Constructive criticism very much appreciated, as always.

Chapter 2: Heritage and Violins

Tornac…

It fitted him so wonderfully, Murtagh realised - mysterious, clearly foreign, and more than a little beautiful. A gloriously toxic combination… if only he wasn't feeling too cold to enjoy it. He winced as he closed the door, his fingers unsteady and trembling from the cold, and stepped into the warmth, every extremity immediately starting to throb, adding to the nagging sting all over him from the sharp attack by his new trainer's viciously beautiful sword. Galbatorix seemed to choose his trainers for their merciless regimes that cared so very little whether or not he was injured as long as he was training. Which seemed to fit in hideously well with the king's twisted ethics thought Murtagh bitterly, rubbing his hands together to try and regain some feeling in them. But as long as he could avoid meeting the man his father had so proudly served, he would hold his thoughts inside the private boundaries of his own thoughts.

He was in a long hallway, with the faint smell of burning from the heavy usage of the lamps that adorned the walls, flickering with a hazy red-orange glow. He always used this route - not least because it was rarely used by anyone else, leading to nowhere that anyone else really had reason to go to - no longer bothered by the many haunting memories still attached to this corridor. A corridor that had once been paced so constantly by a man who had been nearly a mirror of the one who now walked down it. Morzan's footsteps had once echoed just as his sons did now, though his had held more menace than the rhythm of confusion that now filled the hall. There were too many memories of a man clad in dark robes patrolling, pacing, as though waiting for something, of the way he would so angrily corner any servant who dared to break his peace with their pattering footsteps, at how the low growl of his dragon could be heard from just outside the door. And the most haunting of all - of a drunken time, when the man's own mind had turned against him to a point where even his own son had seemed too much of a disturbance. Memories of shouts, of a sword… of crimson blood trickling in between the flagstones before Murtagh's eyes as he had slipped into darkness, the line of scar-tissue streaking down his back a constant reminder of a thing he struggled so hard to forget.

Murtagh had hated the man almost more than he had right to- but he still could not tell whether the little shiver he so constantly received when he was prowling the shadows of the hall was from disgust, or a strange form of pride in the honour his father had struggled so hard to achieve. He never could tell whether he was proud or disgusted with the blood that ran through his veins. He had loved living here, once. Found it oddly enchanting that he could look out of the window and see this kingdom spread out before him, in the knowledge that his father had once had so much power here. Had even managed to push the hatred that he had received from him, the scar running down his back, the despise he had felt in return, had managed to push it all away and, for just one moment… appreciate his father, respect him, see how hard he had fought to achieve the power he had evidently been all too fond of. He was almost surprised at how much his own mind ached for just the tiniest breath of this wonderful power, this beautiful honour, how his senses were desperate just to try a little of it, just once, just to see what it felt like. He wanted to know what it was to have this sort of honour, to be justified in having the confidence he was born with. But some born instinct made every sense scream that he was not going to be the same man that Morzan had been. He would not be his father.

Slowly, he made his way up the winding stone stairway that snaked up to the room that had once belonged to Morzan. They were not so very similar really, when he thought about it... They had the same looks - stunningly attractive and sickeningly vain because of it - dark hair, dark eyes… but it was not really any more than appearances they had in common… or at least, so Murtagh liked to think. After all: Morzan had undertaken the intense physical and mental pain of training out of choice - Murtagh reluctantly went along with the king's wishes for him because even he did not dare to question them. Morzan had willingly served the king - Murtagh was forced into a contract because of his father's blood in him. Morzan had been so weak to love - Murtagh had no particular interest in the flirtatious games that his father had so willingly partaken in. Morzan had been a man who was feared - Murtagh was merely an object of curiosity and interest. Morzan had been a rider, sitting proudly on his dragon. Murtagh would never be a rider - the king viciously guarded the eggs - that it was rumoured in whispers he caught from servants talking amongst themselves - he owned. But, as much as he tried to ignore it, to push it away, to pretend it wasn't real… they were similar. Both with the same spark for fighting, with very little regard for studies of any type other than in using a sword, both so attractive as to receive a bombardment of unwanted attention, both with the same hatred for the other…

Morzan had known who he was, and had clearly not been afraid to show it. Murtagh, on the other hand, was as different as it was possible to be from his father in that particular respect. He supposed vaguely that it was the product of being kept apart from company for so long, not really knowing who he was because he did not know who anybody was - not that that was forced. No. Galbatorix had laid down no rules about Murtagh being with others, that was a very personal choice. It was simply that he did not bother to put in the huge self-effort required in order to communicate with all of the people around him. Could not bare to be around those eyes, those expressions. It was not fear or hate that he saw all around him, mirrored with his image in their shining glances. It was pity. And pity he could not take.

Give him hatred, give him anger, give him simple crude disgust, and he could understand it. Could see why they would turn away, could make sense of it. The hate stung, but he was born for pain. Pain was logical. The only lesson he had learned from a father who was always too detached; a cruel lesson both in the teaching and the learning - but a useful one. Pity, on the other hand, was far from logic. It was almost ironic how, although a loud rush of angry voices shouting at him made his head pound, made him feel sick, made him irritable, he never completely snapped. He would vent his anger on an unfortunate sparring partner, but never let it become visible how bitter he really felt. But receiving more respect than he knew he deserved (pitifully little), there was a lingering unease that made him more painfully uncomfortable than any hate. It was when he was subjected to this confusion of emotion that he become closest to losing his head and just yelling for those around him to please behave normally. This ridiculous kindness drove him to the brink of insanity.

He almost felt he had a right to be hated, to be thrown around roughly, to be slung into the shadows... Had almost grown to enjoy the solitude in fact. His father had treated him that way, why not everyone around him? In a sense, he had come to accept that it seemed he was born for it, it was his fate to be that way, and who was he to question the power of fate? Murtagh Morzanson, the man who existed simply to be hated. He had been brought into the world for a sole purpose - and that seemed to be to hide from the world, locked inside the safety of his room, listening to the world around him as it moved on without him. Without Murtagh. Without the confused mess of a man who had never really been meant to live in the first place.

They had been a strange family indeed - not that they spent any significant amount of time with each other. His father, so powerful and yet so horribly weak to the charms of love - it would have been funny, he realised bitterly, if he had not been the product of this pitifully broken romance. Sometimes he could see why his father hated him so much - he was an embarrassment, proof that the proud heartless man had had it in him to give in to such a foolish thing as love. His mother, such a pretty thing, and so fragile, so easily broken. The one who had left and never came back. The one to leave her son alone, in a world that could never really understand or care for him… and so he stopped understanding and caring for the world. Murtagh, Murtagh, Murtagh. What of Murtagh? The child who had sat silently, always watching, his dark eyes full of unanswered questions. The shadow, creeping along deserted corridors, running his finger-tips over the walls in the darkness, not even knowing who he really was. What of Murtagh?

Did he really love to be alone? Did he really long to sit for hours in moonlit rooms, lying trapped up inside the webs of his mind, allowing the world to move on from him, to forget him? Was it true that he did he not want to be the great and powerful - and yet so terrible - man that his father had been? Did he truly wish to pass his life by, a whisper, just wanting to be forgotten, to live forever in a dream and never wake to see what he truly was? Did he really want all of that? Was he merely denying the ache inside -the ache for something more, something better, something much greater, for some recognition, some power, some honour - was he just suppressing that because he was so afraid that once he tasted honour he would not be able to get enough? That he would push himself to every extreme just to show the world that he was more than just the man they thought they knew?

Inside the dark confines of his imagination, Murtagh desperately wanted a taste of power. More than most people could even begin to comprehend. He wanted every one of his senses to be filled with the thing that had driven hundreds to their deaths, that had changed so many lives - some for better some for much much worse. He wanted power, and he wanted it badly. That was one trait he had in common with the father who had despised him - a furious lust for power. But, unlike Morzan, he had long since given up on trying to get it. The dragon had brought his father power so easily - how was Murtagh, a mere man with no fancy beast to aid him, supposed to achieve that same product?

As the door softly clicked open, Murtagh stepped into his room, looking around it with more than a little distaste. There were still hideous gashes in the wall, the product of Morzan drunkenly chucking his sword around all those years ago. Murtagh wished silently that he had continued to his the wall instead of his son's back. Murtagh realised suddenly that he wished ridiculously often. His life was made up of broken promises, unanswered prayers, denied wishes. Merely a drastic portfolio of broken hopes collected together in one hopeless fabric of a life.

He eyed his reflection in a polished copper mirror. As usual, the man who stared back in the mirror did not look like who he thought he was, but he looked attractive. He could not help but look attractive - it was the one thing his parents had seemed to make right when he was created. He was confused, different, alone - but at least he had looks, he thought bitterly. Ironic. Quite possibly the most useless gift he could ever have been presented with had been the only one of note which he had received from his parents. He had the same diabolically dark hair as his father, and deep brown eyes to match, a stunning yet somehow wicked combination that only seemed to add to the mystery surrounding him, the mystery that made servant girls whisper behind his back when they thought so very foolishly that he could not hear. Like his father too, he rarely wore anything besides his life's colour scheme - an elegant but rather un-romantic choice of black, accented with more black. Yes, his appearance was almost a reflection of a younger Morzan…proud, strong and beautiful… which he sorely hated, but could not change. But, as Murtagh had decided, if he did have to be like Morzan in some way, it was better to have his father's looks than his temper. Yes, better to look the devil than to behave as one.

Murtagh collapsed onto his bed, letting out a small tired sigh. Winter was seeming to span a whole year of its own - lingering days filled with cold and ice and nothing much to do. He had given up on the lessons that Galbatorix had insisted he had, failing everything he was supposed to study because he hadn't the willpower to plow his way through the pages of the thick book it was commanded that he read. Morzan had been a fighter not an intellectual, and Murtagh supposed he had inherited that from his father too. But the fat volumes that he had kicked under the bed, hidden behind a wooden cupboard, and even - in a moment of extreme annoyance - dropped out of the window, were seeming all the more tempting in these dreary days of frost and ice. Peering under the dark wooden bed frame, he retrieved the battered book he was supposed to read, and flicked through it with distaste.

He was jolted from his study however, when there was an odd noise from the disused servant quarters. Murtagh frowned. The quarters had not been used after Morzan died - so what was this noise? It was a horrible scraping sound, raspy and then suddenly whining. Cautiously, Murtagh closed his book with a snapping sound and got to his feet, confused, to investigate the source of the sounds.

When he closed his door and turned, he was startled to see the door to the servant quarters slightly ajar. Now that was something strange… warily, he pushed it a little further open, curious. There were two almost identical cries of surprise as Murtagh and Tornac's eyes met. Tornac stared in astonishment with his slightly mournful silver eyes over the top of some sort of wooden thing which appeared to be the source of the sound, but Murtagh had no clue what it was.

Murtagh was the first to regain his composure, shuffling in and leaning on the doorframe casually, trying not to appear too excited by either his trainer or the object in his hands. "What is it?" he asked curtly, indicating the wooden thing in Tornac's hands. Tornac glanced from him to his wooden instrument, before meeting Murtagh's glance again, clearly trying hard to contain his amusement.

"It's a violin." he said slowly, carefully, voice resounding with the beautiful accent that intrigued Murtagh so very much, the smile innocently hidden from his face save for a slight glittering in his eyes. "Haven't you ever seen a violin before?" Murtagh shook his head slowly. "where I come from, we play music on it." Tornac explained helpfully to a bemused looking Murtagh, who was mentally cursing himself for not studying this sort of thing and thus making himself look a complete fool.

"Music?" he asked, perhaps sounding a little too sceptical - Tornac's face fell slightly, as he reassured Murtagh that, yes, violins were used to play music, and asked if he could perhaps show him. Murtagh, intrigued, nodded, standing up a little straighter against the wall in poorly contained interest. Tornac's childish smile returned to his face, as he carefully put a thin bow to the strings, and began to turn pegs slowly. Murtagh stared at it in shock and distaste. "Hells… music?!" he commented, and then, seeing Tornac give him a disappointed glare, hurriedly added. "I mean to say that it's a different 'music' to that I'm used to."

Tornac looked at him, with the smile temporarily replaced with weary annoyance at his pupil's ignorance. "It sounds horrible, Murtagh, because I am tuning it." he articulated dryly, "it always does. You have to learn to hold your tongue a little longer, and maybe you will find that there are better things in life than you had ever thought possible. Have a little patience please." Murtagh frowned, taken aback, and obediently stopped questioning, and watched, silent, still desperate to hear what sound the violin made. After a while, Tornac stopped, stretched his fingers out, glanced furtively at a still intrigued Murtagh, and started to play.

Murtagh watched, astounded, entranced not only by the music but by the man playing the thing that made such a beautiful sound. Tornac looked up, saw the amazement making its way into Murtagh's brown eyes, and smiled, continuing to play. Murtagh cocked his head to one side like a dog interested in what its master was doing, watching Tornac's fingers carefully, wondering how the violin was making such an elegant sound. When Tornac finally did play his closing note, and lifted the bow from the strings, Murtagh was staring, brown eyes wide and filled with their usual confusion. Tornac looked to him silently seeking an opinion.

"It's better than I thought" Murtagh muttered, quietly, carelessly. Not showing any of the glowing vivacity in his eyes. Tornac smiled back for a moment, finding Murtagh's reluctance somehow entertaining.

"Does it still make your horrible noise?" he asked, his voice irritated but his features smiling radiantly, happy at seeing his pupil so excited by his violin. Murtagh shook his head slowly. "I see you need to work on your patience as well as your concentration." he remarked. "Dear me, there is a lot of work to do on you, isn't there Murtagh?" Without waiting for a reply, he started to wrap up his violin in a thick cloth. "Now if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to." he looked up expectantly, waiting for Murtagh to leave.

Murtagh, being Murtagh, didn't. "Why are you here?" he asked softly, his dark eyes never for a moment leaving the man in the centre of the room. Tornac raised one eyebrow in a way that Murtagh found strangely sweet, and then wordlessly cursed himself for thinking so.

"Memory to work on too, Murtagh?" he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I am to teach you how to fight better. In case you had forgotten we had a sparring lesson just this morning." Murtagh frowned, irritated at Tornac's tone.

"I meant here." he quietly indicated the room they were standing in. "why the servant quarters? These have been locked for quite some time."

Tornac could not hide the smile from creeping onto his face. "Murtagh, Murtagh, what am I to do with you… these are the servants quarters for servants of the master in that room just there." he indicated Murtagh's own room. "and unless I am very much delirious, drunk, or otherwise incapable of thought, I believe that you are the current resident of it. As your trainer, I am to stay in here." he indicated the room. "Question answered?" Murtagh's mouth formed a small 'oh' before nodding slightly. "And now may I please have a little peace? I may be staying in servant quarters, but I will remind you that I will most certainly not be attending to your every need like some sort of maid. I will train you, that is the extent of it Murtagh. I am not paid to wash, dress and feed you. I only deal with swords. Unless, that is, you require help with finding the door?" He pointed to the thick wooden door behind Murtagh. "You go through there, Murtagh. Not the most intelligent of nobles, are you? Dear dear me… a little brat prince indeed."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow, eyes sparking dangerously, as Tornac looked at him, in mock pensive decision, before beginning again; "Ah! No, I am sorry, your arrogance quite made me think so, but now I come to think of it, a noble would not dare to come to his servants quarters for fear of ruining his reputation." Tornac smiled darkly, twirling his violin bow in his fingers. "You, on the other hand, have all the pride with none of the dignity." He nodded towards the door. "That way to the door, Murtagh… I assume you do not need a map?" Murtagh gritted his teeth to avoid responding to the provoking, seeing the smile in Tornac's eyes and knowing full well that the man was enjoying teasing him. His mind refused to feel hatred for the thing that so sweetly mocked him, finding it too childishly playful, too lovely a thing to be hated. Instead he decided that, like their sparring match, this was a fight he was completely outdone in.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you." he told him dryly, and quickly left Tornac's room, closing the door softly behind him and returning to his room, fuming but unable to let it out on anything. He could still not bring himself to hate Tornac, he realised, and was disgusted with himself. He realised that more of the irritation came from this disability to feel what he should have than from the provoking itself. He opened the book and stared at the pages, mind full of the melancholy beauty of the violin… and the mournful, murderously irresistible silver eyes of the man who played it.

Murtagh never saw the way Tornac stared after him, stared into the door long after Murtagh had closed it, thinking very much the same of the beautifully deep brown eyes that when they had shown so much excitement beyond the pride had held a dark sort of beauty in them.

Tornac finally stopped looking at the space Murtagh had just vacated, and put his violin away, quietly smiling to himself. Murtagh… He allowed his mind to wonder aimlessly to his pupil, smiling slightly at the thought of those dark eyes and that terribly sweet, proud and yet totally bemused expression that seemed to be constantly on his face. Very confident - he positively adored that. Loved the way he was confident to a point of it just being brash stupidity, willing to take even the most ridiculous risks just to try and get a result. Yes, he liked the man… so much so that it confused Tornac. Liked him more than he recalled ever liking somebody before - and on such small snatches of meetings. There was something there, a spark that he doubted Murtagh had even realised himself yet. Something that made him convinced that his pupil could be great, could be powerful, could learn swordsmanship better than most even dreamed of… but it was not even just about the sword. It was pure determination, a burning desire to be great, to achieve, to be noticed. To be different, and be able to be proud of it. Yes, there was the same flame inside. All he needed to do was to let it out of his new pupil.

He loved Murtagh's character, loved how strong and powerful - and yet how pleasantly breakable all at the same time - he was. Found the over-confidence, the frank expression of exactly what he thought and lack of concentration secretly rather enticing. Part of him wanted to fight this wonderful thing, wanted to spar with Murtagh again and again just to see how he used his sword, to tear his ego and his reputation to tatters, just to see the little defeated look cross his face, just to have him at his mercy… the other part cried desperately to be careful not to hurt this gorgeous thing, to be careful not to taunt him too much, not to push too far. Not to harm him. Wanted to force his new pupil to the very brink of all possibility, and at the same time hold him so close as to positively smother him with protection. But that would do nothing to improve Murtagh's fighting skill, and so he would have to restrain from being overly cautious with him. After all - there was so much power there too running through those veins. Murtagh was not going to be quite so easily broken as he imagined. No.

He loved the innocence. Loved how sweet, so well spoken - or at least, when he wanted to be - how careful Murtagh was, beyond all of those dark smiles, those little dark flickers in his eyes when he became overly confident, beyond the way he could not help but be frank, beyond the lack of patience. Wanted to see again and again the way he looked up with such angelic bewilderment, and yet such a dark spark that let him know he would fight another day, when he was defeated. He loved the confusion in those brown eyes as they had looked over him warily, loved the way they were so innocently uncertain… he loved the way they stared at his violin in pure amazement, enjoying its sound with quiet simple appreciation. Loved the way Murtagh's dark eyes remained fixed on the object of his fascination… but he was going to have to forget love. It was his job, his duty, to bring honour to his pupil, and so he would.

…just not necessarily in the way Murtagh would be expecting.

Author: you have no idea how many times I wrote and rewrote different versions of this chapter, most of which will probably end up as random later chapters instead… but anyway… I was listening to so much Children of Bodom and Soilwork it's unbelievable…

That was chapter 2! Quite long by my standards. Please please review - I'm getting lots of hits but suspiciously few reviews! It only takes two seconds of your time. What are you waiting for?

Oh, and I know that Christopher paolini uses scrolls instead of books, but I don't care - I hate the word scroll. Stuff Paolini.

Anyway, enough of that.

REVIEW!!!