I: The Fishmonger

"since brevity is the soul of wit..." – Polonius, Hamlet Act I Scene II.

"Sire."

Murtagh was kneeling in a small, private drawing room, tucked in a corner of the East Wing of the palace. It was white – a hasty, persistent white that shakily covered the walls. The room was choked by the stench of an equally nauseating shade of white jasmine flowers. He had suspected something had died here yesterday, possibly a small child, and they were airing out the scent. Galbatorix would do something like that, wouldn't he?

"Rise, Morzansson."

The King was smiling at him. Murtagh certainly was not.

"So."

Galbatorix snapped his fingers. He floated four inches off the ground, and walked smoothly towards his second-in-command. He was exactly the same height as Murtagh by doing this. He pulled another disgusting grin of his.

He swirled away.

"I believe." Dramatic pause. He fingered the rim a wine glass nonchalantly, one of two. White wine. It had been poured delicately, left on a silver-trimmed side table, eager to be sipped. Smuggled from a Surdan vineyard – unethically imported, as Galbatorix would have insisted on correcting, 'smuggled' is a hideous word, with such ugly connotations, no?

He swirled away.

"We have a rather large amount of catching up to do. Don't we Murtagh?"

Murtagh did not respond. He didn't need to. In his experience, Evil Villains loved their monologue time. Galbatorix adored it.

"I believe that there is certainly a lot on your plate now. Is there not, Murtagh?"

Murtagh did not respond.

"Belatona was not built in a day. Or was that Uru'baen they were talking about there? I do quite forget. In which case, they are in dire need of correction. Uru'baen was built in one day. Less. I built it. With, of course, assistance from your father."

"I believe, sire, you mentioned Belatona?"

The King's eyes narrowed. That smile, that remained, however.

"I believe I did."

Murtagh did not need ears to hear the missing, stumbled-over word there. Morzansson. If glares, if icy glares, if simply insidious glares, if they could kill, Murtagh would have died in a fire with plenty of snake bites.

As for Murtagh's eyeline, he was decidedly looking at the floor.

"You are insinuating something, Murtagh, are you not? About my dedication to the well being of my citizens, I can presume, as always? I know you too well. Yes, too well. You are, without a question of doubt, and I believe you are aware, because you choose to be aware, that Belatona fell yesterday, are you not?"

The King moved closer.

"I am patronising you, I believe Murtagh, again? Then, another question:" He placed his fingertips together, rocking back and forward on his heels. Or, on the thinning air. He was still floating. "How was your week... of absence without leave?"

What a banal question.

"Satisfactory, sire." He sighed, interrupting the King's questioning – scathing – look. Because it was nothing but satisfactory. "Thorn and I visited the West Coast. I have not gone there in a long time."

"Ah!" The King grinned. "I have not seen the coast since your father was alive. With him, in fact. Were you yourself present? I have no idea. Absolutely none. It was glorious though, as everything was... back then. Did you not see the Western sunset? Puts 'baen to shame, and believe me Murtagh, I am someone who has travelled. Now, I believe I am pointlessly deliberating, and I believe we know each other well enough to know that I do not like pointlessly deliberating at all. Oh, Murtagh, you and your sceptical looks. Absolutely hill-air-ee-oos." He even laughed a tinkling little laugh that made the untouched wine shiver slightly.

The King turned his back now, standing whilst looking somewhat thoughtfully out the east-facing, arched window. It was as if Our Excellency The Dark King was the pained but triumphant subject of a Late-Riderian Renaissance painting. King Galbatorix: A man of honour. It would decidedly be the title if Galbatorix had painted it. That this had little to do with the actual choice of materials, colours, technique, and artisanship was besides the point. He was a terrible painter, too. Murtagh's father was a good painter, could have been an excellent one, even a sublime artist, if memory would dare recall.

He then spoke:

"Whilst you were dilly-dallying in sunshine land, I have been thinking. Sceptical looks, you really are marvellous at them Murtagh!" Except that Murtagh honestly looked rather baffled than anything else. "I have been thinking about the directions of things – everything, war included, but since when was war ever excluded? But firstly, this requires your co-operation. I presume your mission was a success?"

"Yes, sire."

"Why need I presume! Of course it was, of course it was..."

He swivelled around, just to smile.

A moment of silence.

A rather, long, strained silence.

Perhaps accidental – a blip in the performance.

"You are to present... ah, the box, to myself now Murtagh, are you not? As written, no?"

Murtagh stood and glared, his arms folded.

"Murtagh?"

That smile was very strained now. It was ripping into the corners of The King's face.

"Murtagh?"

Was white jasmine ever a form of poison? Murtagh thought. He could smell the acidity soaking into the words. He opened his jacket, muttering a few magical words, and the charred remains of the bottom half of the box grew from a splinter of a pinprick into a lumbering thing filling both of his hands.

He tossed it into the floor. It sat exactly between the King and his Right Hand Man.

"What happened?"

A silence. Murtagh then felt a grating, grasping, unbearable noise at his ears.

"I set it on fire. I set it on fire sire."

"Mhmm. Can see that quite clearly, you didn't need to tell me that." This was terrible. The King looked delighted. "And why did you set it on fire Murtagh?"

"Because..."

"Because? You can tell me. You can always tell me. You have no choice but to tell me. Because you've never had a choice Murtagh. Or have you?"

Fiendishly delighted.

"Because you chose to set this on fire. Did you not? You're not stupid, boy. Which must mean you're mad. No? Or is that not it either?"

The evening sunlight then blasted through the windows, creating vast shadows against the King's face. He could feel them looming closer. He could feel where these trivial questions were exactly leading.

"You got irritated, didn't you?"

"Sire–"

"Oh, you got mad! You got very, very mad. Seething." He was getting closer now, moving closer to Murtagh, gaining on him, and the walls suddenly seemed to be bleeding red, a dark, cold, red, and the light suddenly seemed to be shining black. "I can tell – I know how it feels to be mad –"

"Sire–"

"–I know how you feel, specifically, and– Oh, Murtagh? Weren't you going to say something? Because I was just about to tell you–"

He was whispering now. His slithering words were tickling Murtagh's earlobes and crawling into the caverns into his mind.

"Exactly how you feel. Or exactly how you should be feeling right now. Feelings. Funny things. You know what? The Angry Murtagh, The Enraged Murtagh, Murtagh the Teenager, The world doesn't understand me Murtagh– please, please, will you stop being so insistent and listen boy. To me. "

Murtagh had not even opened his mouth at this point.

"Listen to me. You should be absolutely terrified now. You opened the box I told you not to, you destroyed the box I told you not to, and you jeopardised nearly everything I – we – had been working for–"

"Sire,there was nothing in that box."

Galbatorix stopped speaking. He had been expecting this. Or perhaps, not at all.

"Oh, now this is interesting. Was there? Was there really–"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. This was a mission of utmost importance, sire." And it was for nothing.

"And you should have treated it as such–"

And so should have you.

Galbatorix stopped speaking again. Delightedly, even, as if expectations had been dashed and cut into two. And Murtagh was completely sure he did not hear a single syllable of that thought. But maybe he had. Or maybe he hadn't. Or maybe he was just Galbatorix.

If Murtagh expected the King to repeat his prior performance he had not yet caught wind of, he was utterly mistaken.

"Fine." He sighed, bitterly, exhaustively, despite utilising no effort at all. "So be it. I suspect the next coming weeks of hard graft will punish you enough, you infantile – urgh. We are bickering like father and son, aren't we?" He laughed hollowly. "Yes we are Murtagh; I see that pensive, doubtful look on your face again, which suits you so."

Murtagh then turned to leave. He had not been granted to leave, but he could not stand another moment of this and it was as worse as time to leave as any for the last eight years. The King did not attempt to stop him. He did, however, air a tentative request as Murtagh had reached the door. Well, tentative by Galbatorix's standards.

"Oh, and Murtagh? I expect you in court tomorrow, as usual. Well. The clowns there believe you have turned into a ghost – I suggest you appease them, it should be quite, ah... entertaining."

And Murtagh stormed out of the drawing room without another word muttered.

A/N: Simple enough chap. More Galbatorix again! Yes, this is deliberately got an 'I' at the front - I plan on using rotations of Roman numerals I to XIII throughout (hence the old title When Will The Clock Strike Thirteen?).

I wanted to keep this in reserve 'till tomorrow, since I put a chapter up yesterday but I've already written chapter 15 and 16 and it seems silly to keep this is reserve. Besides, I get my AS-Level results back tomorrow - they're exams which are taken in Junior year, the second last year of school, and they weigh heavily on university applications. So they're very important. I probably won't have the... energy to actually write something tomorrow. Wish me luck! Thank you and please review :)

Restrained Freedom: You saying that makes me realise how... insane everyone is in this fic XD. Everyone has their own insecurities, but pretty much everyone is slightly mad. Ah well. Thank you and I'm glad you liked the last chapter.