The Red Rider - the tale of the other rider, the first son of Selena; mirror storyline avec missing pieces. MxN.
WOAH! We're at 20 chapters! That is such a huge deal and I'm so happy and thankful to have such dedicated readers and reviewers. I wanted to finish this story by this summer, but that clearly did not happen so I'm aiming for Christmas now. Don't forget to review!
A few people have been confused by the way Murtagh feels about his father: at times, he hates his father, but at other times, he seems to be becoming him, and at other times he seems to replace him as Galbtorix's right hand man.
I don't really have a straight answer to this, because honestly, I think it's all three depending on the situation. Murtagh feels no love for his father, but his hate is also not his defining feeling either, because although his experience with his father was horrible, it was also limited. He really didn't know his father. But he knows that because of his father, he himself is scorned and hated and sometimes he lashes out at this unfairness by, in a way, giving up and emulating his father. As if, he's sort of saying the world, "If you really think I'm my father, I'll show you by being just as bad as him." And even this aside, he doesn't want to fall into his father's shadow so he's also trying to distinguish himself form his father. He's comes to term with the fact that he can't be good because he's being coerced by Galbatorix, so he's not trying to be good. He's trying to be bad in a different way…not necessarily less bad or more, just different.
Does that even make sense?
Xoxo —ei
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter 20, Hope
"You seem to laboring under a certain delusion. So allow me to make myself absolutely clear. I share nothing in common with that trusting fool Ajihad."
The King looked beadily from Thorn to me, his eyes narrowed in a cold fury that seemed to chill the very air that surrounded us.
"Make no mistake. I will not tolerate the slightest deviation from my orders. Take care not to test my forbearance again for you will find my patience very much lacking. Now—get out of my sight."
I parted with Thorn at the castle entrance so that I could visit the armory before we departed. The chainmail I had worn had disintegrated under the wrath of Zar'roc at Eragon's hand. But now, I held the Rider's sword, I thought it only fitting that I was garbed in deserving mail.
The quartermaster blanched when I entered the armory, his eyes haunted and beleaguered, like those of a cornered animal. The servants were as afraid of me as they were of Galbatorix. They did not speak to me voluntarily lest I addressed them first. I had to tried to earn their favor by being courteous, hoping that winning their loyalty might help me one day plot against the King, but they were all too afraid to do much more than mumble a terrified "Yes, sir" or "No, sir."
"Argetlam, what may I do for you?"
"I wanted to—" I hesitated, distracted.
He had called me Argetlam. In essence, correct—it meant, "silver hand." But during my brief time in Tronjheim, the dwarves had called Eragon by the honorific as well as Shur'tugal. And after the battle under Farthen Dûr, they had called him Shadeslayer.
They were his titles, not mine.
Traditionally, I should have been called by my father's surname, Morzansson, but this was even more abhorrent to me more than Argetlam. And Shur'tugal was reserved for those Riders sanctioned by the old order, which I was undoubtedly not.
I was part of Forsworn now, and didn't that require a bolder, more irreverent moniker?
And yet, calling myself Kingkiller seemed ostentatious. And I took no pride in the fact that I had killed Hrothgar. Afterall, for the briefest of moments, Orik had been my unlikely champion; and if I had not been kidnapped, we might have been friends.
"Argetlam?"
The quartermaster stood in front of me, looking bewildered, nervous, and afraid.
I glanced down at my father's sword, clenched in my hand. The ruby set in the handle gleamed blood-red like the iridescent irises of Thorn's eyes, and seemed, somehow, vengeful and bloodthirsty—if a sword could convey such intentions.
I had been sired by a monster, but if I was determined to deny him, I needed to distance myself from him entirely.
Morzan may be my parent, but he is not my father. Tornac was my father. He raised me. He taught everything I know. I am who I am because of him. I would not burnish Morzan's repugnant memory by taking his name.
And yet, I could not in good conscience take Tornac's son, knowing that I had been the cause of his death, not having carried out his last rites, fleeing like a coward when he had fallen. I did not have the honor of bearing his name.
And I would sooner have swallowed a wineskin of Seithr oil than take Galbatorix' name as mine own.
"Do not call me by that title. From now of on, when you address me, you will address me as Murtagh Miserysson. I am the son of misery and she we shall wreak upon all our foes."
The quartermaster paled. "Yes, my lord. Whatever pleases you."
"Good. Now, bring me my father's mail. No—wait!" I paused. "When I visited earlier I saw a suit of mail that shone bright like obsidian, bring that to me."
He ran to fetch it.
The mail was pitch black and he helped me fit it over my tunic and leggings. The chain links I reinforced with magic so that they moved fluidly with my body's movements. But when he offered me a helm, I refused.
"The helm, my lord?"
"No. I want them to see my face. To see the face that will doom them. To see the one they shunned all this time, only for me to rise up more powerful than they could ever have predicted. This world has shown me little kindness, and it shall pay a hundredfold in blood spilt for it and where blood spills a new order will be sown and rise. Bards will sing of it."
Behind the quartermaster, there was a small commotion as a stack of neatly stacked shields suddenly toppled to the stone floor with a series of loud thuds. As they fell, they revealed a young girl standing timidly behind them.
The quartermaster blanching a most impressive white.
"Master, I am sorry—please forgive her—she is but a child. She does not know—come here child!"
The child scampered to his side and he pushed her behind his body as if to shield her from me, his face paling beyond compare.
"Your daughter?"
"Yes, my lord. Please understand—she is young and—"
"Come here, girl."
"Oh, master, please do not punish her! Punish me instead, I beg of you—"
I shot him a look that quelled his babbling and motioned the girl to come forward. She came shyly out from behind her father. She could not have been more than four or five years old. She seemed surprisingly unafraid as she approached.
She stopped before me, her large, silver doe-like eyes peering up at me with an almost insolent curiosity.
I knelt before her.
"Do you know who I am?"
She nodded. "You're the prince!" She piped.
I laughed. "Yes, I suppose I am. My name is Murtagh. But, you know, the armory is no place for a little girl to be. Where is your mother?"
"Cantos." Came the pert reply.
I glanced at her father. His despondent eyes confirmed the truth.
I did not know what to say to her. Perhaps, You will be happy to know I was almost involved in the massacre that probably killed your mother, but luckily I managed to avoid carrying it out myself.
"If I am the prince, then you must be the princess of this castle, are you not?"
She looked to her father who appeared as if he might faint for fear and then she shrugged.
"No? Well, perhaps this will convince you." I reached behind her ear and, summoning the magic, whispered a few words, and plucked a single white rose from thin air and showed it to her.
"Only a princess wears a rose in her hair…"
"…so I must be a princess!" She finished jubilantly.
"Well then, princess, I wonder if you will dine with me when I return from battle. Whatever you like to eat we shall have. Roast duck, pudding, trifle, perhaps? I am sure Thorn will assent as well, but now I must take your leave, princess."
She was smiling brightly and the sight warmed my heart. Quick as a little bird, she darted forward and kissed my cheek.
Her father yanked her away with a horrified gasp.
"Fly you high!" She called after me as I strode from the armory.
What in the name of the skies above was all of that?
I don't half-know myself what came over me…
Thorn chuckled. Ah, Murtagh, you don a heart of stone when you face our foes, but you cannot hide from me that what truly lies in your chest is a lump of butter.
Please, feel emboldened to announce this our enemies. I'm sure that will strike fear in their hearts.
-x-
Thorn and I did not speak when we had set off for the Burning Plains where we had previously left Eragon. We were both gripped by a grim sobriety about our impending task.
The truth staunchly remained: we had no more options.
I could only hope Eragon would not make our task more unpleasant than it had to be.
The soldiers had already been dispatched—two hundred and ninety of them, a disarmingly small number, but just as deadly as our previous force several thousand strong: Galbatorix had imbued all of them with a spell that healed them of their ability to sense pain—described by one as a gentle tickling sensation—robbing them of their humanity.
I was glad not to have to march in their midst. The eerie smiles plastered across their unfeeling faces, their cold laughs, utterly devoid of mirth—all of it unnerved me. It was unnatural, against the order of the world.
The wind whipped my hair about as we flew. The nascent fog over the plains obscured us from view.
I reached out with my mind to the page at the rear of the juggernaut of ships that ferried the undead troops across the Jiet River and conveyed to him that he should give notice and due fanfare for our arrival.
Is that wise? Giving Eragon and his allies notice of our arrival. I'm sure after our previous affray he has taken measures to ensure he will not lose again so utterly. Why give him time to strategize?
I don't care. Unless, he has an army of elves, he stands no chance against us. I will not ride into battle like a coward, cravenly sneaking around my enemies. I ride proud and strong and with you. It is true that we ride under the King's flag, but that is no reason to degrade ourselves for it.
A single horn rang out across the land, unnaturally loud, announcing us.
Then again.
And again.
There was a silence all around.
And then, war-drums began to beat as the Varden responded to our impertinent declaration.
Five sleek boats, black as pitch, had landed upon the bank of the Jiet River. From the boats there issued the exanimate imperial troops, each equipped with a maniacal smile while under the sun, swords, spears, shields, helmets, and mail ringlets caught and reflected the light, throwing cascades of twinkling, ominously shimmering lights to the ground with every movement.
The bilious currents of milky-white water of the Jiet River disappeared beneath us, giving way to the parched earth of the Burning Plains. As we cleared the water, and the tops of a stunted copse of trees, the fog cleared, revealing the Varden roughly two miles away.
The piercing horn of the imperial page sounded again.
I could see Eragon now, a still figure next to the luminous cerulean bulk that was Saphira and I raised my father's sword above my head and roared, a cry that was echoed a hundredfold by Thorn, his blazing eyes red as a iron hot to forge, red as a burning ember of hate and anger, red in anticipation of the blood of our enemies.
With a flash of down-swept wings, a jolt of acceleration, a blast of swirling air, Saphira took to the air. But instead of approaching us, she turned away toward the anterior of Varden encampment.
There was but a mile separating us now.
A trumpet sounded and a width of cavalry assembled for a charge. The trumpet was quickly echoed a wailing bellow.
The Urgals. I have never fought an Urgal.
I have, but I doubt we will have to face them ourselves. I'm sure the empire's troops will suit the task nicely.
We watched as the dark-skinned mass joined a gathered group of horsemen, the flat-footed Urgals rising to the height of the cavalry without effort.
The gate was opened and with a cry, the horsemen, flanked by the Urgals, broke into an earth-shattering trot and descended onto the plain, plumes of dust enveloping them, obscuring the arrowhead-shaped formation from view.
They have been deceived. How simple it was. I rather though they might present a challenge, but they insist on underestimating Galbatorix again and again.
As we began to drift over the rear of the Imperial army, wind gusted toward us, carrying with it the screams of dying men and horses, the unsettling sound of metal scraping over metal, the clink of swords glancing off helmets, the dull impact of spears on shields, and, underlying it all, a horrible mirthless, soulless laughter.
I shivered.
Steel yourself. We cannot afford to be merciful this time, Murtagh. I know you feel some sympathy for the resistance, but we cannot continue to bear their burden on our backs. I admit I cannot bear to watch you punish for my reluctance to overrule you, but I will not sit by idly—
This time, we show no mercy, Thorn. I fly with you. And only you.
Excelsior, my Rider.
"ERAGON!" My voice raged across the tormented landscape.
Thorn hung motionless in the sky, cupping the air with the translucent membranes, so that we seemed to address none but our direct opponents, and even across the space, our eyes seemed to meet.
"I SEE YOUR THERE, HIDING BEHIND NASUADA'S SKIRTS, LIKE A CHILD. COME FIGHT ME, ERAGON! IT IS YOUR DESTINY, OR ARE YOU A COWARD, SHADESLAYER?"
Saphira roared in response, her entire body tensing, catlike on the embankment. She opened her gigantic maws and released a jet of crackling blue fire. Then, she launched herself off the embankment.
Thorn did not attack, allowing Saphira to rise to our level unmolested, so that we balanced on the thermals, on tenterhooks before each other. Saphira's muzzle was contorted into a hideous snarl that disfigured her entire visage.
And finally, Eragon ducked out from behind Saphira's neck so that we could see him.
And for a moment, I marveling that this boy, several years my junior, my brother, my old companion could be the source of such agony, reaching inside me to the hatred that lay dormant in me at all times and lashed out, at him, at the world.
This debt would have to be paid and it would be paid in blood.
I called to him: "You and Saphira have caused us a great deal of pain, Eragon. Galbatorix was furious with us for letting you go. And after the two of you killed the Ra'zac, he was so angry, he slew five of his servants and then turned his wrath upon Thorn and me. We have both suffered horribly on account of you. We shall not do so again."
"Wait!" Eragon cried across the gulf between us. "I know of a way you can both free yourselves of your oaths to Galbatorix."
"It is not possible!" I snarled.
"IT IS!" He shouted urgently. "Allow me to explain!"
It is a ploy, I thought.
Perhaps. Most likely so. But still, it cannot hurt to hear him out.
Galbatorix will punish us! This time he will hurt you and that I cannot bear—
No, because we will still take him captive. I doubt there is any truth to his words, and even if there is, it is undoubtedly not an immediate solution. But if there is any grain of sincerity to it, we may mull it and refine it to a proper plan in time.
No! I can't allow it. Galbatorix will—
Murtagh, we must always search for a solution. If we do not, it means we have given up on escaping our situation and to do so would be to admit that our lives are not worth fighting for and thus not worth living.
"Blast you, Eragon," I snapped. "Blast you for baiting us with this. We had already made peace with our lot, and you have to tantalize us with the specter of a hope we had abandoned. If this proves to be a false hope, brother, I swear I'll cut off your right hand before we present you to Galbatorix…you won't need it for what you will be doing in Urû'baen."
A spasm of anger crossed Eragon's face briefly, but he lowered the falchion and said, "Galbatorix would not have told you, but when I was among the elves, I learned that if your personality changes, so does your true name in the ancient language. Who you are isn't cast in iron, Murtagh! If you and Thorn can change something about yourselves, your oaths will no longer bind you, and Galbatorix will lose his hold on you."
"Why did you not mention this before?" I demanded.
Eragon laughed hollowly. "I was otherwise occupied at the time of our previous encounter."
Can this be true?
Briefly, I saw with Thorn what our lives might be to be free. Ours to command, to come or stay or go as we wished. To fly, to become one—to heal the perverted union Galbatorix had insinuated himself into.
"We are not evil!" I cried. "I've done the best I could under the circumstances. I doubt you would have survived as well as I did if our mother had seen fit to leave you in Urû'baen and hide me in Carvahall."
"Perhaps not."
I struck my fist against my breastplate forcefully. "Ha! You think too much of yourself, Argetlam," I said scornfully. "No man has had to endure the terrible burdens I have carried all my life. How am I to follow your advice? If I am already a good man, if I have already done as well as could be expected, how can I change? Must I become worse than I am? Must I embrace Galbatorix's darkness in order to free myself of it? That hardly seems like a reasonable solution. If I succeeded in so altering my identity, you would not like who I had become, and you would curse me as strongly as you curse Galbatorix now."
"You do not have to become better or worse than you are now, only different. There are many kinds of people in the world and many ways to behave honorably. Look upon someone whom you admire but who has chosen paths other than your own through life and model your actions upon his. It may take a while, but if you can shift your personality enough, you can leave Galbatorix, and you can leave the Empire, and you and Thorn could join us in the Varden, where you would be free to do as you wish."
To speak of joining the Varden was foolishness and naiveté on his part, but I could not help but admit that his suggestion intrigued me, tantalized us.
"I'm asking you to allow yourself to grow into something other than you are now. It's a difficult thing to do, I know, but people remake themselves all the time. Let go of your anger, for one, and you can turn your back on Galbatorix once and for all."
I could no sooner separate myself from Thorn than let go of my anger. It was an extricable part of me, having dogged my every step life long.
"Let go of my anger?" I brayed with laughter. "I'll let go of my anger when you forget yours over the Empire's role in the death of your uncle and Brom, and the razing of your farm. Anger defines us, Eragon, and without it, you and I would not be here today. You are asking us to be that which we are not. If Thorn and I are to save ourselves, we must destroy our current identities? Your cure is worse than our affliction."
I took up Zar'roc again.
"And yet, the concept intrigues. Thorn and I will study it. Perhaps we can work on it together when we are in Urû'baen. That is, if the king permits us to be alone with each other. Of course, he may decide to keep us permanently separated. I would if I were in his position."
Eragon's face-hardened. "You seem to be laboring under the delusion that we will—what is the phrase? 'Come quietly'."
"Your baseless bravado cheers me brother. It has been exhausting weathering Galbatorix by ourselves. I look forward to seeing the spleen he will vent upon you. It will make for a nice change." My fingers wrapped around Zar'roc. "But Thorn and I will not be returning alone this day. Even if we wanted to, Thorn and I could not change who we are in an instant. Until such time as we may have that opportunity, we shall remain beholden to Galbatorix, and he has ordered us, in no uncertain terms, to bring him the two of you. Neither of us is willing to brave the king's displeasure again, not for the likes of you."
A spurt of flames escaped from between Saphira's teeth.
But Eragon stayed his apparent anger. "Please, Murtagh, Thorn, will you not at least try what I've suggested? Have you no desire to resist Galbatorix? You will never cast off your chains unless you are willing to defy him!"
"You underestimate Galbatorix, Eragon," I said flatly. "He has been creating name-slaves for over a hundred years, since he recruited our father. Do you think he is unaware that a person's true name may vary over the course of his life? He is sure to have taken precautions against that eventuality. If my true name were to change this very moment, or Thorn's, most likely it would trigger a spell that would alert Galbatorix to the change and force us to return to him in Urû'baen so he could bind us to him again."
Do you really think so?
If Eragon has thought of it, surely Galbatorix had. Eragon is hardly a master magician whereas Galbatorix has devoted his life to the careful scrutiny of the Ancient Language.
"He knows our true names, Eragon. He is with prodigious skill and no conscience. We are his slaves forever." I wonder if he could hear the horrible resignation in my voice. And underneath it the fear that I was right and we were lost. "We have nothing left but one another and in such circumstances you must be willing to protect yourself and what you cherish, no matter what the cost."
"But he could only guess your new names."
"He is most adept at the practice. You know how well guarded my mind is and yet he pierced its protections with hardly a proper effort." I unsheathed Zar'roc. "We will take your suggestion under consideration. We may make use of your suggestion in the future, but only after careful study and preparation, so that Thorn and I do not regain our freedom only to have Galbatorix steal it back from us directly afterward." Zar'roc iridescent blade shimmered enticingly in the hazy air. "At present, we have no choice but to take you with us to Urû'baen. Will you go peacefully?"
"I would sooner tear out my own heart!"
"So be it!"
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