Disclaimer: Chris Paolini is male. I am not. Therefore, this is not mine. (I've asked though)
Peace
Murtagh sat alone, cursing the world. His existence was nothing short of pure hell. He had tried everything from drinking to cutting, and yet, here he was, still alive, still Morzan's son, still Galbatorix's unwilling slave.
He stared at the sword at his side. Zar'roc. His inheritance. The one thing he expected to receive—well, now he had it. Murtagh laughed bitterly. Yes, he had Misery. He had had that forever, since the moment he was born.
Murtagh slid the sword out of its sheath, twirling the blade between his hands.
He stared at the wine-red symbol etched into the blade, dark eyes clouded. They shone with resolve as he came up with an idea. A solution—no, an ending—to all his problems.
Standing up, Murtagh grasped Zar'roc by the hilt, and plunged it into his heart. In his mind, he sensed Thorn wake, screaming in agony.
Murtagh sank to his knees, a despairing, desperate smile on his face. No longer would he have to serve an ancient, twisted king. No longer would he have to bear the burden of being Morzan's son.
In the blade of a sword, I have finally found peace.