I've decided to revert to my long trusted old method of writing at unmentionable hours of the day as somehow - I've written whole essays on this subject for other non internet works, shows what a mad girl I am - the subconscious mind works more freely and allows us to simply open up to the true story inside of us instead of relying on the forced imagination of the conscious brain whilst we are beginning to feel especially tired. Just watched bloodties, new to virgin1 -yay- and it's my perfect idea of a vampiric night in after the rather nice meal I was treated to down at the noodle bar in town. Mmm. Puts me in a good mood for writing.

After a little thought I have decided to alter the chapter titles to all be names of Sonata Arctica songs. Consider it my tribute to a band very close to my heart. ;)

This is something of an angsty (my word processor battled long and hard with me over typing that word) and reminiscent chapter for Murtagh for about half of it. Not the most cheerful one I've written, but by no means depressing I hope.

And yes my little couple WILL be doing something other than just look at each other!! ;) This will most likely be the final slow, thinking, pondering sort of chapter, and hopefully now that you are introduced properly to my babies some interaction can begin!

Bananasquash - Thank you for reviewing. I was particularly concerned about the pace because I know that some people prefer faster romances.

Hot4Garrett - Thank you for adding me to your story alert list! D

Siren Of The Rose - wow. I don't know what words to say. Thank you so very very much for how happy your reviews made me!! I'll hold you responsible for keeping me awake typing this. ;) It doesn't matter, I'm enjoying myself actually, so hey. And thank you for the favourite adds! D

Chapter 7: Picturing the Past

Murtagh hugged his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders as protection from the mounting gusts of wind, pushing his hair from his tired eyes as he stumbled down the slippery track leading a little way away from the castle that could only be described at present to be a homely prison. The damp early dawn mists shrouded the world with a lace like sinister draping, unseen by the world that was all but sleeping through the beginning of the day. Murtagh, on the contrary, was very much awake, and was making a startlingly ungraceful hurtle down to a place he knew almost painfully well before it was brought to anybody's attention that he was missing.

This little pilgrimage had become a strict annual occurrence, which had, as of yet, escaped the notice of the king, and as such had become a secretive yet ritually important vigil for the man who now ran through the dew soaked grass, ducking past arm-like structures of branches as he tumbled down the slight slope towards his intention. This was a place known to very few people as anywhere of particular note, but to Murtagh it was the last grip on the perfect life he might once have had, a desperate final foothold on all hope of sanity he still retained a chance at possessing. As he avoided a malicious whip of a thin bush root, his mind fixed solely on the sad importance of the day, he looked around subconsciously, eyes scanning for familiar marks to guide him.

Little conspicuous indications prompted him closer and closer to his private little place, until, panting he brushed into a small and perfect gap in the dense cluster of forestation. A little trickling stream caught the slender blades of light in a perfect mysterious symphony of water, running unpredictably alongside a sweeping low entrapment of willow branches that he pressed his way underneath into the cage-like limbs of a private natural tomb. A smile broke out over his face as he collapsed heavily onto his knees next to the object of his search, his fingers brushing shakily along the harsh familiar stone surface of the last memory of the last member of kin he had possessed. Gently, he brushed away the moss which had invaded the otherwise pretty headstone, cleaning it off with the same care he would have used if it had been on she herself instead of merely her grave.

Her name was beautiful even in the carving of stone it was now confined to, beautiful even though it was nothing but the sad memory of a woman too long departed from Murtagh's world, beautiful even though the only reason it rested there was the remembrance than mortal life was all too fragile. From what little fragmented memory he still held, he knew in his heart that she truly had been beautiful, with such wonderfully deep, caring yet somehow proud brown eyes that would have mirrored his perfectly if they had been living to stare at him now.

He knew that it had felt beautiful, to be held and loved just for brief fleeting moments whilst his father was away, to be shown the love that he watched her pour into the wreck of the man who would return home ever more broken than he had been and would plunge down into a despairing mess of alcohol release. He knew how wonderfully ideal life had been when she had been there to treasure him, to treasure this part of herself that fate had allowed to become in the world. She was beautiful and that was why he had only wanted for her to be buried in a beautiful place, which indeed he had found, so many long years behind him.

"Happy birthday." he breathed, grinning, receiving an electrifying shiver of momentary bliss at the memory of his mother, his last most precious star that had been snatched away from him too prematurely. A little sad smile crossed over his face as he shuffled himself into the safety of the protection he felt around the headstone that was the world's only remnant of a woman who had fearlessly held against everything to keep him safe.

"I've missed you…" smiling fondly to himself, he settled properly into the comfort of being in a place he felt properly safe in, for a rare moment looking completely joyful.

"I'm twenty-three today." he remarked, a disturbed look shattering his sustained calm expression, starting to absently caress the soil underneath his fingers, soil that held his mother. "The same age as you were when you married father…" he pondered for a moment, and then a small frown flickered into his eyes.

"No I haven't met anybody special yet. I don't believe Galbatorix intends for me to be married," He paused, fearing inside the confines of his own mind just what Galbatorix intended for him when their inevitable meeting would occur. Just as he visited his mother every year vigilantly, so too was the mandatory audience with the king. One of these always occurred the day of his birthday. The other, much less pleasant, always the day after.

"Not that that's of any consequence, but I don't suppose he believes that love is important…" he sighed, and eyed the headstone affectionately. "I sometimes think that the last little spark of love was left from the world along with you. There isn't love anymore; there's war, and there's blood and seemingly nothing else is of matter. What there is could be mistaken for love but I suspect it's nothing beyond lust. The world has no time for love it seems. I know you would have hated that, but who am I to change it? It's a shame I'll admit but nothing is to come of love anymore. Love cannot win you honour, love cannot grant you control, love cannot…" In his heart Murtagh knew that his mother would have adored nothing more than to see him marry and have the same love that she had tried so desperately hard to show to him in the brief time she managed to snatch a moment for them to share together. Somehow this did nothing but make him feel a little shiver of guilt in the knowledge that he had little interest in love and romance.

He gestured vaguely with his hands before laughing apologetically, the words momentarily failing him to dance in the cold morning air, and then looked up and sighed in mock frustration. "Yes I do remember that I promised to give your ring to my wife when I found her. But I've told you, Galbatorix won't allow for it, and besides…" his nose crinkled "None of the ladies of the king's court is interested in much beyond money and wealth. I don't think you would approve of them very highly. And yes I will bring her here when I find her." he glanced briefly away from the stone, muttering under his breath "If I find her." Murtagh was still wholly uncertain as to whether he particularly wanted the fuss of having a woman in his life.

He still wore the ring she had given him - her final farewell gift - along with the accompanying promise he had made to use it when he found somebody close to his heart. It was rather too small and had been forced into solitude on the little finger of his right hand but the emotion it symbolised still possessed one of the most important places in his heart. It had been her wedding ring. No matter how brutal and uncaring his father had been - towards the world around him that he had constantly believed in a wild paranoia was all turning against him - Murtagh could remember how things had been different with his mother. There really had been something special of love between them, even his childish eyes had perceived that. Of course, things had changed as soon as his need for alcohol had become overwhelming. Instead of spending time together in love, the time had been spent with Selena caring for a wildly unstable Morzan as he slipped always darker into addiction.

This had meant, of course, that there had been little time for her son. For Murtagh. But to his mind this had only made the few moments they had shared more precious, all the more cherished. He started to smile sadly again as he turned back to her grave, eyes barely seeing the words engraved there anymore but knowing that they were engraved into his heart all the same.

"I still miss you. I still remember you every day, I still remember ever single thing about you that I have left to remember. I remember how my name sounded so much nicer when it was you who said it. It sounds terrible when Galbatorix says it, really it does. But when you whispered it to me it used to sound like a wonderful name. Better than I deserved. I was always glad you hadn't called me Eragon when I heard you say my name. I know you wanted that name for me but it would never have suited. It is far too pricey a name to place on my head." The willow branches whispered in heavy agreement amongst themselves. Murtagh thought in the privacy of his own mind that it would have been an awful fate to have had such a blatantly pompous and repulsive name, but did not share it with his mother for fear that it might upset her, and instead touched her ring absently.

"I remember it felt safer when you were here… even now I still think the world might have felt less dangerous with you." his fingers closed absently around the soil he had been occupied with sifting between them. "I never told you how much I loved having you to look after me. And then I suppose it became too late for you." he laughed softly, a sad little sound of painful reminiscence. "I remember how I used to say that you had gone, you'd gone a long way away, because the angels…" he laughed again quietly, shook his head at the childish naivety of it all, and looked up at the gravestone with a mournful shadow to his eyes. "The angels wanted you because you were so beautiful… but I always knew that, really, I wanted you more."

He sighed softly, a little dull flicker of pain coming over his expression. "I would have given anything to get you back for me, if only I'd had anything much to give." There was a short little sonata of silence that filled the air, a whispering hushing charm of branches and water as a natural symphony was conducted through Murtagh's wandering thoughts.

"I have a new trainer. I think you would have liked to meet him if you were still here. His name is Tornac…" Murtagh smiled to himself, sitting up straighter. "He really is the most talented sparring master you would ever have seen. He comes from another place, somewhere different. Sometimes, in a way, he reminds me of you…"

A smile appeared over his face. "You want me to describe him to you?" He pondered for a brief minute on how best to describe his new trainer, on whether to dwell more on the physical appearance of the man or on the emotions that he himself felt. Eventually he decided that aesthetics were considerably easier to describe.

"He has black hair." he began stolidly, unsure of how best to approach the subject. "And silver grey eyes. He has an accent from somewhere different, you would have loved it…"

Murtagh began to lose track of the time as it slipped, too sinuous for him to catch, through his fingers, whilst he attempted to passionately describe his trainer to his mother. Soon, he was painfully aware of the sun becoming visible on the horizon. Inside stone walls a short walk away, the castle servants would be cleaning the tables for breakfast and the smell of food would start to tinge the air. Tornac, murderously beautiful Tornac, would no doubt be waking up to pacify his sparring obsession.

"I think I'll have to leave you now or I will never make it back before somebody notices." he whispered quietly to the air. "But I promise that I will visit next year… Who knows, perhaps I will have at last found somebody by then." He laughed at the idea of it. "Though I suspect not. I cannot imagine a pretty palace girl being enthralled by the idea of marrying the son of Morzan. Lesser a man who locks himself into his own room to live his life in recluse from the world…"

"And I can imagine even less the picture of Galbatorix permitting me to marry her." He frowned in something of amusement. "I always wished that you had managed to control my guardianship a little better. I know that father and he were very… close… but that by no means makes him a responsible guardian. Or a kind one either…" His hands clenched subconsciously, as his mind created images of what their next meeting could result in.

He sighed, a pained little smile coming back to his face; "I know that I should not complain. But I have half of your blood inside me. You created the person I am, and you were always firm about not allowing others to control you, so I suppose something of that is in me too…"

Touching his fingers gently to his mouth and then pressing them against her gravestone, Murtagh got to his feet and pulled himself away with a burning pang of regret. Never turning back, he started to scramble the damp way back to the place where he knew life would be beginning in yet another repetition circle of the day.

Murtagh smiled as his fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword. This morning Tornac would not be sparring alone.

Tornac whirled in his concentrated little self-found heaven, sparring with nothing but the silence and the wind, perfectly wound up in the blissful rhythm of the metal flashing through the air. The wind was building up, whipping him from side to side, which did nothing but increase his joy with the adrenaline rush. His mind ran in a haze, his senses muted save for a roaring in his ears. There was something oddly akin to drowning in the experience. The buffeting of the wind began to make his dance an altogether more twirling, beautiful display, his hair whipping in his eyes but somehow not bothering him. He was too enwrapped in the energy and happiness of the violence that woke him up every blissful morning.

The silence made the most beautiful music to his ears. There was the vague howling, roaring screams of the wind circling higher and higher, the screeching cries of kestrels as they rode the vicious seas of air, tails streaming out behind them, the slight whistling as his thin sword sliced through the air fast. It was all the perfect accompaniment to his explosive energy. Heart racing, he spun, and finished with a satisfied smile, privately denouncing an invisible opponent 'dead'. The word had been used so regularly on Murtagh that he was starting to find it almost amusing to say, so that it lost all real horrible meaning and became just another twist in his game.

He remained for a second, panting, eyes fixed on the end point of his thin sword, his breathing coming in short excited gasps. This giddy morning ritual was his perfect dream. Once he would have wished with his whole heart that he could have woken in the morning and instantly dash into a glorious courtyard to spar away his waking time. Now it seemed he had been granted it in wonderful reality. Once he would have desired so dreamily to be able to earn money enough to live on from teaching sparring. He thought with a little smile of pride that he had that, along with some beautiful lodgings, and-

"Dead."

Tornac jerked back to consciousness in shock, jumping involuntarily. Quickly, he looked around, to see Murtagh, smiling darkly, the tip of his own blade resting gently between his trainer's shoulder-blades, its point ever so slightly icy through his jacket. Murtagh looked somewhat messy, a roughened appearance which the trainer found himself strangely attracted to. His hair fell in dark strands, disorderly, around his eyes, which were burning with a happy glee that Tornac could not recall seeing before, a devilish provocative glee which he found he adored. It was so wonderfully enlivening. His dark shirt had come undone a little at the neck, the collar folding imprecisely in stark contrast to the way that Tornac's highly tailored clothes remained seemingly pristine even after such energetic activity.

It felt to him that he could have stared in infatuated hungry appreciation for many long hours if he had not quickly regained his usual murderously calm attitude. Tornac always had possessed the skill of finding his same casual appearance even in the most desperate of situations, and he readily put it to use now. Subconsciously, his hand came up to tuck strands of hair behind his ear neatly.

"Now now Murtagh, come, don't cheat. Tornac frowned, secretly unable to hide the glowing sense of amusement. "Play by the rules if you will."

"Rules are merely restrictions." Murtagh shrugged, a smile coming livening his eyes with a shimmering light of happy exhilaration, a joy that was equalled by his trainer's own proud smile of entertainment. The courtyard filled with a light trilling combination of innocent childish laughing and piping haunting symphonies of wind.

"You're learning fast." Tornac beamed, a fatally pretty lupine delight filling his childish face as Murtagh lowered his sword and shielded it gently with his hand, a smile still on his face. Tornac looked so very beautiful when he smiled as he did now, in a deadly sort of a sense of the word. Especially when his murderous silver grey eyes were illuminated so beautifully, so wonderfully in the cold light of the early morning, and his long black hair flew freely around his face in the wind. "But I fear I simply have to challenge you to a proper somewhat rule abiding sparring match now." His eyes met Murtagh's again in confident expectation.

"It would be my pleasure." Murtagh grinned, raising his hand-and-a-half up to fight, eyes shining with life, as with a metallic clang Tornac's sword whipped up to find his own. The force of the impact sent a heavy shock of pleasurable pain shooting down his arm. Tornac flew away, concentrated but smiling.

It was just the two of them. A perfect little shared moment of exhilarated bliss. They fought, like a pair of flames against the chill of the day. Together, they blazed with a new life from the loss of the peace that had filled the rest of the day. Violence supplied them with a fuel to burn with, bursting with energy. There was something oddly graceful about the fighting, a distorted beauty in the violence as the swords continued to dance with one another. Blazing swords met, exchanged a brief touch, before flying apart again, sighing a metallic clash as a romance was blown away, never to be, leaving nothing but embers flittering away on the morning wind.

Murtagh's heart started to pound heavily in his ears as swords brought him closer to Tornac, only to throw them apart again, a smile glimmering in his trainer's devastating silver eyes. There was a perfect rhythm created by the screech of steel against steel, of love against death as they were brought violently together. Finally, inevitably, Tornac found an advantage and proudly declared his victory, the childish look returning to his face as he sheathed his delicate sword.

"Very good Murtagh." Murtagh made a small mutter of acknowledgement, secretly particularly thrilled by even the slightest praise. "But you are, ah, I fear you are still terribly predictable." Tornac told his pupil, chewing his nails thoughtfully, his accent wonderfully intoxicating. "It's not altogether as hard as it should be to parry because you make it perfectly clear where you are going. What you need, Murtagh is some good solid unpredictability." He looked up, smiling as though this were frankly the most exciting concept in the world, hands folded neatly.

Somewhat less enthusiastically, Murtagh nodded, a little unsure of the whole principle, and even more unsure of how somebody's eyes could manage to be so stunning and so dangerous all at once. Tornac walked up to him and stared at him pensively for a moment, starting to chew at his nails innocently. Murtagh just stared back, loving this image of something so angelically fatal. Tornac's eyes actually seemed to shine in the morning, a beautiful radiant little teasing glimmer of silver. Here was something so very, very beautiful. Childishly perfect and at the same time this sort of beauty could only come from something that had seen the world in a way that a child simply would not, could not, do.

All of these thoughts disappeared into a thrilling spiralling ecstasy of confusion. Murtagh froze in complete pleasurable shock as Tornac pulled him into his arms and gently kissed his neck.

Murtagh shivered in contained delight, mind a violent blur of confusion and horror but knowing that, privately, this was wonderful, this was beautiful, that this was pleasurable. He froze in pure surprise, internally shouting in delight that Tornac, beautiful Tornac, was kissing him. His whole body exploded with a thrill of adrenaline, heart racing powerfully in his ears. There was something fatally sensual about this contact, something special. The wind wasn't even audible anymore. It was just the perfect beauty in the sensation of Tornac's lips against his neck, whisper-soft and yet managing to feel right to the very deepest parts of his mind, his body, his soul. The moment could have frozen, fragile like the most delicate strand of ice. His senses were lost as though he was being held under the surface of a sea he willingly allowed himself to drown in. If this was drowning then Murtagh did not ever want to breathe. Emotions were running too fast too be comprehensible but he knew that this was wonderful and that he loved it. It was deadening and enlivening all at once, a perfect beautiful contradiction and powerful intoxication. Tornac kissing his neck…

He was brought back to conscious thinking when he felt the cold kiss of a metal blade against the back of his neck, and let out a frustrated sigh of irritation as he heard his trainer's soft innocently dark laughter into his shoulder. Tornac had set up the situation simply to gain some little advantage. Murtagh pulled away feeling somewhat deceived.

"Dead." Tornac stepped back, eyes sparkling wonderfully dangerously as though this was frankly the most entertaining game he had ever played. Murtagh eyed him in pained confused luxuria. A slight quick glimmer ran through his trainer's eyes but then was disappeared so fast that he began to wonder if it had even been there in the first instance. Something dark and wonderfully unreadable and yet at the same time it made perfect sense, because he knew that the same look had probably passed into his own eyes for a moment.

"Unpredictability." He heard Tornac laugh. "The power of gaining an advantage through doing something that your opponent will not expect. Even if that is shown in employing somewhat…" he gestured towards his pupil, unable to hide a smile of amusement, "somewhat unorthodox methods! I would not suggest that you attempt that particular little… ah, idea, in a serious sparring match." he added, a smiled of amusement taking over his disturbingly perfect face. "Unless that is that you are particularly willing to lose rather horrifically and lose quite some amount of dignity at the same time. That was, understand, Murtagh, merely to demonstrate the principle."

Murtagh nodded hurriedly, smiling along with his trainer, pressing any final hint of evident pleasure away for a darker, calmer expression. Regretfully he could feel himself start to tinge slightly with painful embarrassment in the knowledge that he had actually enjoyed being kissed. Even if it did seem to have only been part of a plan, he wanted it again. Wanted it hungrily in a way he expected Tornac would find nothing short of hideously amusing.

"Consider it, if you will Murtagh. I will expect to see you demonstrate something of it in our lesson."

He watched Tornac leave, feeling a little pang of excitement still remaining, flittering in his stomach.

Unaware that, behind a closed door, his trainer was feeling the same sensation of exhilaration.

So that was a relatively long chapter by my standards… I finished it after the most bizarre breakfast consisting of whatever was in my fridge. Which turned out to be dried bacon, cold sausage and lemon tart. Haha.

I quite enjoyed writing that chapter actually… :) I hope you enjoyed reading it.

Let me know what you thought of it, I'm eager to know. Comments on pacing, remaining in character (as opposed to going too OOC), etc. much appreciated. As you may have guessed I'm frightfully obsessed about the fear of wrong pacing and ooc-ness.

Please take a minute just to press the purple button and send me a review. ;)