Got locked out."
Saphira gave a small snort of amusement. "All right." She was quiet for a long moment. "The downstairs window doesn't lock right. You thump it on the right top corner, it swings right open." She gave him a hard look. "Now get lost."
"Saphira," Arya said, rolling onto her side, but her voice was amused.
"Thanks," Murtagh said indifferently. He had no wish to get involved in their little circle of ultra-perfect-dom or whatever they were planning that night, considering that his eviction date was tomorrow. He got up, throwing his cigarette onto their little campfire.
"Maybe another time," Shruikan suggested, giving him a suggestive look. Saphira elbowed him in the ribs, and he laughed, leaning over to give her a kiss.
It was Galbatorix's look that made Murtagh more uneasy, despite Shruikan's jibe—the older man had an unmistakable aura about him, commanding and arrogant and definitely used to getting what he wanted. Even though Galbatorix didn't say a word, Murtagh could feel the heat of his gaze as he walked away from the fire.
Murtagh shook it off, giving a small snort. Someone like Galbatorix could get anyone he wanted, and Murtagh was glad to let Galbatorix get them. He didn't need the hassle of sex right now, on top of everything else.
Two days. This had to be a new record.
-looks at number of story alerts-
Wow. I don't think I've ever had that many in a single week. Two. Whatever. O.o; Well, hope you enjoyed the chapter. And review! :)
And yes, this is a modern-day AU to Child, Child. Kudos to those who picked up on that! XD
Bouncingpurple: Ha, the thing is, if Murtagh –did- go to boot camp my protagonist will have gone poof! I'll have nothing to write about. XD
.Insanity.x: I know, Saphira's just perfect as a blond, isn't she? oooh la la. Maybe she'll dye it auburn once this story gets rolling. You know, just for something new.
Princess Fairy: Thanks. Hope you liked this chapter!
Obsidian Thunder: Well, you know, Murtagh's had a crap life, he's not going to be Mr. Sunshine after all that. I really do hate what CP did to him in Brisingr, and I'm still griping about the black hair thing. I prefer my Eragon Murtagh. –cuddles-
Mistress of Misery: Yeah, I like Saphira a lot. She's a bit OOC now (well, for AU characterization, anyway) but soon something Big will happen that will make her return to the Light (or is it Bright?) Side and stop hanging out with that nasty Shruikan. XD Arya, too. Oooh. Spooky!