So I log on the other day, ho hum humdrum… and see that the lovely people at fan have given us a summer gift, this funny new reader traffic survey thing. After a little bit of struggling to work out how I use it, I have realised what a useful nifty little thing it is! Also, to people reading but not reviewing, you are now exposed and I can see that you are out there! Ha! XD Please review, you don't need an account, it's simple, and it makes me so happy, it really does! Many thanks.
So here I am, enjoying my summer as my first week of holiday draws to a close. It's a pretty scary thought that I've already had so much of my holiday! Isn't time such a scary thing? Here in the UK the weather is absolutely glorious, very very hot but lovely in the evenings. A proper summer for a change.
A small point for anybody who works in beta-ing. A very picky point indeed, but I'm having a bit of bother over the apostrophe in making the name Galbatorix into a posessive. Should it be Galbatorix' or Galbatorix's? I've opted for the first as it sounds more natural to me, in the same way that James is often put into James', but if anybody wants to suggest an alternative or shed some light onto matters it would be much appreciated. :P
Chapter 12. The Cage
He awoke with a cold shudder.
Murtagh opened his eyes groggily, only aware of the oppressive leering dark engulfing him in its blackness. His mind ran cold, struggling to understand the basic concept of who he was and why he had woken in such a foreign environment, every thought and conclusion sickeningly empty.
Slowly, he came to comprehend himself, to realise the thick gritty taste still remaining in his mouth and a pounding pain threatening to crack his skull open even as he lay with the side of his face against brutally cold stone. The poignant reek of urine and blood, a smell that burned as it caught in his throat and made him cough, nauseating his senses and stinging his eyes. His entire body felt heavy, detached, so foreign, filled with a muzzy nauseous ache that he could neither understand nor fight. He was splayed across a hard expanse of cruel, frigid stone, shivering. His thoughts were languid, toiling, each one slippery and fickle and powerfully hard to grasp, and even when he finally did succeed in securing a hold about one, the devious comprehension of coherent thought was beyond him. Every single notion required painful effort, needed more energy than his exhausted body had within it.
Very gradually, he sat up, his head churning nauseously, instinctively putting his hand out to steady himself from the dizzying torment he was trapped inside of. He was at an utter loss for logical thought, detached from usual human thoughts by a clouded haze of something that it was past his every desperate desire to shake off. Everything was thickly drowsy and painstakingly lethargic, struggling to some to waking comprehension in muzzy refusal, every thought a heavy struggle through glutinous webs of volubly profuse, sticky misunderstandings. His body was refusing to come to proper consciousness, dithering tiredly on the brink of sleep, vulnerable and utterly exhausted, everything clumsily graceless and so utterly incompetent of anything at all. He forced himself to blink, trying to impose consciousness onto his reluctant mind, and looked about to try and take in something, anything, of his surroundings.
The room was tall; that much he could tell, but how tall was an unsolvable mystery to him, especially given his current state. Stone walls ran solidly around him, entrapping him within their hold; a harsh, cruel vice of a false embrace. Murtagh looked around, eyes glinting in the dark, as tiny rays of light through a crooked window pierced their hazel brown. There was silence; as far as he could tell, he was alone. A feeling he was long used to, even one he had come to know and even enjoy; but now it only served to add to the confusion and growing spark of fear. Silently, he glanced up to the window, towering far above him far out of reach, a small frail gleam of light managing to come past the rust-roughened slender bars. It must have been early evening, the sun starting to die, bleeding down crimson red into the horizon and surrendering to the darkness silently. Cautious, and heavily confused, he stumbled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall behind him. Absently, his fingers darted over the surface, taking in every minute detail. The chink that was missing from a rough brick, like an ancient scar of war that refused to heal. The places where the damp had won the battle for the wall despite the proud defences of the building.
A prison?
How did he even manage to find himself waking up here in the first place? He sat turning thoughts through and through, scrabbling for one that made sense, for one that gave him any source of answer. Nothing remained in his thoughts long enough to be of useful aid, every trail of memory slipping into wispy smouldering ashes around him; names, places, people, all so disconnected from one another, nothing comprehensible, simply vague ideas that he did not possess a hope of making logical sense with.
Tornac.
Suddenly, he caught a whisper of something that was more complete, a thought that made more sense finally. Blackest hair and the most beautiful, intoxicating silver grey eyes. Here was something that was finally comprehensible. Tornac was his trainer, Tornac who was so undeniably beautiful, yes, this made sense to his mind. As if it were an anchor, this one small realisation hauled him into stark consciousness.
Murtagh collapsed down onto his knees in bleak comprehension as things started to become less dreamlike about his predicament and more akin to a waking nightmare.
His mind ran amok with a sickeningly wanton indulgence in worries; his usual audience with Galbatorix, if such a thing could ever be termed as such, was long overdue, each night bringing a shiver of fear that the next day might hold a meeting with a man who was not known for his powers of empathy or lesser his kindness. It seemed that finally, his year of passing blissfully ignored by the man his father had adored to a sickening degree had come to its conclusion. The king always had been fond of nauseating overdramatics; a touch of shade magic to add vivacity to summoning somebody to him. Murtagh rubbed his hands over his face to force himself awake, only to find that fear had long before managed to achieve such a thing.
It all rushed back. For a prolonged, blissfully paralysed moment, he had simply stood at the window staring. He had looked without seeing, trapped up in his own whirl of excited elated thought patterns, tangled irredeemably into a web of obsessive desire, his heart still beating too powerfully fast. Uru'baen stretched out in front of him, such a painfully important society, such a tightly regimented ruling of destiny already written centuries before and dictatorship holding the place in a secretive vice whilst those in any control of power continued to speak such deceptions of having a fair and just society. A place that his father had fought and struggled so hard to come to be of some importance in, a place where people had died in countless fights and wars and rebel attempts by the Varden, a place where he knew he would most likely while away his entire life, simply a time-keeper for some other, newer generation. There was a place where he had been born into fortune that had fast decayed into a curse, there was a place with so much importance that he could not even begin to describe how deeply power ran through its great stone veins. His father had strived for power and honour and for respect there.
Yet the strangest thing was that that morning, it had meant nothing.
One kiss had destroyed every natural sense and instinct, had thrown everything into beautiful disarray, the most blissfully pleasurable disarray, one that had forsaken every single impulse for the sake of one happy moment to share with somebody else. He had never been aware of just how alive he could feel with somebody else, of how somebody else could make him feel suddenly complete and satisfied, of how he could feel so much lust and love for somebody that it grew to be an obsession of dreams - and that when those dreams were finally fulfilled it could feel so perfect, even though all logical sense screamed that it was wrong, it was against every law, it was going against everything that he had been taught and breaking so many rules of society.
There had still been the vague, faint taste of Tornac that remained as a memory in his mouth, which he had cautiously savoured with almost guilty pleasure, a whisper remembrance of a short little moment of lust that was soon too far away to recall. But with the bliss fading away to mere embers, embarrassment and guilt started to tinge at the surface of his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to push them away they remained stubbornly, ugly little whines of a notion that perhaps to refuse and push away would have been the right choice, to resist temptation and not give in to such a fickle thing as love. How could he still hope to have even a shard of honour in the knowledge that he had given in to lusts, and above all, lusts not for a woman of respectable birth and of good finance, but lusts for another man. Could there be any greater shame than such a relationship, could there be any greater taint than to feel satisfied in such a contact and to take full pleasure in it? Was there any greater damnation than to know, deep in his heart, that it had felt so incomparably perfect?
Murtagh remembered collapsed back to sitting on his bed, hands tangling into his hair in bleak desperation. How could he be so certain that something was all that he needed and wanted and simultaneously feel that it was wrong, that it was repulsive and unnatural to feel such a way? He knew it was what he wanted and all at once knew so painfully that it was wrong. He knew it made him feel alive, that it had felt so very right for him, that more than words could possibly explain, he had enjoyed their moment of unity. For the first time in living memory, his mother's and his father's blood inside his veins fought viciously for advantage, neither willing to submit, snapping violently at each other's morals and priorities, love fighting honour in a cruel vice that held him powerless.
He wanted Tornac and his friendship, that was utterly undeniable. What was questionable was whether it was proper to do so. How could he love something that should have felt repulsive?
It was then that he had noticed the hazy wisp of smoke licking at the air, with no apparent source. It was then that he had got to his feet, to investigate, filled with innocent curiosity. It was then that the simple whisper of smoke had flared into an empowering embrace all around him. It was then that, startled, he had unthinkingly inhaled, and then choked on the poignant burn of something all too powerfully overwhelmingly saccharine, intoxicatingly sickly and just too strong in his throat. Instinctively he had coughed, but it only served to flood his lungs with more of whatever was fast lacing his mind with its overly sweet snares. He barely even remembered passing out, with one small call for help, far away from his own thoughts. He had blearily recognised his own voice trying to call out faintly for help from the only person his mind could think to call for, pleading that he might hear, that he might do something, anything at all to help him, but the sound was so fragile and weak, so very easy to break and so close to being inaudible that it was barely the softest whisper. The last thing he had known before he had passed out into blissful dreamy darkness was of saying one name.
"Tornac…"
Tornac sat dejectedly, chewing at his nails dully in a childlike attempt at comforting himself, his head resting on his hand, uncharacteristically drained eyes wearily taking in the complex clatter and evening bustle of people dining, a frown of upset breaking the softness of his usually childishly gentle face. He never had been a man who wept, never one keen to submit to tears no matter how tragic the situation, but present events were coming to seriously challenge all preconceptions of how he thought he felt emotions. To be heartbroken was an agonisingly poignant feeling he had believed that he was long since accustomed to, and yet sitting here now was a new form of emptiness, one that gnawed away at him so much as to become a physical ache. This was a more powerfully physical experience than he could comprehend, and it crushed him into a sorry little misery of unwanted rejection.
He hurt. He hurt desperately, though he contained it with as much restraint as he was able to muster. Hurt with rejection and feeling an object of ridicule.
He was huddled over a wooden bar trying desperately hard not to attract attention and to become to some degree inconspicuous, silver grey eyes staring blankly into his drink. Unfortunately, his rather unorthodox selection of attire made this a somewhat impossible task, the velvet and lace apparently only adding to his mystique. He tapped his fingers over the wooden handle of his mug idly. Most of the drink was long since gone, but the repulsive gritty taste still lingered in his mouth. The female attention was already fast developing into something of a waking nightmare. As far as he could remember there had been tremendous female attention, quite a lot of it very much unwanted, all of it to the horrendous jealousy of those who would have willingly killed to have that same attention. How had he ended up in this ridiculous indulgence as way of comfort?
The morning had been so beautiful, everything scripted to utmost perfection, a play of passion and desires and dreams made real, a happy elated morning. If he had died that morning, if he had closed his eyes and never once breathed again, he knew he would have died that happiest man alive. To kiss Murtagh had been the most beautiful rush of sensations, had been so intoxicating that he was instantly addicted by the powerful whirl of elation it sent his mind giddily into, had been a moment of heavenly divine perfect in a tragically mortal world. It had been as a very happy man that Tornac had excitedly left from his pupil's room to rush to the courtyard and wait in giddy anticipation, so inebriated on lust and love and content that for a moment there was not a single care in his mind. Impatiently he had waited for Murtagh, waited for the man he was so obsessively infatuated with, with the man he loved. With the man he thought loved him back.
At first he had waited, long enduring minutes of innocent expectation. The minutes had grown steadily longer and longer, whiling out in painstaking anticipation that had threatened to drive him past the treacherous brink of sanity and into madness, but madness he would willingly have slipped into just to have love in a world too long deprived of such emotions. He had started to grow impatient, to spar by himself as a means of passing the time, every shadow seeming so much lighter and the sun seeming so much more beautiful in his clouded view on the world, tinged over by love to be a somehow altogether restored place. He had been so very caught up in his own landscape of love that he became carried away, twirling more expressively than strictly necessary because akin to the way a boy of 15 could fall so desperately in love with somebody in infatuation that threatened his every sanity, so Tornac was caught up in blissful dreamy romance, in love with Murtagh.
Murtagh.
He never had come to join his trainer at sparring, a fact that only as he watched the sky change to a painting of vermillion did Tornac start to realise with a sinking feeling of disappointment was going to remain very much true. Murtagh had not only rejected him in joining him for their usual happy whirling intimacy of sparring, an intimacy that would now hold much more beyond sparring conduct for an utterly infatuated Tornac, but had seemingly simply disappeared, avoided him in every sense of the word. He had sat on Murtagh's bed waiting for near on an hour before conceding and sorely going back to his own quarters to try and nurse the aching feeling of disappointed rejection inside of him. The violin had been fickle, promising to help and to relax his mind only to crush him with its pretty little romantic melodies that only made him think of the person he desired above all else.
So fate had it that he had been brought here, sitting restlessly at a wooden bar coated in sticky remnants of other people's troubles, other's attempts to forget things on their mind, in the corner of the dining hall feeling beyond all of the private hurting that he had made something of a complete fool of himself in trying to make any advance on Murtagh. It was a fool only who would even consider the possibility that a man of good birth and high importance to the king could share his somewhat eclectic taste in lovers, could share the passion he could feel for other men. In his homeplace of small, rural expectations, of religion and respects but of simple lifestyle nevertheless, it had been and utterly forbidden notion even to think of such a relationship, and here he was in high society where in all reality it was most likely punishable to share any form of intimacy with anybody outside of one's class, let alone with somebody considerably superior by birth and destiny who was of the same gender. This was all a mistake. Tornac had found himself to be an utter fool and broken his heart in the bargain.
He was surrounded by people, and a good proportion with interests in him, but still he felt desperately pining for company, horrifically lonely. Desperately lonely, so lonely that it was physically unbearably painful inside, that it was an undeniable physical need for somebody else's presence, but there were far beyond plenty of people to give him companionship and all he wanted was to be left in some of his own peace to drown his miserable feelings in his own time. He had beautiful women surrounding him, trying to make him smile and cheer him up, yet he barely even noticed. He had always been one for solitary pursuits, so it might have been to the surprise of those who knew him somewhat better that he was now desperate for company, but Tornac's hopelessly romantic soul believed in full conviction that once he found the one person who was intended for him, being with them would be akin to being alone, in a sense that together they would experience the same freedom and peace of mind and space that came more usually with solitude. Being with them would make him happier than anything else.
At present there was only one person who even came within distance of being able to fulfil such a want and lust and need. Someone who it would seem to appear was all but ignoring him, no, worse, deliberately and purposefully evading him. Tornac glanced tiredly into the gritty, lurid remnants of his drink and downed it wearily before slipping away to his room, to nurse his sadness with the violin by himself, in the privacy of his own comforts and dreams. The haunting sound of violin music drifted through the cold night, melodies of sadness and love abandoned and of a man who only wished that it should have been that he would not have been love's fool.
Murtagh sat on the floor, skin prickling uncomfortably with horrific anticipation as slowly, things became more comprehensible. Being summoned in such an unorthodox fashion could only lead to one implication, to one horrific name. A name he had come to fear and to respect and to detest simultaneously in such a disgusting confusion.
Galbatorix.
As a much younger person, as just a small boy who logic concluded should not have been able to properly understand much of the world, he could remember having a deep notion of uncomfortable emotions when he would find his father talking with the king. One particular incident still stuck firmly in his mind, a memory of being too young to know truly the difference between good and evil and yet knowing more poignantly than ever before that Galbatorix was certainly not a man of good intent, one who's smile was rather a way of exploiting fear than of displaying happiness. He never had been able to comprehend why his father so devotedly worked for a man who, beyond all of his unnatural good looks and elven perfection, was broken and twisted beyond any recognition of human morals.
However, one bleak and rainy morning: when the torrents from the sky had unchained in a lamenting harmony more emotional than the world had ever been laid bare to before, a day when the heavens broke and flooded the world with tragedy; a morning when Morzan had been lying splayed over his bed, studying pointlessly, only vaguely aware in irritation of the rhythm of water, lost and inebriated inside the reading of something of little importance that no longer made sense in a heavenly cloud of fickle beautiful alcohol; a morning when Murtagh had been lying wrapped up in soft, white blankets, shivering desperately with hot chills, his body flushed with fever that had no source, waiting bleary and terrified for the merciless vice of pain mapping out his father's instability on his own back to stop burning or else for sleepy death to come as means of release; a messenger had arrived, soaked and chilled from the rain. Morzan had been summoned, a wreck but nevertheless present, and news had started to spread in hushed whispers that Selena had, after so long, returned. He could only very vaguely remember the feel of her weak form wrapping so carefully around him, holding him so gently for fear of disturbing wounds that were refusing to heal at any pace, only faintly recall the way she had told him that everything would be all right, that Morzan would never in his life lay so much as a finger onto him again, that he was safe.
Although it was true that his father was never again to hurt him, things were never again all right inside the turbulent world of a boy born out of a scandalous relationship that went against the laws set down by a man his father served so agonisingly blindly.
It could not have been anticipated by any that the tortuous truth was indeed that his mother returned only to be buried in her own homeland, buried by a husband who was too unstable without her care to be concerned with matters outside of his own grief, and a son who quietly cried alone for the loss of the only person he wanted to comfort him, for the beautiful woman who the angels had stolen away from him all too soon. Driven blindly by grief and anger tearing apart what little left he possessed of a comprehensible soul, Morzan had soared the skies recklessly on a mission that was futile suicide from the very first hinting notion of it. Some whispered that it was set about by Galbatorix to dispose of a tool that was no longer worthy of service, too broken to be employable any longer. Others were firm in the conviction that Morzan himself had known clearly what a blatantly hopeless cause he was sent in pursuit of, and that it had been nothing short of an honour veneer to disguise the weakness of a suicide. To Murtagh the exact cause had been of little importance. Losing both of his parents within a mere space of three short weeks had left him alone and very much lost and confused in a world that moved too fast for him to comprehend. It was then that Galbatorix had so slyly victoriously produced a hand to a game Murtagh was already destined to be a part of whether it was to be the victor or the loser of.
It was then that things had started to change.
Galbatorix was not a man of simple games, and neither was he stupid. It was with saccharine altruistic nature that he had willingly accepted Morzan's somewhat dubiously expressed wishes for his son to be left in the care of the king should his own demise come before Murtagh was of suitable age to be left in his own care of affairs. It was almost sickening how very deliberately generous he had been in presenting to his newly acquired young protégée the palace room and further estate that had once belonged to his father and was in turn to pass to him. He had paid every sum of money demanded of an education, paid for Murtagh to be taught in regime of physical and mental agility. Murtagh always had been an unusually perceptive child and had with seemingly little effort begun to learn, only serving to further feed the underlying motives behind Galbatorix' actions.
It was really when his sixteenth birthday had arrived that the hideous premise of just why the king had invested so much into his future had been made shockingly painfully obvious. Murtagh was, in every sense of the words, formed to be his father's heir, moulded by Galbatorix' doctrines into being another powerful tool for the king's use as rebel attacks became frighteningly more frequent. Year by year passed by, and with each audience came further ensnaring words of power and honour spoken so silkily and temptingly that Murtagh would long since have given in to it all, had it not been that Selena's blood still flowed in his veins…
The soft sound of unnaturally silky light footsteps dragged him from his reminiscences into painfully alert awareness, adrenaline suddenly flooding his veins, screaming warning to stay alert. Cautiously, he listened, trying to deduce what was happening. Somebody else was in the room. His breathing started to quicken, as he stared blankly ahead of him, listening, not daring to turn around. Footsteps, shuffle shuffle shuffle, so very teasingly velvety, almost too gentle to be audible, like water lapping at the calmest shore, licking at it so very torturously slowly, corroding every sense of sanity. So gentle, coming closer but in such an unhurried way, deliberating, testing him.
Then an audible crack, like a whip, and with a swelling of thick, foul smelling smoke, and slender boot-clad feet materialized in front of him. A sharp laughing sound was heard in the air, echoing in acute shattering melody around the room, spinning giddily off the walls in a hellish nightmare of tune.
"Durza." He looked up tetchily. The pounding in his head was making him infuriatingly irritable with its persistence. "I would have thought you might have tired of playing your dramatic tricks by now."
The man in front of him blinked with wide dilated crimson eyes, an almost feral smile coming over his face, lips coming back to reveal deviously sharpened dagger-like teeth. In the darkened cell, the lucid ivory white of his skin appeared to glimmer unnaturally, to emit sickly pale light. Slowly, with an inane grin resting on his pale face, the shade brought elongated talons, the same striking red as his eyes, up to his mouth and rested with one lightly touching his vicious teeth, pensive glee in his expression. Murtagh sat back against the wall wearily.
Shades possessed such little degree of power in the status hierarchy that their only existences lay in working for dubious causes. Durza himself, the king's most prized and accomplished tool, though a master of dramatic chicanery and a magician of darkest intent, was barely above the lowest of the kitchen slaves. Their magic was neither particularly strong nor useful; better designed for trickery than for any actual purpose. They were weak, shadowed beings, crippled in soul and poor of mind. Intelligent they were without a shard of doubt, but it was intelligence that found little place in society. What made shades so very prominent was their ability to charm and deceive so very naturally, and of course, perhaps why Galbatorix was so fond of employing them; shades were, above all, exploiters of fear. The fear they worked to create might as well have been the blood in their veins, such was its necessity and importance to the life of such a being.
It was questionable whether it was through action, word, or mere appearance that they so effortlessly stuck fear into their adversaries, but the method was of little importance. The resulting terror was always desperate and panicked, spreading out through groups of civilians within moments as hysteria rose and fear reined. It was not only terror that they were efficient in; control came of ease to such beings as Durza, the power to strike such fear into the hearts of others that domination became an almost hideously childishly simple game to play. Effective in their employment, to the king shades had developed not only into something of a novelty but as useful tools to his control on the empire also.
It was something of an advantage, therefore, that Murtagh was well accustomed to Durza's presence and artifices. Hovering like a dog waiting expectantly for some small scrap from a master's plate, Durza would stand at Galbatorix side often, proud and utterly willing to serve - indeed, it had been remarked by more than a few in whispered undertones that the ivory skinned man with flaming crimson hair and his devilish teeth was, for all of his luciferian appearance, nothing more than Galbatorix' favoured pet. It was not uncommon for him to catch a glimpse of the shade slipping into the darkness of the shadow of a pillar, only to disappear abruptly from sight with a faint smell of sulphur and a shuddering quiver through the air. The smile, for all its malice, no longer sent a shivering anticipation tingling at his spine, nor did his show magic do anything to disturb Murtagh.
"Galbatorix wishes to apologise for his delay in your audience with him." Durza hissed, a jubilant expression still residing hauntingly on his face. There was something oddly disturbing about the proud, happy smile that seemed to permanently reside chillingly upon his stark, bone-white face. A nightmarish clown with blood red hair and blood red eyes, Murtagh had grown used to the mannerisms and tricks that would usually send people scuttling away in fright, but Durza's appearance was one thing he knew he could never come to totally feel prepared for.
"It's a miracle he still keeps you, aren't you starting to lose your use with age?" Murtagh asked dryly. "I would have thought he would have disposed of you by now. Your tricks are old, Durza."
"My master thinks not." A crease of a glare came into his otherwise perfectly flawless face, a glower that was directed venomously at Murtagh. "He finds use in me. I am his most prized servant." he stood a little straighter, expressing vivacious pride.
"Prized perhaps. I would think lap dog more appropriate a title than servant. It's almost charming how far you are willing to go for affection." Murtagh closed his eyes, trying to ignore the growing ache at his temples and the screamed warnings of anticipation in his head. By Galbatorix orders, Durza could cause no harm of any severity to Morzan's son, but the king himself held no such reservations with his own treatment. He began to fidget, uncharacteristically nervous. Murtagh never had been so afraid of men after his father was buried, until he had been acquainted with the man who his father served under. Now the fear was as undeniable as a physical pain. Each minute spent in feeble insult of Durza was another moment edging painfully closer to the familiar notion of being brought before the king.
He opened his eyes, blinking furiously, trying to keep his mind alert, and looked up to Durza. It might have been bleakly humorous had it not been for his forthcoming predicament, that the shade was seething with anger that brightened his crimson eyes to an entirety of different hatred. As it was all he could do was to become more uncomfortably aware of the trickle of sweat down his neck.
There was a clatter at the doorway as two burly guards appeared, each eying Durza with cautious reservation. The shade hissed at them maliciously, sending their expressions from mere curiosity to shocked horror. Turning back to a somewhat less affected Murtagh, he glared viciously.
"My master requests for you to be dressed in suitable manner." baring pointed teeth in animal hate of Murtagh, with a vivid move of his arm he had thrown from air a better tailored attire than Murtagh could ever recall wanting or having to wear. He frowned to himself as Durza went about muttering profanity under his breath, all attempt at restraining dignity being severely tried. Formality was something that was to be expected of meeting with the king, but never before had such measures been forced upon him. Durza's red eyes gleamed with contained abhorrence as he watched from the dark corner of the room whilst Murtagh investigated the clothes uncertainly. "He asks that you be accompanied to the high quarters and prepared for his audience."
Murtagh clenched his hands privately and forced himself to remain under strict, disciplined calm as he was led from the room into altogether more respectable quarters, well furnished with expensive luxurious tapestries lining the walls. As he began making himself more presentable for what was to come, Murtagh couldn't help but feel a shiver of horrible anticipation run down his spine. Bravery was utterly worthless in the face of the king; to show it was as futile as it would have been to try and behave in an amiable fashion in the hope of befriending the man who had an entire empire coming to fear him.
Staring at his reflection in a mirror, Murtagh clenched his hands and told himself severly to keep control. To keep up an illusion of bravery and courage that not even the strongest of men would have been able to uphold in such a situation; and he was far from being such a person. It was all a game, a game where cheating was the only way to win, where pretence was the only thing that could allow you to survive.
As he was lead out to the king's private hall, he couldn't help but wish that one person was there to tell him that there was no need to feel such worries, to tell him softly that all would be fine. But wishing was all that it ever sumounted to. The truth was horrifically clear.
He was very much alone.
Galbatorix stood patiently, watching as a man with deep brown cautious eyes was brought before him. As their eyes met, the younger turned away nervously, and then looked back with the same determination that his father had possessed such a long time ago. The king could not help but feel a small smile of amusement form on his face. The boy was growing up to be more and more like Morzan with every day that passed. He was almost a mirror of how his father had looked now; with the same slightly unkempt long dark hair and the same fear yet audacious bold willpower in those eyes that could almost have been one and the same person as the man with the crimson dragon who had for so long been his most devoted and most faithful of servants.
Wordlessly, he indicated to the chair at the centre of the room, and the man slunk down into it, discomfort and a nervous anticipation flickering over his face. He started to fidget, hands tangling and untangling from one another incessantly in pained anxiety. Glancing to the two guards standing on either side of his protégé, Galbatorix dismissed them with a mere flick of his hand.
For a long moment the king watched with sadistic interest as his company rocked himself slightly backwards and forwards nervously, pressed as tightly into the safety of the chair as he could manage, his hands tightly clasped together on his lap in a futile little grasp at some security, glancing around uncomfortably to avoid looking at him. The obvious inheritance of the thing that sat away from him in the turmoil of it's own thoughts was beautiful, but somehow watching this nervous waiting provided entertainment in its most twisted form.
The sound of the door closing loudly brought his young companion from his thoughts, sitting up nervously. Galbatorix smiled darkly as their eyes met. The younger man, surprisingly, managed to hold his stare with the aged practice of one long accustomed to such meetings, but he could not hide the flicker of anxiety that continually passed in and out of his eyes. Silence reined for long tedious moments before he finally straightened up, and with a smile, addressed his company.
"Hello Murtagh…"
Quite long by my standards, although I don't feel it's one of my best chapters by a long shot. I'm a bit annoyed at how it turned out actually... -.-
Please R nR. It really is hugely appreciated and I'm interested to know what people thought of this chapter. Perhaps it was a bit of a gamble, I don't know. Only your reviews can let me know if this is a chapter I need to rewrite or not! Please do take the time to let me know.