A/N: Yo people! Meh, this is probably the most depressing story I've ever written. The first chappy sucks, and that really sucks because the first chapter is, like, everything! The first chapter is what pulls you in and makes you have to read the rest of the story…of something…Wait, never mind…I don't even remember what I'm saying anymore. So I'll just let you read and hope you like it.

Disclaimer: Muwahahaha…What? Sorry, I was just imagining what would happen if I did own 'Eragon'. But I don't…so I'll get over it…

Chapter 1

Drowning In Thoughts

Murtagh strode down the long, tiled corridor as he trying not to kneel over. He had just been in a meeting with the king of Alagaesia, Galbatorix. As always, it had been a very rough meeting. Murtagh's body was sore and already starting to ache from the usual abuse he had to endure when meeting with the king.

His visits to Galbatorix were always cruel and violent. He came back from the appointments bloodied and covered in bruises. They were always alone when Murtagh was beaten, too. Galbatorix made sure that no one was around when he had his way with Murtagh.

In fact, the only time Murtagh ever felt safe with the king was during his birthday dinners. During then, many nobles and aristocrats were there, so if the king tried anything…funny…with Murtagh, there would be witnesses.

But it wasn't his birthday this time, and they had been alone…which only meant…

…pain for Murtagh.

Murtagh tried to think about other things to help keep the pain in his arm at bay. As he thought, a laundry maid passed him by. A small gasp managed to pull Murtagh out of his reverie.

Murtagh glanced over his shoulder. The maid had dropped her load and was staring wide-eyed and him.

"M-Master Murtagh! What…w-what happened to you? You look…you look…well…"

Murtagh smiled. "Just say it. It's alright. I look like shit, I know."

The laundry maid looked down and picked up the cloths that she dropped. "Sir…I-If you'll excuse me…"

Murtagh shrugged and a sigh escaped the maid's lips.

The girl hoisted the bundle into her arms and hastily made her way around the corner, allowing Murtagh to go back to thinking.

Suddenly Murtagh recalled a conversation he had overheard about a half elf. The word 'half-elf' brought him out of the trance he was in. A few days ago, on his 15th birthday, Murtagh had listened in on a discussion between a priestess and a duke about a half-breed that had been captured and sent to Uru'baen by the sanctified Pope of Uru'baen. The half-elf had been causing mayhem in the forest of Du Weldenvarden.

When he was only a small child, the half-elf killed his entire village. He wandered through Du Weldenvarden, supposedly killing whoever happened to cross his path. In an attempt to stop the child, a group of elves chased him out of the forest. When the half-elf made it out of the forest, Uru'baen soldiers who had been patrolling the border of Du Weldenvarden restrained him and, on the Pope's orders, sent the imprisoned boy to Uru'baen to be confined.

Murtagh had heard from the priestess that the half-elf had somehow managed to escape his solitary confinement and free himself from the soldiers. Now he was somewhere roaming the castle. It gave Murtagh chills to think that such a creature was in the same building as him, no matter how big the building was.

Ya see…half-elves were the scum of Alagaesia to humans, elves, dwarves, demons, and dragons alike. Every race considered half-breeds to be a waste of life.

Murtagh had always hated stereotypes and labels, but he, too, couldn't help but fear and loath half-elves. He had been told many stories and tales about half-elves—mainly from his childhood jester—but never was there anything good and righteous to be told about half-elves.

Half-elves were said to be hideous creatures with claws and horns, slightly resembling the beast that lives in hell. Supposedly they had fangs that were too overgrown for their jaws and hands that didn't seem to be in proportion with their tree-trunk-like arms. The main way to distinguish a half-elf from another type of creature was by their ears. Their ears were slightly pointed at the top—though not as pointed as a pure-blood elf's. They also had horizontal markings under one of their earlobes.

'Primitive' was all that Murtagh could think of to describe these creatures. 'Primitive' and 'demonic'.

In fact, some people thought that half-elves were actually demons.

Once, when Murtagh was still small, a scullery maid started to tell him a story as she cleaned and he watched. It was about how half-elves were the cause for all of the evil and sins in Alagaesia—that they were the reason for the calamity, misfortune, and tragedy that lived with everyone today. Murtagh listened in silence as she declaimed her tale about the very first half-elf to ever have been born in Alagaesia.

His birth was the result of an elf and a human getting drunk. His life was a mistake, his birth was an accident…he was a chance child, a bastard baby, a whoreson, a…mistake…His parents were ashamed, they tried to hide him from the world, they tried to ignore him and forget about him…he was never even given a name. His parents were too mortified to ever see each other again, so the half-elf baby was left with his reluctant mother. For a short period of time, she grudgingly gave her child a home.

Soon, his elf mother started to become insane. She became mad, paranoid, schizophrenic even. She even stopped talking to anyone. Her last words she ever spoke to anybody were… "The only regret I've ever had is that that…thing…came out of my body…"

After that, she became truly insane and committed suicide.

The child had never heard from his father again. Eventually, as the boy grew older, he was burned to death by a village at the base of Helgrind. Ever since his death, Helgrind became a place that people regarded to as 'hell's little brother'. It is a place that's feared—people consider the base to be the entrance to hell itself.

Murtagh wondered why so many people hated half-elves so much. Was it their appearance? No. Murtagh could only think of one reason to explain peoples' hate for the half-breeds. Their power. Half-elves were said to have immense power, destructive and annihilating. But their power was hidden inside their souls. It was only unleashed in dire times, Murtagh had learned.

Murtagh had studied up on the topic of half-elves. They seemed so interesting to him. He couldn't help but love and fear them at the same time.

Suddenly a piercing scream erupted throughout the hall he was walking down.

"Yahhhhhhhhh!"

Murtagh halted. What the hell? he thought. Then he heard it again. Whoever was screaming sounded like they were in pain. Murtagh pushed the pain along with the half-elf stories to the back of his mind. He had to help whoever was in trouble!

"Son of a bitch!" Murtagh could hear someone yell. The next second, a hard thumping sound rang in Murtagh's ears, followed by a scream of pain. As Murtagh turned the corner, he gasped. The hall opened up to a small room. In the center, a royal soldier was holding a boy looking no older than 15 by the wrist.

The boy was gorgeous.

He had wavy hair that fell down to his chin and had a bluish glow to it to match his deep, blue eyes. His face was soft and round, his eyes slanted and almond shaped. The eyebrows above his stunning eyes were gracefully angled upwards. His face seemed to glow in radiance; the room even seemed to become brighter. But all of his splendor was covered by…blood.

That's right. Blood. The boy was coated from head to foot in his own blood.

The soldier held on to the boy's wrist firmly, not to keep him from escaping, but to keep him from falling on the red-stained floor. That way, he could get better aim with the boy in mid-air than on the ground. Dragging all of his weight (the boy couldn't have weighed very much), the soldier kept him off the tiled flooring.

The solider holding onto his wrist raised a hand and brought it down harshly on the boy, shedding more blood. The boy cried out again and drew his arm up to defend himself. Once more, the soldier punched the boy. This time, the boy used his arm to grab the opposing hand and bite it. He bit the soldier's hand hard. How hard? Hard enough to draw blood.

The soldier cursed and withdrew his hand.

"You bastard!" he yelled. Using his foot this time, the soldier firmly kicked the boy in the ribs, causing him to cough up blood. A small puddle of blood was forming underneath him.

Murtagh had had enough of this. He couldn't take watching this gorgeous person being beaten to death. He had to stop it. It was torturing him as well as the younger boy.

"What the hell is going on!" Murtagh bellowed.

Both, the soldier and the boy looked up. When the boy's gaze met Murtagh's, Murtagh was at a loss of words.

The soldier saluted Murtagh at once.

"Murtagh, sir!"

That seemed to bring Murtagh back to life. Once he remembered how to breathe, Murtagh realized that he had been staring at the boy…and he had been staring back. Murtagh turned a shade of red and looked away, before returning his attention to the soldier.

"What is going on! He's bleeding to death!" Murtagh motioned to the boy slowly sinking down in a puddle of his own blood below him.

"Sir, I have good reason. This…" he stopped to glare at the bleeding boy and spat at him. "This thing has escaped from Uru'baen solitary confinement. I caught him trying to escape and immediately stopped him using whatever tactic was necessary—including force."

Murtagh stomped over to the soldier, furious. The soldier seemed to cower, but never loosened his tight grip on the boy's wrist.

"Who has given you the right to do this!"

"Uh…sir…His Majesty has granted every soldier and guard the right to take custody of this thing by whatever means necessary…Is there a problem, Murtagh sir?"

"Damn straight! What is so important about this boy, anyway?"

The soldier stared at Murtagh through his helmet in disbelief. The boy, too, stared up at Murtagh as if he had grown three heads.

"Sir…this creature is a half-elf…"

Murtagh blinked. Did he hear that right? A half-elf? Murtagh had to gasp for air before speaking again. The boy looked away as Murtagh spoke.

"Wh-what…proof do you have of this?" Murtagh stuttered.

"Just look at his right ear, sir. It is where his marking is." Wrenching the so called half-elf upright by the wrist, the soldier dragged the boy to Murtagh…which pissed Murtagh off.

"Stop that! Be gentle with him!" Murtagh demanded.

The guard ignored him and yanked the boy into a standing position and pushed him over to Murtagh. He stayed standing for a couple of moments before pitching forward. The fragile boy almost fell on his face, but Murtagh rushed over to catch him. Gently cradling the boy, Murtagh grasped his shoulders and tenderly pulled the boy into a kneeling position, so that they were both on their knees.

The soldier strode over before Murtagh shot him an evil glare. Then he just backed away.

Turning away from the solider, Murtagh focused his attention on the boy kneeling into him. He was shivering. Affectionately, Murtagh started to wipe the blood away from the boy's gorgeous face so he could see him better. The boy innocently, but expectantly gazed back up at Murtagh with his dazzling blue eyes.

Murtagh started to stroke his cheek, trying to bring the boy back to wakefulness.

"Hey…" Murtagh used a finger to tilt the younger boy's chin upwards. "Will you let me see you ears?" he asked quietly.

The boy didn't answer. When Murtagh got no response, he freely lifted his other hand and slowly started to head towards the boy's ear. Suddenly, the boy's head whipped back and he snapped at Murtagh's hand. Murtagh reflexively withdrew his hand, but not before the younger boy nipped it.

"Ow! Damn!" A small blot of blood started to form on the tip of Murtagh's finger. He started to suck on the finger to try to cease the pain. "You have sharp teeth…"

The boy ducked his head, as if to hide himself from a blow to the head, but when he felt nothing hard hitting him, he looked up. Murtagh was smiling at him.

"You…must have been hurt many times to be so defensive. But…" Murtagh pressed his forehead against the other boy's. "I'm…I'm not going to hurt you…I swear, okay?"

The boy's eyes widened in surprise and his breath quickened. Murtagh swallowed before repeating himself.

"Okay…?"

After a long pause, the boy nodded. Murtagh grinned and removed his forehead from the boy's. Slowly, Murtagh raised his hand and gently pushed the boy's bluish strands of hair behind his right ear and tilted his chin up higher.

Murtagh gasped. His ear…was pointed.

"No…" Murtagh whispered. The boy started to pull away, but held in place, not taking his eyes off of Murtagh. Just to make sure, Murtagh looked under his earlobe. A small, dark blue line was horizontally stretched under the lobe. Murtagh tried to stay calm.

I have to get him off of me! He really is a half-elf! And he's in my arms! Should I push him off…but I swore I wouldn't hurt him. What if I just hand him over to the soldier? But that wouldn't be right…he would probably kill him. What should I—

His thought was interrupted by the sound of whimpering and shudders. Looking down, he saw that the half-elf had leaned in on Murtagh's chest. His breathing was quick and rapid, and he couldn't stop shivering.

"Sir?" the soldier asked from the side lines. Murtagh ignored him and stared down at the half-elf.

"Uh…nuh…I'm…Murtagh." The half-elf looked up. He was panting and his fingers were trembling. His face was unbelievably pale.

"…?"

"Tell me your name…"

"T-Tornac…" was all that was able to escape his lips before he blacked out and collapsed into Murtagh's arms. Murtagh's face reddened before he clutched Tornac's shoulders and lifted the half-elf up. Embracing Tornac in his arms, he turned away from the now forgotten soldier and started to head back down the to the hallway.

"Nuh…Sir Murtagh? I have to send that thing to His Majesty…" the soldier stopped him.

When Murtagh spoke, his voice was icy. "Don't call him a 'thing'…and if you ever come near him again, I swear, I'll rip you to pieces…"

"But sir! The King—"

"I'll take care of Galbatorix, now you get out of my sight before you die…"

The soldier looked taken aback, before he turned on his heel and fled the room. Murtagh paid no attention to him and instead turned to the trembling half-elf in his arms.

"Tornac, eh?" he whispered.

Calmly, Murtagh started to wipe away some of the new blood away from Tornac's lips. Sighing, he racked his brain, trying to think of what to do.

This is a half-elf I'm holding—a half elf! But Tornac is nothing like stories I've been told. He doesn't have any horns…and his body seems to be in faultless proportion…Really, he seems perfect. But he's bleeding everywhere…he could bleed to death. Maybe I should take him to my chambers. Kiriyu could fix him up, but how would I explain this to everyone? Well, they'll have to accept him if I do…but do I accept him? Murtagh looked down at Tornac. He isn't anything like what everyone says half-elves are like…yes. I think I do accept him.

Murtagh smiled.

He continued to lead Tornac down the hall to his wing, trying to think up a way to explain to all of his servants why he had a bloody half-elf with him.

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