Chapter 1: Fire and Ice

Murtagh stood, shivering, in an icy courtyard, his arms folded closely to his chest in a vain effort at keeping warm. Only Galbatorix could possibly consider it appropriate to breach every rule of humanity and force him to train even on the harshest winter days. His shirt felt uncomfortably thin, not offering even the slightest protection from this engulfing cold. Impatiently, he shuffled his feet, letting out short shaky breaths between tightly gritted teeth.

Where was his trainer? He was not at all fond of the man - tall, harsh, cruel, with sharply chiselled features on his proud face to match. - and usually waited for his arrival with tired apprehension about how hard he would have to push himself in the merciless lesson that followed. But today was different. He desperately wanted to finish the session, to go back inside and just allow his frozen fingers to regain feeling - that was, if he ever managed to prise them from the damned sword…

A clacking sound as hurried footsteps echoed around the courtyard made him jerk up, and then lower his eyes again wearily. It was not the man he was waiting for. He contented himself with listening to the rhythm of the footsteps as they mirrored the heavy thumping of blood resounding in his ears.

"Murtagh?" came a breathless inquiry, in a voice laced with warm drippings of a rich European accent that he could not quite place. Tiredly, he made a small mutter, and raised his eyes, to see a man not much older than himself, and of very similar height and a slight build, beaming at him from behind waves of black hair that hung casually about his shoulders, with a thin line of a moustache, a small neatly cut goatee, and deep silver grey eyes. "Well, you're exactly how I was told you would be." he smiled. Murtagh stared back through his own intense brown eyes, halfway between confusion and weary resentment. But the object of interest was already walking around him slowly, looking from every angle, stopping every once in a while to make a small hum of impressed approval before coming to a halt in front of him again, smiling with perfectly white almost lupine teeth, brushing his hair back carelessly with one hand , extending the other amiably. Murtagh merely stared at it, becoming more bemused by the minute.

"I'm your new trainer." the man offered, sensing that the moment of silence had gone on for far longer than necessary. Murtagh's mouth formed a small 'oh', of surprise, but still refused to take the offered hand, instead staring at him, bewildered, taking in every aspect carefully. The well tailored jacket that covered a shirt with elegant lace at the throat, the battered crimson boots - all of which made Murtagh frown slightly - this was not fighting attire, and yet this man was to train him? Eyes of the purest silver grey sparkled at him, holding so much pure childish excitement in their depths. Murtagh found himself oddly enchanted with those eyes as they met his own, only finally dropping his gaze to the floor when he felt he could not take their intensity any longer. The wind was causing his thick hair to whip around rebelliously, shaking free from its soft neat waves around a face that Murtagh had no words for save for the fact that it was beautiful, beautiful like he had never imagined a person's face could be. Everything about it seemed perfect, seemed soft and romantic and yet so full of character and intelligence. And those eyes… he could feel himself being pulled into them, almost drowning in them, as they searched his own… He had never experienced anything like it before. His body was icy, freezing, and yet… and yet his mind, his heart, were on fire…

Before Murtagh's mind had had time to grasp the situation, his trainer had drawn a thin tapering sword with a metallic clang, and was smiling darkly at his newly acquired pupil, turning the handle through his hands, giving occasional flicks of it.

"They tell me that you are good at fighting Murtagh." he remarked quietly, fingering the edge of the fatally beautiful weapon in his hand lovingly, holding it up to the light as if to examine it. "They tell me that you spar well."

"Well enough." Murtagh muttered warily, beginning to feel distaste for the man already. He looked up, from caressing his sword, plainly amused, but not allowing such a hideous emotion to mar his perfect features.

"I will be the judge of that…"

Without warning, a thin sword whipped past his left ear, and Murtagh jumped back, shocked. Another deadly swipe was made, and he gasped as it came just a little close to him for comfort, forcing his frozen fingers into action just in time to parry the blow.

"You're going to kill me!" he yelled, as blow after blow was made in quick succession, forcing him to come back to his senses. His opponent shook his head slightly.

"The sword is blunted. Concentrate more on using that piece of metal in your hands instead of waving it around aimlessly if you please…"

Angrily Murtagh lashed out, stung by the insult, but with an apologetic smile his trainer darted away, returning with disturbingly more power and deadly precision than Murtagh had seen in his life. This time, Murtagh could not quite move fast enough, and let out a startled yelp as the metal connected with his side, before glaring venomously at the man in front of him. He hurriedly pushed the stinging sensation to the back of his mind.

"Dear dear me…" the trainer muttered quietly, eying his pupil "Concentrate Murtagh…"

"I am concentrating." he muttered exasperated between clenched teeth, ignoring the sharp stinging sensation from the hit and trying to regain his now shattered reputation. The man was making a fool of him, he realised bitterly. His brilliant silver eyes shone ever brighter with contained laughter. He was not even exerting himself, managing to simply twirl and dance effortlessly with the shining sword in his hands. The steel of his blade might have well have been a mere extension of his own slight limbs, seeming natural in his hands. Why couldn't he feel hate for him? Why couldn't he just focus and fight? Why-

Murtagh hit out again, growling in frustration as his trainer merely whirled away from the attempt. He wanted so desperately to be able to hate him. Wanted to be able to detest the man with everything in him… but somehow, he just couldn't. Couldn't use anger as a fuel for focussing himself on sparring, because there was something in his opponent which his heart simply refused to hate. He threw himself at him, fully exasperated, but missed again.

His trainer clicked his tongue softly. "Now now Murtagh, let's not get arrogant shall we? Please try to concentrate…"

His concentration dipped for mere seconds as he watched his opponent in silent amazement. If it were not happening in front of his very eyes, he would never have believed such a man to be so able with a sword - but the surprising truth, it seemed, was that he was so very beyond merely being able. Beyond the shrouds of the fancy lace and romantic accent, the man was a fighter. And such a beautiful one. Murderously beautiful. Just those eyes made him forget about fighting, about even the bitter thought of using a sword against such a thing, about caring about the weapon streaking past his vision. Such eyes like he had never seen before. So deep. So silver… Was it normal to feel this way? What was wrong with him-

There was a hard swipe at his legs, sending him sprawling, letting out a yell of bewilderment as he was sent crashing to the ground. The air rang with the sound of his trainer laughing - not, to Murtaghs deep surprise, the cruel laughter of a winner scorning his prey, but the simple childish delight which seemed to fill the man, as he watched Murtagh lie back, staring at the sky, sorely nursing a crushed ego, but more than a little enchanted by the laughter of the other man.

"Parrying needs work, and your concentration is simply dreadful, but I daresay we'll make a good fighter out of you. It seems you have had at least some training work of value." He heard his teacher say, as he continued to laugh quietly under his breath, sheathing his weapon. Murtagh merely let out a slow hiss between his teeth. And stared blankly at the shifting clouds above him.

"You have not won yet." he growled. The trainer blinked for a moment, grey eyes enchantingly wide, like an owl staring down at prey, confused at why it was still moving. Slowly, he made his way over to his pupil, boots clicking softly on the ground, before stopping just short of his prey's shoulder. Murtagh turned his head slightly, to look up at the man standing over him.

"Is that so?" he asked quietly, with a hint of amusement filling his soft voice. "And why do you say that, Murtagh?"

"By no fair rules of sparring have you won." Murtagh pronounced carefully, nervous though he did not know why. "At least, none of which I know of." he added quickly. There was a brief silence of pause. A look of mixed admiration and confusion flickered over the mans face, and he nodded silently to himself, twirling the handle of his sword through his willowy fingers.

"Yes, I suppose you are right… exceptionally well noted, Murtagh. But do you really wish to fight even after you have been beaten? You're at my mercy. Powerless." he smiled darkly. "Do you really insist on continuing the fight? I have you on the floor, do you want to spar with me from down there - though I'll warrant that would be impressive, it would also be completely foolhardy arrogance, and I very much doubt you would last long that way…"

"I will fight until there is a fair winner." Murtagh muttered, panting. An deeply unfathomable look flashed over his trainer's face for a mere second - Admiration? Confusion? Respect?

"Well then… let me see, I believe that bloodshed is one of the oldest conditions for defining a champion…" he stared into Murtagh's deep brown eyes. "Am I correct?" His pupil nodded jerkily, cautiously, and then let out a cry of surprise, as the point, the only sharp part of his trainer's sword, skated across his cheek. There was a small satisfied smile from the man above him as he watched a hot droplet of crimson trickle unsteadily down Murtagh's face. "Well then, I believe that makes me the winner, Murtagh."

Murtagh slowly brought his hand up to his cheek, feeling the thick blood from the scratch, confused, cheated, but very much beaten. He glanced down as a hand was offered to help him up, noted the fact that the nails were bitten down on the willowy fingers, and he warily took it, stumbling up and hastily brushing the dirt from himself.

"You must learn, Murtagh, that I play by no rules but my own. There are no rules to me. It is when you play by rules that you are merely fulfilling expectations, you understand?" Murtagh looked up, confused, but the trainer went on, "Rules are merely restrictions. Consider it, Murtagh…" He looked over Murtagh for one final time, before turning on his heels.

"It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance Murtagh. I will look forward to training you."

Murtagh watched, wordlessly, as the man made his way back inside the palace, tugging his lace cuffs back into place on his wrists.

"You never told me your name." he called, wanting to know more about his mysterious new acquaintance, but the other man was already tugging the hefty wooden door to the warmth of the inside. As the door swung open, creaking on its hinges, Murtagh heard him call back quietly, barely audible above the screams of wind in his ears;

"My name is Tornac."

Author: and there you have the first chapter. Hopefully it introduced my beautiful little twosome well enough…

Kindly review. It means a lot to me.