-1[A/N: thank you so much those of you who reviewed!!! You absolutely made my day! -beams-

A few small corrections to make:

1. I've rerated as 'M' just because I guess slash should come under M anyway, plus I just realised that I only ever read fics in the M section, so maybe it'll get read more if it's in the right place.

2. Readjustment to ages: Tornac should be around 28-ish, Murtagh still around 23.

Thanks, hope you enjoy -hides nervously-

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Chapter 3: Brooms and Friendships

Murtagh lay awake, alone, watching the patterns of light change across the ceiling, as all around him the world slept. Murtagh never had been one for sleep. The dark, the silence, it only fed his already over-active mind, keeping him awake until he could finally manage to clear it - usually in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes the lack of sleep would be so bad that Murtagh simply would get up, pull on his shirt, and wonder the silent palace by himself, a dark ghost haunting the shadows on a moonlit mission for dreams that refused to come - all as if this were the perfectly normal thing to do. He would wile away hours sitting watching the stars move across the sky, hours pondering on questions he never quite managed to solve. Dead hours that he could never remember later, no matter how hard he tried to recall them.

Sighing, he reached for where he had abandoned the book, lying with its spine open, and stared at it uninterestedly. He was at a loss as to why Galbatorix was so keen for him to read this particular one - and he was certainly keen. At last count, Murtagh owned a rather impressive total of six of the same volume (making a total of seven including the one he had disposed of out of the window); all 'gifts' from the man who was eager for him to read it. The seemingly endless drone of scrawled writing, tightly packed onto the pages so that it made his eyes hurt to read it, told him nothing of notable value or interest. Dragons, riders, small excited scribed notes on magic - what use were they to him? Old stories, worthless and twisted accounts of something that had no relevance to him. Tales of beasts roaming the skies, carrying their riders - it could have been excited if it didn't sicken him to know his father had helped to murder so many of them… or was the little wrenching in his stomach really pride?

Murtagh contented himself with staring wearily at the carefully drawn illustrations, trying to imagine one of these dragons, these enormous dragons… trying to imagine one of them prowling the skies outside his closed shutters. More than once before he had been unable to sleep before he had opened them the slightest crack just to assure himself. There was never anything there. Never any magnificent wings silhouetted across the moon. Never any darkly mournful roar as it soared. Nothing. But, safe at the back of his mind, Murtagh always entertained a personal hope that there would be dragons once again. Even if he was not to have one himself, to be able to see with his own eyes one of the legendary things would be enough to give him a new belief in life.

He looked at the picture taking over most of the parchment-like page. They must have been truly beautiful, dragons. He was too young to remember anything of them other than slight uncertain memories of seeing his father riding off into the sky. Maybe if Murtagh had known that he would never come back, he would have tried to get a better look at the dark beast that he was riding… but as it was, he had been far too young to know anything of the way that riders had been hunted until they all became the death of each other. Too young to know to be afraid of his father, too young to comprehend the tempestuous rage of politics and emotions surrounding him. Too young to know that he was the only child of a very special race. The only child of the forsworn.

The life of a rider was a solitary one - especially for those few, the forsworn. Love? What need had they for such a fragile thing? But somehow his father had still been so attracted to it. Somehow the man who had been feared by so many had given in to a beautiful woman, somehow become so emotionally attached to her that Murtagh had come to life… Murtagh. Who, it seemed, was destined for much lesser fates than his father had been. Destined to pass life by with nothing much to show for the time he'd spent. Just a watcher, a waiter for some grander time. Dragons had, really, been before his time. And their revival would no doubt be after. He was merely a timekeeper in the middle. Nothing to do but spar, and learn, and spar some more - all this preparation for wars that were going to take place after his death, for fights he would most likely not even have a chance to take part in. Murtagh was not totally against the idea of a relatively peaceful life… but the idea was not exactly the most exciting he had ever considered.

Now dragons, on the other hand… however terrible they could be, dragons sounded so darkly amazing… the thought of coming close to one made him shiver with excitement. But it was not to be. Never to be…

Murtagh jolted awake, not even knowing at what point he had drifted into sleep. Slowly, he got to his feet, running his fingers through his dark hair idly, wondering what time it was. There was a very soft pattering on the shutters, which he put down to being rain, a distant rhythm in the cold morning light. Tiredly Murtagh rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a little unintended shiver, as he got up to let the light into his room. His face still in his hands, he flicked the latch, pushing the thick shutters open with a slight clatter as they hit into the outside wall.

He would have just continued his little morning routine as he usually did if it had not been that his eyes flickered past his fingers wearily, and at once widened in surprise. Murtagh looked out in shock, seeing that what he had thought was rain was in fact a powdery coating of snow drifting onto the world. Somehow this whole wretched kingdom looked undeniably stunning in it's white cloak. Murtagh's mind immediately raced to working out how deep the layer was. Carefully he poked at a drift residing on the window frame, and smiled to himself as he realised that, utterly tragically, it was too deep to train today. Murtagh let out a private exclamation of satisfaction. Then realised rather slowly that he had nothing else to do anyway. And then remembered that he no longer had his old trainer, but in fact was due a lesson with…

Tornac?! Murtagh's eyes fixed on a dark figure against the snow, practicing with an unmistakeably thin sword. Frowning, he watched, somewhat bemused. The man was insane to be training at this time, let alone in these conditions… but watching him was so completely entrancing that Murtagh didn't want him to stop. He watched the dark haired man whirl, spinning his sword, fighting over and over an enemy who was not even there. Nobody to spar with - not at this ridiculous hour - and so Tornac had been reduced to sparring with himself. Which was turning out to be incredibly good entertainment for the pupil watching from his window. From time to time, he stopped, brushed his long hair back behind his ears, seemed to just allow himself time to breathe… before resuming again, a violent dance of a man and his sword.

Murtagh's brown eyes flickered more than once with a strange admiration, something he himself could not even completely comprehend why he felt. Admittedly, Tornac was more than a fair swordsman, the best Murtagh had ever had the pleasure to watch by a rather long way… but then again, he was sure there were others even better. Others who would make this darkly beautiful man seem powerless, useless. So why was it that he felt a tiny pang of pride watching him spin on the snow, watching this man he had barely met whirling in the veil of fragile white flakes? Why did it feel so good to watch Tornac? Why did he suddenly not feel how cold it was outside? Why did a part of him want to run down there right now and join in training…?

Reluctantly pulling himself away from the object of his fascination, Murtagh padded across his room, wincing at the cold under his feet, to pull on his shirt and go and find something to eat before the palace became too overrun with unwanted companies and unwanted attention. But he found himself oddly distracted and shuffling towards the window to get brief glances of the man who was still training. Tugging on his jerkin, he was still trying to stare out of the window at the same time. While he was attempting to make his hair a little more presentable, his brown eyes were forever wondering to someone outside. Someone so entrancing Murtagh was at a lack of words to describe him properly.

Eventually, he forced himself to leave staring idly at the man in the snow, telling himself that if he waited any longer he would not be able to eat in peace, would be surrounded by so many curious people that it would be positively murderous. Careful to lock the door behind him - not something he normally did, but since it seemed he was sharing this part of the palace now he wanted to be sure - Murtagh descended down the stone steps, the sound of his steps echoing around him. It was bitterly cold - he shivered involuntarily. He hated this damned winter…

Tumbling into the deserted dining hall, he received the normal glances of interest from the palace servants who were busy readying it for when most people had their first meal. Murtagh, having never been one for crowds, continued to arrive an hour beforehand to wolf down some food before disappearing again until lunch would be served - when, true to form, he hurried down long before it was supposed to be served to steal some small meal and eat it by himself in the blessed privacy of his own room. Murtagh positively loathed any unnecessary conversation with the people who eyed him so sympathetically, preferring instead to retain his mystique by rarely being seen by anyone at all, save for servants and his trainer. He had not even seen Galbatorix for such blissful long years. Unfortunately, he feared that all too soon that particular little record was going to be reset, and he would once again have to meet this man his father had adored so very much. Ignorant of the glares of the kitchen servants, Murtagh started to help himself to food.

"Morning." He looked up to see the person he considered to be his best, and only friend. Annette was a strikingly attractive girl, only a little younger than he was, with even darker hair and a fiery spirit to match. Murtagh had been savagely beaten at long arguments before now by her - to his shame - but there was an undeniable bond between the two, a special link he shared with nobody else. There always had been something enthralling about the kitchen girl who, instead of scampering away from him like a frightened rabbit, had firmly stood her ground. Something fascinating about the way she had willingly offered to heal a cut he had received being a little too daring with his trainer. There was something mystifying about the way her blue eyes would sparkle with an almost feral glint when she was plotting something - which was often - and when she laughed - which was strictly reserved for the company of her friend Murtagh. Even something funny about the way they had met - when she had shouted at him and found it appropriate to deposit a pail of dirty soap suds over him. The surly servant was quite a different person, Murtagh had discovered, when taken aside to enjoy anything, even something as seemingly trivial as having a friendly conversation. Quite a charming young lady when given the chance, but an absolute devil provided with the right opportunity.

"Morning." he muttered back tiredly, not wholly in the mood for conversation, his mind still vaguely on Tornac.

"Somebody isn't very talkative this morning." she smiled, sweeping the stone floor with a battered looking broom that Murtagh highly doubted was good for anything apart from perhaps using as firewood. He watched her stab at the gloomy shadowed corners viciously, before stepping back, a mixture of triumph and disgust on her face as she eyed a clump of dust. Murtagh settled himself down onto a wooden bench at the side of the room to eat. "Cold, isn't it?" she asked conversationally, flicking the sugaring of dust around the floor idly and turning to him. Murtagh nodded absently, staring at a point on the wall blankly. She threw her long hair behind her shoulders dismissively, turning away with a slight sigh. "You really are distracted today. What would be on your mind?"

Murtagh snapped back to reality, glancing at his friend. "New trainer."

A smile broke over her face, eyes sparkling wildly, hands folding over the top of the broom. "So that's who he is! Foreign, quite attractive…" she tapped her slender fingers together thoughtfully. "I don't believe I caught his name. I haven't seen him myself you know, but I overheard some of the maids giggling about him. Quite charming I hear… with the most beautiful pair of grey eyes I was told."

Murtagh smiled, toying with his food idly. "Tornac. He's called Tornac." Such a sweetly foreign name it made him happy just to say it, just to listen to the sound it made. Just to remember what it had sounded like when it had been said by its owner. Oddly, he received a huge feeling of pride at the way Tornac was attracting so much good attention. A little shiver of thrill that ran down his spine that he could not quite identify as either pride or excitement, but was vaguely aware that it was one of them.

Annette nodded, satisfied, tickling the floor with the wirey broom bristles, repeating the name to herself as she committed it to memory, evidently already tiring of her morning duties. "He's good?"

"The best swordsman I've ever seen." Murtagh told her sincerely, imagining the rush of adrenaline from fighting him, already imagining the pair of silver eyes that had glittered with childish excitement. Imagining how it had felt to watch him as he trained alone in the snow, silently watching as the patterns of his footsteps covered the flat blankets of white covering the courtyard.

"I look forward to meeting him." she grinned. "I need to see if he is as stunning as I've heard he is"

"Oh he is!" Murtagh told her, perhaps with just a little too much vivacity, his eyes lighting up in excitement. Annette merely turned away, smiling wickedly to herself. Murtagh hurried to regain some dignity. "Wait until you see him spar. It's unlike any swordsmanship you've ever seen." He could feel himself tingeing pinker as Annette made a feeble pretence of being absorbed in cleaning the floor, hiding a smile he knew would be covering her pretty face. "You have to see. You will be amazed by him." he muttered quietly. She leaned on the wall, eyes fixed on him, a knowing and yet indecipherable smile on her face as he had thought it would be.

Yawning slightly, Murtagh ran his hand through his hair, leaving strands of it falling unruly over his eyes - but he was too tired to really care. He needed more sleep, he told himself. These snatched hours were not enough for him - in future he would have to try and force himself into sleep much earlier. Perhaps then he wouldn't be so tired, perhaps-

Wrapped up in his thoughts, Murtagh didn't at first recognise the cold, damp, dark mess of shivers. A still panting Tornac wandered into the dining hall, Annette raising an eyebrow as he deposited snow onto the floor. Ignoring her, he threw Murtagh a mournful little smile that would have melted the ice outside in mere moments, and certainly melted parts of Murtagh's heart that previously he wasn't even aware he possessed.

"Nice morning!" Tornac smiled shyly, casually brushing his hair behind his ears with one hand, slightly out of breath from his snow-shrouded training session. He made a little involuntary shiver, still smiling at his pupil. "Cold though…" he looked at Murtagh casually. "Is it a problem if I eat now?"

Murtagh shook his head slightly, staring into Tornac's terrifyingly perfect silver eyes and finding himself at a loss for words. There was a something unnaturally wonderful about his eyes. A small flash that passed through them as he was forced to look away, clearing his throat, muttering something perfectly inaudible and poking at his food. To his relief, Annette broke the silence by viciously confronting Tornac about the snow on her newly cleaned floor. Murtagh watched her as she pointed to the offending mess, glaring and snappily informing him that she had worked hard all morning to clean it. Murtagh couldn't help but feel sympathy for Tornac - who now looked uncharacteristically shy and more than a little intimidated by the ranting kitchen girl in front of him. But, to Murtagh's surprise and deep admiration, he had soon managed to gather himself together, take the broom from Annette's hands, carefully sweep away the snow, and return it to a thoroughly bemused Annette with a sweeping bow and a lupine smile, extending a hand cheerfully.

"Murtagh, you haven't introduced me to this pretty young lady." he scolded him quietly, before turning his full attention to Annette, "my name is Tornac." he told her, as always the perfect gentleman, seemingly oblivious to her wordless surprise. Finally, Annette managed to come to her senses and politely introduced herself, her cheeks blushing a light shade of rose. Murtagh supposed nobody had even told her she was 'pretty' before , let alone how beautiful she really was - strange for somebody so attractive but common for a servant. Annette shook his hand and instantly curtsied; looking confused if not more than a little thrilled - leaving a silence hanging in the air, fragile as a snowflake.

Had he forgotten how beautiful Tornac's silver eyes were? They were so enchanting he was wishing that Tornac could turn to face him just a little more so that he might get to see them clearer. How could he still be so blown away by the wonderful perfection of his trainer, how could he still forget all the words he could have used to describe him? Murtagh wished he would say something else, just so that he could hear his accent again, hear the beautiful way his pronunciation was so very different from anything else he had heard before. Tornac was still wearing his odd choice of delicately romantic lace, but had today seemingly thought it more appropriate to accent it with dark leather, all, Murtagh noted, fastidiously tailored to precisely the right cut - here was a man who was altogether more careful in his appearance than even Murtagh was.

He was snapped from his thoughts by Annette's fleeting laugh - a soft, gentle laugh - and then Tornac's unforgettable laugh, so sweetly childish as he whispered to Annette;

"I think that Murtagh has something on his mind." Annette smiled, sparkles in her blue eyes as she and Tornac watched Murtagh blink up at them stupidly. Was his embarrassment showing? He could not tell. He sincerely hoped that he was not blushing quite as much as he imagined; but from the darkly mischievous look shimmering ominously in Annette's eyes he really was.

Finding the awkward silence to be his ideal moment for making a hurried escape, Murtagh got to his feet and with a mumbled apology slipped out of the room, hoping that Tornac had not noticed his staring too much. Cursing himself mentally, Murtagh quickly retreated to the private safety of his room.