Congratulations of being in the top three reviewers...! - The Ultimate Murtagh Fan, Restrained Freedom, BrightWatcher
To others that Reviewed as well You guys are awesome and often make me blush! :D
Of course you do realize I love my flashbacks so there are quite a few...so to prevent confusion - The first part is present...the rest is flashback with moments of inner flashbacks...
(o-o) Well, that explanation pretty much confused me as well...poop...
Ok so I put some little hints at the top of some of the sections of some of the paragraphs to indicate different days - so there's less confusion. Hope it works.
I know some of you will be happy to know that most of this chapter is in Murtagh's Pov. I decided to give Nasuada's POV a break, also to make it more dramatic in the coming chapter, can't wait! Things are speeding up guys, lets get the show on the road! I'm so excited for a certain point in the story. I'm practically itching to get there...! :D
Hint: There are more physical manifestations of Murtagh's hurt in this chapter...(compared to the visions of Morzan he saw in Chapter 11). Also we see more into Elva's past, and a bit more details towards their deal.
Warning: There are some mature themes here...and some people may feel uncomfortable I don't know. Even though the story is rated M, just thought I'd warn y'all.
Summary: Murtagh's decision has repercussions...much sooner than expected.
"It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone."
― Rose Kennedy
Chapter Fourteen
The Memory of Scars, They Never Fade
(. . .Monday. . .)
It was a flash -
A bang...as his body, limp, was flung loudly, roughly against the car bonnet by intrusive hands. Blue eyes stared wide with fright, fear. And his breathing was sharp as hot air whistled roughly through his lungs bursting from his lips in short gasps. The metal of the car was cold against his face, and his stomach clenched as his heart raced in solid panic. The hands brushed roughly against him in lawful assault, and he could smell the thick stench of tobacco and hints of gunpowder linger from the opposing figure that pinned him down on the family car. And suddenly, those hands stopped, lingering by his left pocket - and a sudden dread filled him.
A pain seared through his trembling frame, as the crude hand shoved itself into his pockets, procuring a small parcel as the rest of everything else that had been safely tucked in his clothes, fell uselessly to the grimy asphalt ground.
"Huh, What do we have here?" the voice was gruff and laced in suspicion as grubby fingers rattled the parcel around in high view for a moment; narrowed eyes inspected it in the light. Murtagh, utterly dumbstruck, remained silent - he had never seen that parcel before in his life. . .
His silence seemed to irritate the officer.
"This yours, boy?!" There was a ringing echo as he suddenly screamed at the teenager with ear splitting clarity. "What kind o' drugs are these?!" He pulled him up suddenly from the car and banged him roughly against the bonnet again. Face hitting the metal with a solid rap, a sharp groan elicited from the youth. The noise only seemed to anger the man even more.
"I said, where did you get this, Rich boy?!"
Murtagh lay crumpled in the large man's grasp, too shocked – scared to say anything. The other bystanders - the mothers, housewives loitering in the busy parking lot, all stared, horrified, whispering roughly, murmuring with their voices - the harsh judgements. He could see his brother in the far distance of the supermarket's door with hazel eyes seared in open shock and horror as the cold metal bracelets clamped around Murtagh's wrists; his face still pressed roughly upon the icy bonnet. The sound was soft...merely a faint click, but it was one that echoed of a sealed fate and certain doom. He thought of Elva, and a solid white chill shot up his spine, racking through him as the officer's voice droned out in the distance. . .
'You have the right to remain silent...anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law...you have the right to an attorney..."
A sudden lull enveloped him, as mind tried to grapple with present reality as he was ushered into the police car. The officers words were mere blubbering to him... Mind was lost, dazed, but his gut clamped with solid and bitter comprehension.
. . .and he knew that this had been her doing.
-X-
(. . . Saturday Night. . .)
He had come home back to the dark of the house two nights before, somewhere in the ungodly hours where there was none awake. The manor, ghostly in appearance, had creaked in hushed voices of old wooden doors and unlatched windows rattling slowly in the hapless wind. The moonlight was a shimmery grey that stole across the shadow drenched foyer as the large oak front doors shut silently behind him. Yet the breeze slithered through, beneath the cracks, spreading its iciness across the lonely space. Murtagh stood in the scene, feet unmoving for a moment...And he really thought about what he had just done. He had come back to it all, despite all the effort, the pain, and suffering he had endured to pull himself away. It had all been for nothing...The wounds that he had thought forgotten, healed, were slowly being unraveled... reopened; and there was a residual pain that dug its way into his very core, staining his very bones in the rippling melancholy. It was that brute acceptance of the injustice that had been done to him. But there was no more blame to be thrown about...Murtagh knew and while he hated her...he now hated himself. It was he now...not Elva that had traded all oaths, all promises, all...that change, for the very life of destruction that he had abandoned. He had destroyed himself.
Fingers clutched tighter to the duffle bag as it suddenly felt heavier, as if it contained...embodied, every promise he had broken...of never again...never, never again...to Thorn...to Brom...to himself. Eyes closed as the ache tightened in his chest, and he felt as if there was some hand squeezing the life-force from his very being.
A sigh, misty white in the ice air, whipped slowly from his pink lips, and almost begrudgingly feet moved forward, trailing into the living room to head towards the staircase. The house was wrought with shadow wraiths of past imaginations lurking in the corners of each crevice. And Murtagh remembered the faces he would see in those dark spaces, of goons and ghouls and devils and...him in younger years. The thought had him clench unconsciously and he immediately shunned the now clear images that threatened to spill into consciousness. He would leave those things in dream...as had now become habit - when he would wake at midnight or even later to the sharp gasps and heaving of his own chest as he shot of nightmare, heart racing, mind clawing for reality with the burning memories of 'Morzan and that ragged sword' searing against him. Eragon had always been asleep a midst it all he had imagined as he now imagined him in such state. He was always asleep...always oblivious to the dark happenings of every wrong that had happened in the house. He envied his ignorant bliss as he laboured silently up the stairs, the filled duffle bag slung carefully around his shoulder. He slithered past the second hall, like a shadow. Catching glimpse of the family portrait perched high upon the wall, he thought of her, Nasuada, and wondered about what horrors she was enduring presently.
Murtagh had seen the look on her face, drained, and a sympathy had stirred within him. And for a moment he found himself regretful of the hurtful resolve between them. He knew that it had been her father...her face, her hollowed eyes had told him - and he felt for her, as her loss although inevitable, had come painfully sooner than expected.
He swallowed harshly, forcing the image of her out of mind and the confusing emotions it brought along with it. She was territory that would see them both hurt beyond words...but there was a nagging truth that lingered in mind that with or without Nasuada, the decision he had made this night would be the fated blow for him...for them all.
He neared the door of his own room, forcing the notion out of mind. There was an ache that crept up his frame different from the ache that seemed permanently lodged in his chest. It rigidly stirred across the expanse of his back and he clenched himself knowing the familiarity of it. He half prayed that it would go away...yet apart of him knew, like the situation with Elva - it was only the beginning.
The hall was pitch black and he had to feel his way towards the door...but this was a skill well practiced in years before and he found the familiar wood easily. Turning the knob he practically hobbled inside as the pain rippled stronger through him. There was a grunt as he leaned against the opened door a moment, cooled sweat slicked across his face and his breath hitched in his chest. The pain was crippling and he slumped fully against the door, causing the heavy wood to abruptly shut in a sharp click behind him. He held his breath as the pain stabbed in an agonizing spasm and he stood paralyzed by the mere intensity of it.
Seconds passed however, and soon enough it slowly faded to a reasonable throb. He breathed in the same moment, inhaling desperately and raggedly as if the oxygen had run out of the room. Sighing harshly, his hands falling, he dropped the duffle bag to the floor as if it were on fire. And despite being unable to see it amid the pitch black that engulfed the room, he glared at the dark space it held as if it were some unholy object in sight. Hands clenched abruptly in an array of bulging veins as the pain ripped through him again; and blue eyes were set in panic, knowing that it was all happening again...
The dark leather jacket he had worn slipped off his shoulders as he stumbled over to his bed. His shirt followed in the same slithering ungracefully to the floor. And feeling exhausted, Murtagh slumped into the soft comfort of the pillows and spreads neatly arranged on the mattress. He lay eagle-spread. Eyes stared hollowly at the ceiling as the pain sizzled hot against him. Pale hands clutched tightly to the sheets and all energy was forced to still frenzied mind to into reasonable calm. Cooled breath whistled slowly, deliberately through parted lips. His chest heaved in rhythmic thumps as if some invisible weight pressed upon him. His whole back ached...but it was the scar that draped raggedly across his back that embodied the ripping fire, that burned and stung and ached and caused him to tremble, as if in fever. Tentatively turning on his side, blue eyes met the door, and gradually lingered towards the spot where he had flung the duffle bag. His eyes were a burning blue and he felt himself swallow harshly as mind was consumed by the devil bag and what lay within it...
Mouth dry, mind racing, his body pulsed in silent agony... and there was an urge that stirred in his belly hot and strong as he gazed into the dark space...It crept like fire into his chest, mind; burning raw with ferocity. It was one that had not seized him in what had been forever, so that for years he had forgotten about it entirely. He strained himself not to...but he could feel will fading as the hot pain sizzled through him like electricity. And although mind was utterly turned from such, his body ached for it...for the relief it would bring.
"...You'll be back. I know you will."
The words were clearer than they had every been. They hit him...smashed against his cracked thoughts...
Murtagh shattered, along with all the will that had been slowly fading, disintegrating from Elva's threats.
He stumbled from the bed towards it...half crawling on the floor like a desperate man of the desert clawing for precious water. . .
There was an eerie silence, as if all those invisible eyes within the manor held their breaths and watched in the depth of dark of the bedroom as Murtagh lay outstretched on the floor... grappling towards his doom.
-X-
There had been blood.
It had been too much...It had run, poured, sprayed, flowed from the child in rivers. He had been screaming from before but now, there was nothing...the paramedics that had brought him here, said he had passed out from the blood loss. They said that he would not make the night...
They said that they had already given him two blood transfusions..
They said...that he would die.
The adult...brown eyes still wide with fresh horror, watched from the wide glass windows in the hall as the little boy, lay like a dead man upon the hospital bed. He was wrapped, precariously mummified in a cocoon of bandages, half of which were blood soaked. The doctors had managed to stop the bleeding with emergency surgery, but the bandages would have to remain untouched for a day to prevent the huge wound from reopening again. He watched...feeling nothing...nothing, but an urge...a need to save this little boy. He thought of his own child and felt his heart clench.
Hands pressed against the glass, and the memory of her was sharp...piercing. He could see her now, Selena. He could hear her voice...he remembered her lifeless, with the villain bent over her, the gun on the floor...the sharp hue of her blood stained upon his hands, his shirt...His blue eyes pierced out like icicles and he knew then that he had looked into the eyes of pure evil.
Brom swallowed harshly, eyes turning away as the words of the doctors sunk in. This little boy would die...It was bloody Thanksgiving Day...and what the hell was there to be thankful for...
Life had handed nothing but death...death and more pain.
Brom sighed, and watched and waited for this innocent soul to pass...perhaps into some measure of peace and escape the cruelty of this world. It would be mercifully best if it were so, as he knew there would be no place for him...if he lived.
-X-
(. . .Monday. . .)
It was Monday...The notion was heavy in mind as Murtagh woke that morning and milled around in the shower. He had half a mind to stay home as Elva's words hung heavily and dreadfully over him.
"I want the stuff by Monday."...Yes, he had half a mind not to show up...He wouldn't be missed much. He was sure of it...yet he feared what she would do if he did not comply exactly to her demands. Hands slipped over his face for a moment, brushing back the wet black hair that had swept over his eyes as the cold water of the shower beat down on him. The ache in the scar had simmered to a low throb, aided by what he had grappled for that Saturday night...He had awakened the Sunday morning his back raw and sore, yet it was nothing compared to the horror he had faced, as this faded ache was nothing compared to Sunday's discomfort. Mind having been eased from such encounter, what he remembered now were Elva's threats. They were crisp, clear, ringing, as if she were shouting them at him presently. He remembered her calling Nasuada the 'black whore'. He swallowed harshly at that one, eyes glowering to angry slits. Murtagh didn't know why he was so angry about it, and yet frightened at the other biting words she had spat at him...he just was.
Brom and Nasuada had not yet returned and would not be returning until Tuesday. Murtagh honestly did not mind having the house to himself. He would be lying if he said it didn't made life easier, not having those disapproving judgemental eyes of his stepfather...or those angry hurt, accusing ones of Nasuada always in sight. Sure it was easier, not having to purposely avoid her all the time, or watch her avoid him all day, ignoring his very presence as if he did not exist. Sure it was a hell lot easier...but it was so...lonely and made him realize how awkward he and his brother were together when alone.
He remembered breakfast on Sunday morning, after he had slithered in with the duffle bag in the wee hours of the dark Saturday night before. He remembered that he had found Eragon alone in the kitchen, eyes dark, with exceedingly large bags under them. Murtagh had eyed him silently from the kitchen window for a moment, before daring to murmur 'g'morning' as he walked in. . .
. . .
"Was that you...?" Murtagh looked up at him from the pancakes that he was presently devouring as he sat silently before his brother at the kitchen counter. " Were you groaning or something last night? ...I could almost swear I heard someone wailing as if in pain..." Murtagh suddenly stopped chewing, he nearly choked on his food. He looked to see Eragon's haggard face staring expectantly at him. The morning light streamed warmly through the window, tethering the atmosphere with hints of yellow sunshine.
"No...maybe the t.v. was on downstairs or something..."
And with that half assed lie, he returned to his food. Eragon looked unconvinced but said nothing. Instead he turned to stare at the house phone at the farther end of the kitchen as if it would explode before them and he would miss it if he looked away.
"How long have you been downstairs...watching that damn phone..?" Murtagh's tone had been appropriately scolding, cold almost. Eragon flinched at it...his face embodying that same worry that had etched itself into his mind when Nasuada had left the night before.
"Practically the whole night...I didn't sleep."
This shocked Murtagh, whose bright blue eyes widened for a bit, as they suddenly met those of his brother. If Eragon wasn't asleep...that meant he had heard when he had come in last night. He had heard...he had probably seen as he huddled the duffle bag up the stairs, grimacing as the pain slapped him like a boulder.
"That's..." he had paused momentarily after a phrase of silence. "...stupid."
Eragon had rolled his tired eyes at Murtagh murmuring to himself that he wouldn't 'understand'.
Murtagh had heard...It annoyed him.
"Yeah, I understand." he had said harshly. "But you're being stupid." He concluded. "The phone's not gonna ring any quicker if you stare at it...you'll just end up wasting a whole day. She's not gonna call - not for now...she's with her father." His voice had tapered out into a quiet tone, as if he were suddenly swallowed up in deep thought. Eragon seemed jolted by his words however, particularly what he had said last.
"She's with her father?" He swallowed harshly. "How do you know that...?"
"Did she tell you?!" His tone had been set in edgy demand and the younger brother had looked slightly deranged as the lack of sleep made him utterly irritable. Murtagh looked bit disturbed as he noticed that his brother had begun jittering.
"No...she's not talking to me remember." Murtagh murmured, his tone a bit subdued. "But...where else would she flying out to at such short notice?"
Reason seemed valid enough and momentarily Eragon slumped into the same calm, tired state that his brother had seen him in before. He sat back on the kitchen stool, fingers stretched across the counter. He looked terrible with the heavy bags under his eyes, his whole face looked utterly exhausted and his eyes were tinted pink in drowsiness. Momentarily he glanced back towards the phone, but his gaze did not linger. He turned back to his older brother, who had gone silent as he tackled the last of his syrup drenched pancake.
"I don't understand, you two were getting along fine, finally..." his voice trailed off as his tone was drenched in genuine curiosity.
"Why...did you hurt her though, Murtagh?"
The question had hung in the space between them...It had been too serious. Murtagh had not answered him.
. . .
"To save you and Brom in your blissful ignorance...to save myself." Murtagh murmured now, as pale fingers tinkered with the shower nobs. The water momentarily turned off. The air was cold against his water drenched body as he swung back the shower panel. He belatedly yanked a towel from the rack. Drying his hair first, he then gradually made his way down to the rest of his body. Half stepping out of the shower, he suddenly froze as he saw his nude figure in the long, full mirror in the extensive bathroom. More importantly...he froze as he saw the scar.
It was brutish, long...an extended from one end of his back to the other. It rippled along the muscles of his back and though it had faded in complexion over the years it was still notably fleshier and darker in tone than the alabaster tint that captured the rest of his skin. He swallowed harshly, staring intensely at it for few minutes well, before fingers dared to touch it. It was smooth...and had gotten relatively flat over the years. But this was a wound that had scarred him inwardly as well...one he doubted that would ever heal. In theory, the wound did not pain him. It had long been healed by his body...but there were moments...unexpected ones, where his heart would flutter, and that agony, ripping in intensity would seize him in the wound and tear through every nerve, every muscle in his back...until he trembled, begged for death. Saturday night had been the first episode in two whole years...just when he had finally thought it banished for good.
The very first time that this had happened, he had been eleven, when Brom had been out at the groceries with a ten year old Eragon, and the mail had arrived. He had seen the envelope with the 'M' etched neatly across it...and he had known then, that despite all the promises of police men, of nurses and Brom...his father had found him. And although he had hid the letter then, telling none of it, no god in heaven could have convinced him otherwise that the monster would not escape the confines of state penitentiary to come for him and murder him. . .The nightmares had begun then and soon after the visions.
This incident had been only the beginning of such horrors. There had been too many trips to the hospital...too many doctors saying they could find nothing...too many pills. The pills didn't help..and then suddenly they did help..dulling the pain for a time...and for a time - he felt nothing entirely and found himself in bliss. Until he was thirteen...and another letter showed up...and stable life being threatened to frenzied turmoil again, he had sold his soul to her then...Elva.
Murtagh sighed in memory as he observed his lithe figure, his hand retracting from the scar. The wound was large...a pain, but it was apart of him. And he had learned to cope it and live with it, rather than brood upon such hurt and have it fester within him. But nonetheless it was there, unhealed and stale...and crippling...
"Heyyy! We're gonna be late again and I have a test...Get your ass down here!" He heard Eragon's muffled tone ringing out from the hall outside his door, and the dampened sound of his footsteps as they hurriedly scampered away. Murtagh sighed, mind again consumed with the future events of the day. He swallowed harshly as he draped the towel around himself and stepped into his room. His clothes had been laid out on the bed already from before and he dragged them on momentarily.
Murtagh as usual was dressed in a flash...he could almost be described as sharp...except for his sleeves. It was the cuffs that he always had a problem with. Not only was he utterly daft at buttoning them himself, they always somehow felt stifling to him as they were fixed around his wrists. Murtagh smiled a bit at a childhood memory that came to thought - of Eragon helping him to button the cuffs of the stiff white cotton shirt that he would wear to Sunday mass- out of the memory of his mother. Well...when they actually went to Sunday mass. It was Brom who had told them that she was a devout Catholic. But as usual, over the years those efforts had faded, until they were gone completely and there was nothing left of her...save that album. It was he who was keeping her alive...the only one. It seemed to him, at moments, Eragon and his father had taken to forgetting that she had ever existed, only remembering her on special holidays, if even then.
Slipping on his shoes, he remembered the brief conversation that had passed between the same father and son, when Brom had called last night. He remembered that look of desperation that had stilled Eragon's face when he had answered the phone to discover that after practically the whole day of waiting by the phone, someone had finally called. The younger brother had been in the living room then when the phone had rung. . .
. . .
"Hello..?" Eragon's voice tinted in dared hope as he put the phone to his ear.
"hello..."
Eragon had nearly jumped out of his seat. He had clutched tighter to phone then, immediately clicking the speaker button as Murtagh had walked into the room. He momentarily placed it back unto the receiver.
"Dad..." Eragon did little to hide the anxiety that rippled through him. "How...How is Nasuada? Is everything ok? When are you coming back? Are you coming back tonight? Is Nasuada coming back as well?" The questions were more ramble than anything and Murtagh had to shake his head a little as he neared his now standing brother, tense above the phone. He refrained from commenting however, knowing that the same anxiety rippled through his silent being...And although lesser in desperation, it held equal concern.
Strangely Brom seemed unphased by the anxious demand from his son. His tone was blank, void of colour.
"We'll be staying a day longer than expected, so we won't be back until Tuesday."
"Wait, what?" Eragon looked as if someone had hit him in the face. Murtagh however remained impassive, his arms had moved to fold cooly at his chest. Eragon did not even notice that he had stalked into the room as Murtagh remained behind him, listening silently to the conversation.
"Is something wrong? Why do you have to stay longer?" His voice was jagged, dosed with concern.
There was a pause.
"We..." Brom cleared his throat a bit. " We have some things to sort out..."
And that was it...there was no other explanation; no hint to what was happening. Eragon could only groan in frustration, falling back into his seat in the same.
"Can I speak to Nasuada?" Eragon murmured belatedly, his tone subdued. Brom seemed not to hear...or rather, pretended not to.
". . ."
"Dad...is Nasuada there?" he asked again.
"No." he answered too quickly. Eragon frowned...and so did Murtagh. It was obvious that he was lying.
"No..." the father continued. "She..uh... she went to get something to eat."
". . .Dad, is everything ok?"
"I uh,...I'll keep in touch. I want the both of you at school tomorrow. I don't expect to hear about any of you being absent; it isn't vacation."
Eragon didn't reply.
"Goodbye son.."
"Good-" the phone had already clicked and the call had been cut off before he had even chance to reply. Murtagh saw the look of bitter disappointment slither across his brother's face and he felt for him. He had waited a whole day, deprived himself of needed sleep, only to have every fear, every question that had been eating away at him, unanswered and his anxiety only further intensified.
. . .
Such notion caused Murtagh to pause for a moment as he stood now, fully dressed in his own room. The situation with Nasuada worried him...and Brom's conversation with his brother only managed to quadruple it. There was something wrong...
It seemed his bloody gut was on over drive this week. It seemed there was always something wrong. It was either that or his keen sense of impending dread had gone a wry and had stopped working altogether...signalling him in moments when there was nothing to be worried about. But as Murtagh reached for the devilish duffle bag that he had left by the door, he knew deep within himself that, that was not the case. It was life that suddenly got way too fucking complicated all at once, and every bad thing imaginable seemed to be happening to them all at the same time.
"Murtagh!"
He could hear his brother's voice ringing from downstairs in impatient frustration.
"Yea! I'm coming dammit!" He rolled his eyes, as he raced out the door, and down the hall. There was a hesitance in his bones as the tottered down the stairs in hurried movement. The duffle bag swung heavy in his grasp...a constant reminder of past weakness... and future detriment. And although mind had gone half babbled denying the notion in his very core he sensed that indeed Monday would be a very bad day indeed.
-X-
She was evil. Well...was she?
Elva found herself contemplating such even more each day...and even more so this one. The dreaded hour had come, and there was no turning back now. She waited patiently by the spot she had told him to meet her and a part of her ...a tiny tiny part...did not want him to show.
The morning was an ordinary one. The sun littered weak rays across the football field behind the school and cast soft shadows against the bleachers. She clutched tighter to the small jacket she had worn that day as the cooled autumn wind whipped suddenly across the grassed space and shifted a bit on the hard seat of the benches. Elva remembered...well...remotely, when she had first met Murtagh as a child. It had been unusual circumstances...one that had drawn both their fates together; intertwined them in mutuality. Both had been dependent on the other's survival for his own. Now however...fate had them enemies in such regard...Elva needed Murtagh gone, to save herself...her mother.
The thought of such relative had her clutch tighter to the jacket again although the wind had died to a sudden absence. Another three years had been added on to her mother's sentence - for selling dope in jail. "Wrong place at the wrong time. . .I swear those guards have hawk eyes or something" her mother had told her through the plexiglass of the Varden County Prison. Her eye had been bruised - fresh welcome to new housing by fellow inmates even though the place was practically home to her.
Elva sighed, lengthy black hair whipping behind her in the soft gale. With her mother, it was always the wrong place at the wrong time. She had been in and out of prison since she was seven, and well, she had become used to living with her foster parents, only thinking about her mother whenever she happened to be randomly mentioned at some family gathering...and such occasions were rare indeed. But there had been a moment, four years ago, when all of that had changed.
. . .
It had been her twelfth birthday when the letters came for the first time, and Elva was not pleased to have to think about Murtagh on such a day. He had owed her a favour...one that she had said she could claim at any time - one that she had not yet claimed. She had always found absolute pleasure in thinking about all the devious things she could ask him to do...and he would have to do it, or the deal would be off. She never understood why someone could be so naive to give such unimaginable power just to get rid of some letters...i mean there was always the fire place or the trash can for such things. But he had told her then that he couldn't risk it...his stepfather seeing them - he would get into a rage - he had said. Elva did not particularly care, and she had never asked more about it - the mere mention of the power had already had her convinced from the moment he had asked.
The power of such had caused a slight smile again, to otherwise dampened mood of such unwelcome intrusion. That boy, although an old acquaintance always brought darkness to her otherwise untainted life of preteen excitement...and worse of all he reminded her of a life she had forgotten...in those white halls...those sponged walls...with her mother and all those babbling patients.
Her foster father, Antonio, had thrown her a bash, just like she had wanted. . .well, he always did things she wanted. It was part of the reason that she adored him so. And the foster mother had been out of sight for most of the day ...thank god. She always found reason to pick on her, whenever the preteen was around. 'Oh you're not doing that right, chica..' 'Ugh, you're terrible at it...like a complete daft. Here, Let me...' 'Do you know I've been doing/studying/practicing/dancing/ horse riding/writing a play/...gods know how many bloody activities this woman did! And she was supposedly a master in every single last one of them. It was such utter perfection that drove her mad...she wanted it...yet...a scruple of her, perhaps the last shred of her human sanity, had hated it to her very core. Yet she strove towards it...bled, killed for it. The memory of Tracy Berry's sudden and unfortunate beam accident, right before the gymnastics tournament had been etched rather thoroughly in her mind, and even more...the gold that she had then easily won in her absence. It was part of the reason why the stepmother had allowed for such expense to be made in activity other than for her own benefit. And although Elva did not particularly like the woman, she was grateful for the birthday bash.
The mansion had been lain out in an array of flowers - of pretty pink roses - powder pink in tint...her foster mother insisted on it, despite her complaints, and all her friends had been invited over. They had been coming in by the droves all decked with delicious presents that she would open soon enough, when another ring had been sung at the doorbell.
She waited for the maid to get it.
...it rang again.
The sound irked her.
...It rang again...
"Ugh, stupid maid...can't even answer the doorbell...as if she's soooo busy." She rolled her eyes and got up, deciding to herself to smack the little dunce whenever she had the chance.
Getting to the door, she opened it...to see not one of her other snooty tooty friends, laden with her birthday gifts, but rather the mail man, a batch of fresh mail in his bag.
Elva looked at him shocked for a moment, before recovering...She hadn't expected those letters to come so quickly - she had only made the deal with Murtagh the week before.
"Is this Murtagh Morzanson's residence?" the mailman was fairly polite. Before Elva found answer there was a already a sharp response from behind.
"No, sorry, wrong address..."
"Oh shut up Isabella!" Elva turned to the maid who had suddenly decided to show up minutes late to address the door. She turned back to the mail man who looked a little shaken up from such brazen behaviour from a preteen.
"Yes, this is the residence..." She stretched out her hand to receive the letter, when he suddenly shuffled inside his bag again and procured another envelope, brown in complexion.
"Is this also, the Fantismo residence...I've got a letter for Arita Fantismo.." Her eyes smiled devishly. The letter had been for her foster mother.
"Oh, that's me again...sorry." the mail man nodded politely at her, murmured a salutation and teetered off the large property. Elva tucked the letter inside he bosom intent on reading its contents when Isabella the maid gave her a side glance of remote disapproval. She glared back, her eyes razors.
"If Arita finds out about this...I'll be sure immigration would be interested to know about you're visa that's been expired for what...over six months now?"
The maid retracted almost immediately, a terrified look in her eye. She made the sign of the cross hastily, murmuring a spanish prayer against 'el demonio' as Elva slithered from her presence. The fanatic reaction only broadened that devilish gleam that had settled on the preteens sordid smirk. She soon forgot about the stupid maid however and mind turned back towards the unexpected letter. Sure enough, Arita would miss her mail...but it was Elva's turn to fuck with her after she had done so many irritating things to her for the past week. She decided to complete her devious act in the privacy of her bedroom upstairs.
There was no return address on the envelope. Elva noted that as she slumped unto her bed, creasing the beautiful lacy chiffon of her princess dress. She had slithered up the stairs unnoticed and the door had been locked behind her. She was sure that she would not be disturbed. Using a letter opener, she slit open the throat of the envelope and pried the neatly folded parchment inside. She wondered what it would be...
A secret lover, that Antonio knew nothing about? - Oh she would delight in telling him about that one.
Or maybe she was in some serious debt...would she lose her horses that she chatted on endlessly about...
Or maybe she had some incureable disease and these were confirmation test results...her mind went wild with fantasy.
Imagine her shock, when she opened the letter to see the beautiful scrawl of her estranged mother...Mary-Anne.
. . .
Why was her mother writing to her stepmother...? Elva remembered that had been the first question that had barraged through her mind, still dazed by the revelation. But the answer had been given soon enough in the contents of the letter. Apparently this had not been the first letter...her mother had written several...perhaps even hundreds...but Elva had never gotten them. Arita had told her mother that she did not wish to communicate with her, and apparently took pleasure in telling the poor incarcerated soul of how wonderful a daughter Elva was to Antonio and herself, and how she told Arita that she wished she were her real mother instead, and that she hated Mary-Anne.
Sitting on the bench, Elva remembered her anger, her hurt, and rage that had boiled within her. Her mother had been writing to her all this time...and Arita had hidden it...feeding poison to her mother, about how she never loved her anymore...and telling Elva that her mother was flat out, junkie with a man problem...that she abandoned her and she deserved an even bigger sentence than what she got - that she was a true criminal. But her mother had written
"I know that she may be still angry with me. I am still angry with myself for allowing something that seemed so small to spiral out of control...and to hurt my little cariña as well. I know that her birthday is in a few days, please bake her banana-choco muffins with raspberry icing, those are her absolute favourites. They hold special memories; and please tell them they are from her mother, who still loves and misses her very much. . ."
She had remembered...her mother had remembered her birthday. She had remembered the muffins...she called her, her 'cariña' - her dear one. Elva had bribed the family chaffeur the next day and visited the women's prison. She had seen her mother, who had explained to her that she didn't abandon her, that the court had placed her in the Fantismo's care during the duration of the sentence...that she loved her very much...and how life had been horrible in prison because she was without her. She had then proceeded to ask for a favour.
"Prison's pretty lonely in her baby, people hit on you, if you've got nothing to show...to give, to sell - you'll die." Elva's eyes were wide, she had been fresh to such experience, despite her mother's frequent trips there.
"I need you to do me a favour...Do you remember Dr. - "
. . .
"Andrews...Dr. Andrews..." she had hissed at him in a hurried tone. Murtagh seemed dazed however...He had feigned it off as the terrible flu that had been passing around, but Elva had known better, she still remembered growing up to that look that had stilled her mother's toppling figure for several years before she was arrested...and even after she had come out of prison the first time. Murtagh was high...dosed up on some medication probably forced down his throat by another doctor his stepfather had taken him to...Strangely though, he seemed finally peaceful in the light stupor. - A thing she had never seen in her years of knowing him. He looked at her, blankly for a bit...and Elva knew he wasn't really looking at her, he was looking through her.
She smacked him, brutally on the cheek. The pain seemed to sober him up a bit...she wasn't there to joke around. This was serious...her mother needed it.
"Do you remember Dr. Andrews...?" she asked again. Murtagh seemed to mill around in his mind, shoving his boot into the wet grass. The habit annoyed a little. It was obvious his frizzed out brain couldn't recall the psychiatrist who had treated him some years ago...It where they had first met when her mother had been employed as an orderly there and she had tagged along after school that day, much to the displeasure of her boss.
"Uh...Yea...yea...the blond guy with the weird nose and the funny, melon face." Murtagh seemed oddly comically blunt when under. Elva couldn't help but laugh...the doctor did have a melon shaped head.
"I'm calling in my favour...I need you to get something from his office..."
"I don't go to him any-" He saw the look in her eyes...it said everything. "You want me to steal...?" There was a bitter comprehension that had stilled mind, even in unusual state.
"Just a few things from the supply cabinet...they won't even be missed..."
"What ...are they?" Murtagh had gotten obviously uncomfortable. He looked oddly sober as they talked secretly in the kid's park near the Surdan Juniour High school where they attended, a mile away from the private, Varden High.
"Just a few pills...I'll text you the names when you're there...tonight."
"Tonight!" Murtagh looked like eyes were about to pop out of his head in fright. He looked like a deer about to run off for fear of the crackle of a bush, the click of a rifle.
Elva's eyes were stone. Her mother loved her...she had told her, that day in the prison, that "Blood is thicker than water"...and she was right. Elva had to do this for her. Her eyes singed cold.
"I don't expect you to back out of this Morzanson...We have a deal, and you said...I could call in anything as repayment. Well..." she paused, taking in the look of powerlessness on the boy's face.
". . .This is it."
. . .
Blood is thicker than water...
The words resonated with her. She had lived by them from that day...when she knew that it was only her mother that had truly cared for her. She remembered the look of utter elation when she had brought the package to her, full of Murtagh's unwilling handy work. She had done well...And had smiled up at her mother's approval. But then...Mary-Anne had asked for more.
'I need to live honey...' she had whispered. 'The girls around her, are really into this stuff, they want more...' and then she looked her with those deer eyes. 'Can you get your mom, more?' And soon enough, what had turned into a one time favour had become a regular scheme. There were more letters luckily, and Elva had found a way to milk the opportunity of Murtagh's help, by writing back to that wicked father of his, so that more letters would come, and then more favours would be owed. And soon enough the plain novelty, the guilt of such behaviour had worn off the face of the youth, she had realized and so had it with her. This was just their way of helping each other...well...until Dr. Andrew noticed the thefts and installed a new security system.
Murtagh's source...Elva's source... had run dry, and her mother squeeled as a result. Soon enough, Murtagh had to be dipping into his own medication...giving Elva his pills which she would give to her mother to snipen off for cigarettes, for food, for favours in Jail. But the doctors had noticed...his pills were finishing too fast...his prescriptions filled too often...and they had cut him off suddenly, warning his stepfather about their suspicions. And soon enough, Murtagh had to turn elsewhere...because the letters kept coming, and coming...and coming. . .and his back kept hurting...and hurting...
The memory was fresh in reflection as Elva sat quietly in the morning air. The sun had become hotter, and the cold air warmed a bit..yet still she clutched to the jacket. Hands were tucked inside its pockets where she could feel the soft plastic of the packet inside and she remembered the instructions of the strange shadow that had suddenly and unexpectedly taken hold of her life...threatening her with the safety of her mother who was still incarcerated. She knew that this was wrong...but Murtagh, no matter how long she had known him for, was not family. He would never be, and that resolve is what had held her set in mind...allowing her to even attempt such betrayal.
It seemed that her thought of him had conjured him up. She glanced over to the rear of the school where the large gym led out to the football field. She stared at his figure, walking towards her and her blood warmed a bit as she saw the duffle bag in his grasp. He had gotten it...Just as she suspected he would've. Murtagh was never one to disappoint. . .well except when he had mentioned quitting when that new girl had suddenly waltzed into his life. She frowned a bit remembering Nasuada, and how she almost ruined what they had going. In truth, Elva did learn...grow to like Murtagh, a lot, and even with their ploy of 'dating' each other as cover for their secret meetings, and unscrupulous behaviour, she had begun to develop feelings for the bastard...bumping their fake relationship to another level by embracing him...and even kissing him in public. She liked him... It was a thing that ticked her off, yet warmed her...and she knew that, that was part of the reason that there was a remote hesitance to what she was about to do to him.
She thought of her mother...after the shadow had made its threats, somehow finding her online among the maze of other Elva's out there in the world to plague her; and she thought of how she had found her in her last visit, her eye black and blue, and fresh bruises on her jaw. It had been result of the shadow's threats after it had warned her, that if she did not comply her mother would be hurt. And indeed, her mother had been. Elva had listened then, to the horrific detail of what the anonymous tormentor had wanted from her, and against will she had complied.
She stood now, as his figure neared hers. It was a few moments before Murtagh reached up the bleachers where she had been stationed. His face was stone and every emotion of utter hatred was etched into his chiseled features. Elva remained impassive, motioning for him to hand her the bag. Plopping it heavily unto the bench she zipped it open loudly and rummaged around inside. The bag was full.
"That enough for you to leave me alone forever...?" he hissed, his tone drenched in bitter hate.
". . ." Elva was silent. Hands procured one of the many small orange bottles that held dozens of round white pills. She looked at the label...
"...Zar'roc? Who the hell is that?"
"Does it matter..." he growled. He saw the look on her face, and eventually obliged. "My dog..."
Elva burst out laughing. "You're dog? You've gotten prescriptions written for your dog! Ha! Just add fraud to the long list of crimes you've committed..."
Murtagh was not amused. "The pills are in fact for the dog. I told my...vet that his knee injury's acting up again, and to order the medication in bulk, so I wouldn't have to fill so many prescriptions."
Elva looked impressed and she observed Murtagh keenly. A devious smile then slithered across her face as she noted his blank expression. "There's more to it...there's something you're not telling me. You're in deep with this vet too aren't you..."
Murtagh did not reply, he merely stared at her as if she mere vomit, or dead vermin left to fester on the floor.
"Is that it...?" he growled lowly, turning to leave.
"Wait..." her tone had gotten oddly guilty. She rested a hand on his arm and although he didn't pull away, Murtagh looked at it as if it would burn him. She paused as if in contemplation, her hands tucked inside her jacket pocket. And then she suddenly embraced him tightly. Murtagh stiffened in immediate response to the foreign gesture.
After a while, Elva eventually pulled away and she stood sobered before him, a strange dampened look on her face.
"Thank you..." she murmured. "...for everything. And..." she paused, mustering up the words as her hand clasped around the duffle bag. " I'm sorry."
Murtagh stood shocked by her words...which actually sounded genuine. She lumbered past him, the pharmaceuticals in hand, and began descending the bleacher's stairs.
"I'm afraid this is our last deal Murtagh..." the words were almost murmured but he had heard them.
The words rung deep in the youth...and he felt a weight suddenly lift from his being. Murtagh stood upon the bleachers, the sun's comforting warmth smothering him, his heart lightened, his mind blown. He had sold his soul, only to actually have it returned. A smile stilled his face, and he thought of the terrible apprehension that had singed through him in the morning in the shower, and his contemplation over whether his gut instinct had gone awry. It evidently had. Things had turned out quite opposite to the dread that he had imagined...
He thought of Nasuada and his heart was lightened by the thought of him being wrong. Perhaps things were in fact OK with her...perhaps they would be OK with everyone now...
. . .
He was wrong in both regard as he would soon learn later that day, in the back of that god awful police car...his mind sizzling with obscenities and that same disbelief that had enraptured him earlier that morning. And Murtagh realized as he drove away, Eragon running, screaming after the blaring police car, that his gut had been right...and everything was pretty much fucked for all of 'em.
I do hear on apologize for what I thought may have been a lot of swears...I'm not sure. I personally curse like a sailor so it may have been my own slight in not having an intrinsic profanity filter in my mind. Also, I haven't read the earlier chapters in a while, so I'm not sure if this is more than usual.
Well, voilà! That's it my dearies. I wrote the first part in pieces, a little each day...on breaks and so on. And then the last part came in a flurry of inspiration. I really hope you enjoyed reading it. I sure loved writing it.
I delayed posting it, as I did promise the three first reviewers that I would send it to them first.
Wasn't as action packed as I had first planned it, but as it progressed I realized this great opportunity to get things clarified instead of leaving them up in the air like that - with Elva and Murtagh's past and the deal and so on. So, future chapters can be spent on building up the drama and all that shazam with the return of Brom and Nasuada and this current dilemma with Murtagh.
I'm sure some of you will have mixed feelings about what has happened...and what is happening with the characters. Seems Murtagh's in a shitload of trouble as is soon to be explored in the coming chapter...
I'll be likely to explain the details leading up to Murtagh's arrest in the following chapter(s) and the result.
Would love to put it out there that I do appreciate all the love and support readers have given for this story. It motivates me to do my utter most best when writing! Thanks for all the reviews and reads!
- S.B.