I'm sorry this took so long, it took such a long time for me to sort this story out in my mind. I've written and rewritten this particular chapter over and over to get it how I wanted it. My apologies for the HUGE delay! I really struggled with this. -.- But good music and anti-block exercises helped. (Also a key factor was mass consumption of those funny little sultana cakes that someone hopefully left ontop of the freezer… don't even ask how many I managed to consume during writing this chapter, it's shameful.)
But anyway, now it's here, so I hope you enjoy it, and that you take a moment to review, it's lovely to get them, really it is. It's how I try to improve,
After feedback from Anonymous Lovely, I've decided that my writing style has to change. I was shocked when I read this whole thing back over and realised just how bogged down in pointless prose my work has become. I'm going to try and "simplify" things somewhat - get rid of the pointless drone of the dreaded purple prose (eek!) This is, obviously, going to be a learning process, so any help would be very much appreciated! I think I'm going to do it slowly and gradually, for two reasons - one, because I know it's going to take me time to adjust, and two so that the fic "flows" with itself better, so that the earlier chapters fit properly. Let me know what you think, as I really do need feedback on this.
Over the past 9 months (such a long time, I know!!) or so that this story has been going, I've had some wonderful readers and reviewers, so I'd like to thank you all for that, and for my half-century of reviews that just passed! Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.
One or two crude words in this, if it offends you I apologise. You have been warned. ;)
Chapter 13 : The Vice
For a moment, nothing was said. Silence held its eery reign. Blue eyes stared maliciously with gleefully bleak humour into softer brown eyes, almost daring them to make any challenge, threatening them into submission. Hands clenched expectantly. Murtagh sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, fidgeting, tapping his fingers up and down the length of the wooden arm with a tense excitement that was unfortunately recognisable as a cautious, nervous fear. He stared at the king in front of him, into the elven perfection of deep blue eyes that despite beauty held such dark insanity. For a moment, the king and his protégée remained staring at one another, a moment so tense that Murtagh began to wonder if his heart might have stopped, and time paused; the relentless spinning of its hourglass ceased momentarily for it.
It was the stronger of the two that finally breached the barricades of consuming quiet, shattering the illusion of peace.
"Happy birthday." Galbatorix derided pensively, with a smile that widened to become a feral smug grin, one which echoed through his whole face into his eyes, just as the sound of his voice resounded around the room. Murtagh made a muttered sound of acknowledgment, and their eyes moved from one another, a gesture of disgust from the king as much as nervous anxiety from his prisoner. The words drifted, echoing, like feathers to the floor, before coming to rest in chaotic quiet.
Murtagh sat tense and attentive, a prisoner to the king's unsettling love of fear, watching Galbatorix prowl the room restlessly, a time-worn animal walking broodingly from wall to wall. There were no words, merely the rhythm of footsteps and heartbeats, anger and fear entwined into one desperate song. Finally, the king's footsteps stopped at some point outside of Murtagh's peripheral vision. A sharp cold shiver ran down his back, and Murtagh shifted his position nervously, straining to hear something that might betray his senior's position. Galbatorix paused, for a moment seeming to simply enjoying the nervous silence that power brought as its advocate.
"I suppose you think you are terribly clever, Murtagh." Galbatorix murmured, a small hint of resentful bitterness in his voice, something that was so out of place that it would have seemed a disguise, had it not been for the genuine emotion that lingered behind it. "Your father thought the same thing when he ran off with that precious little whore of his."
For a moment silence returned, the constant uninvited guest that slithered from the shadows to wrap around the meeting and constrict it into forced quiet. Wordlessly, the younger man stared at his hands, musing and playing with the words in his mind, trying to deduce quite what was being asked of him, if a question had even been posed at all. Galbatorix let out a long breath, almost a sigh, and waited. Murtagh frowned softly, still not managing to deduce the meaning behind such an ambiguous statement.
"I'm not quite sure what you mean."
Galbatorix let out a tired dry laugh, an impatient laugh that held no humour, a laugh that echoed emptily around the room. "Come come Murtagh, I believe you are twenty-three now. No longer a child. You should be old enough to know to co-operate." Galbatorix was behind his chair now, hands resting on Murtagh's shoulders, his voice a silky serpentine whisper. "Certainly you seem to think yourself old enough to take a lover…"
Murtagh cautiously opened his mouth to speak, but his words were cut short with a sharp yelp as Galbatorix hand struck across his face viciously. With barely a whisper from the older man, chains flicked and snaked around the younger, binding him down into the chair. His eyes flickering down to try and comprehend the notion that he was very much bound to the chair, Murtagh swallowed thickly. Galbatorix always had been a man for hideous theatrics. He shivered as willowy fingers tightened on his shoulder, into a claw-like vice that twisted the scar tissue that streaked through it.
"Would you like to play this game differently Murtagh?" The king asked softly, vehemence in his voice destroying any hint of an amiable tone. "Imagine your mother and father, if you will… Morzan loved that little whore so very much. I believe he loved her just as much as he loved you…" Murtagh shivered as, with an almost inaudible whisper of a laugh, Galbatorix traced the beginning of the line that mapped eternally the feelings that Morzan seemed to have possessed for his son.
"What are you asking of me?" Murtagh tightened his hands on the arms of the chair, trying to press away the tickling sensation of fear at the base of his neck. Galbatorix merely made a small sound of amusement, touching his fingers to his prisoner's neck as if he had read Murtagh's thoughts, stroking up and down tauntingly. "Stop playing with me!" He yelled finally, grown impatient with sitting in fearful quiet.
"Murtagh, Murtagh. Let us not make this an unpleasant experience for either of us shall we?"
Galbatorix muttered a single word into the dark. Murtagh let out an involuntary gasp that he had not intended to let out, his eyes widening. Pain like fire streaked white hot up from his stomach and into his chest, a wrenching burning assault of burning sharp knives cutting him apart from inside. Instinctively his body screamed, unable to contain the shock of it. Instinctively his mind begged to double up, a primitive convulsing impulsive need to hug his body tightly to ease the sting, but the chains around him kept him firmly upright in the wooden chair. It would almost have been ironic, Murtagh thought vaguely through trying to force his body into a ball despite the chains, that such a small word could do so very much. Vainly, he tugged at the metal restraining him, short sharp gasps of pain punctuating his breathing. The worst thought was not the pain, but rather the knowledge that this was merely a beginning to it.
"Come come Murtagh, please don't be a spoilsport, I've barely begun." Galbatorix let out a short whisper of a laugh. "You used to be so loyal, so obedient. What has become of you? This really needn't have been so complicated you know…" Galbatorix stroked a single icy finger down the side of his face tauntingly. Murtagh shuddered and fixed his eyes emptily on the wall ahead of him, still fighting to curl his body up as the king's voice grew louder.
"Shall I make things very clear to you, Murtagh?" Galbatorix voice had risen now, something angrier, less silky and enticing and more a fear-mongering army that assaulted Murtagh's senses and rationales and told him to run, run, run! "Shall I tell you just what it is on my mind?" Murtagh focused his eyes firmly on the wall ahead of him. The word that slipped from Galbatorix lips in disdain was the very last thing he could have envisioned such a meeting to be based upon, and simultaneously it all made hideous sense.
"Love."
The word sent images flooding into his mind, a dizzy bleary rush of guilty, wrongful emotion that was conveyed in the most primitive way. Not pictures or words or symbols but memory of feeling, of warmth, of happiness, of content even in something repulsive and shameful All were wrenched away from his thoughts as Galbatorix idly tightened his vice of pain. The fire screeched up from inside of his body, snarling and howling as it flooded his senses, biting and sharpening, threatening to bite deeper if he protested. Murtagh gritted his teeth tightly, panting, staring at the face of a man who began once again to pace the room, seemingly oblivious to pain, to torture, with no emotion to even begin to tell him that this infliction was wrong.
"A pitiful waste of time. Love is the stealer of senses, the enemy of every warrior no matter which side he fights for, the plague that kills and bites, and burns. Love is foolish and pointless. Love is weak. And yet so many ignorant fools blindly sacrifice honour for it. Your father included. It would be a terrible shame for me to have to count you among that number, Murtagh."
He let out an acute sound, a mixture of pain and fear as everything suddenly grew sickeningly clear. What this pain was for, what this is all was for. For one little moment, for one person, for a foolish infatuation. For the disgust of loving another man. For the sin, the crime, the treachery of feeling such things for his trainer. The pain was still clawing at his chest from inside, but for a moment it seemed less important.
"Did you spend this morning together? Was it beautiful, Murtagh? Did you show your lover that striking little piece that your father gave you?" Galbatorix purred, a satisfied look passing through his face at Murtagh's all too obvious anxiety. Murtagh gritted his teeth and tried to forget about the feeling of the older man's words seeping into his mind slowly, tried to forget about the pain mounting in his chest, tried to stay focussed on the end of this confrontation.
"What is her name, Murtagh?" There was a sneer marring the otherwise perfect beauty to the king's face. "Who is she?"
"She?" He gave a small start, and then gasped as the feral pressure growling up inside of his chest increased. Galbatorix eyed him tiredly. There was no anger in his eyes, more simple bored irritation; as though Murtagh were merely a fly that continued to bother his concentration. His fingers flicked almost lazily.
Everything happened at once. The chains constricted around his body. There was a sudden flare of intolerable pain that exploded from the base of his spine through his whole body. He screamed. Murtagh closed his eyes, pressing his head back into the chair, his thoughts reeling sickeningly, breathing coming in pained, ragged gasps, only praying that his body could withstand this as long as it needed to.
"No need to unnecessarily complicate things, Murtagh. Cooperation would fully be to your advantage."
"I don't know what you're asking!" Murtagh yelled frantically, distracted by the combination of chains tightly restricting him and the pain burning away in his chest. Galbatorix let out a long breath between his teeth, as though frustrated with the way Murtagh was acting.
"You lover, Murtagh? Would you care to recall her name to me? You do remember, I hope - it would be terribly sad if the extent of emotions between you ran so strongly that you could not even bring yourself to commit her name to memory…"
"Why are you doing this to me?" Murtagh whined, a sorry pathetic sound that even as it escaped him made him embarrassed. It was almost begging, the lowest thing he could ever imagine turning himself to. Even at the worst moments of inevitable failure or defeat, Murtagh secretly held enough pride in his blood to not agree to the idea of begging and pleading. It was simply something he disagreed with lowering himself to. Beggars on the streets, those penniless and homeless with no dignity left of them; they were the ones to beg and plead and ask. Not himself. It disgusted him that he was weakening to the point where he was desperate enough to be acting in such a way.
The expression that came across Galbatorix face was one of tired irritation with the situation, as though he were utterly bored of the slowness Murtagh was seemingly displaying in not doing what was being asked of him. His voice was sharp, knife-like, and yet so very soft and silky. An odd, intoxicating combination. Serpentine.
"There is a price to pay for your disloyalty, Murtagh. There is a price to pay for these foolish emotions…"
Galbatorix simply watched in sadistic amusement as his prisoner struggled against pain that was not within his power to fight, watched as his eyes flickered dully open and closed, watched him try to form words that merely disappeared as fractured whispers, watched him grit his teeth and finally stare back at him, breathing heavily. Murtagh, like Morzan before him, possessed an indefectible determination that might easily have been mistaken for pure foolish audacity. As Galbatorix blue eyes scrutinised Murtagh's own, a smile came into them at the recognition of the expression. Morzan had looked almost the same when he was trying to fight pain. Confused, tired, angry, lost. So very, very helpless, but desperate to fight bitterly nevertheless.
If it hadn't been for the lacklustre quality of his mother's blood, one might even have said that Murtagh was of good breeding, a pedigree of sorts. Born with rider blood in his veins and determination in his heart. Such things were, Galbatorix mused absently, a rarity. It was a pity that he had managed to inherit the lust and eye for beauty as well. It spoilt the effect rather; which was a shame, for Galbatorix was, for the most part, pleased with the way Morzan's son had grown.
He bent down to see at Murtagh's eye level, and spoke, his voice slow and patronising, like a parent talking to a particularly slow and disobedient child. "This can be simple, Murtagh, or it can be very, very hard. Do you understand me?" His captive remained wordless, each exhalation of air coming with a small whimper, his body struggling against the chains to curl up, to rock himself into oblivion, to do anything to stop this torment.
Sharply, the back of Galbatorix' hand impacted across his face with an abrupt crack. There was a yelp of startled surprise and pain, a stifled mutter of profanity. The waning candlelight caught upon the trickle of blood that started to flow from Murtagh's nose.
"Now now, Murtagh. Be a good boy and perhaps I'll play nicely. Answer when you're spoken to. I ask again. Do you understand?"
"Yes." Murtagh responded quietly, lowering his eyes in defeat.
"Who is she, Murtagh? Which woman is it? One of the servant girls? Your chambermaid? Perhaps even committing adultery with one of my men's wives?" Galbatorix allowed himself to muse upon this last one. The idea of Murtagh playing games with one of the women of his court was, to speak the very least of it, an amusing concept. It was not the small matter of the fact that most of them had seen enough winters to deem them old enough to have mothered Murtagh, nor the trifling idea that there were so few of them at court of late anyway; more the idea of the possible fight which would inevitably have occurred when the adultery was discovered. Why, it would almost be like old times again, watching the forsworn sparring, giving one or the other an advantage as he saw fit.
He glanced to a sullen, silent Murtagh. Although Galbatorix did entirely enjoy this prolonging of torment, the whole affair was already beginning to bore him somewhat. Murtagh did not scream quite as much as would have been polite of him to do so, nor did he particularly give any decently scandalous stories for him to punish or taunt him over. No, Galbatorix mused, with a faint trace of a sulky child. The whole thing was rather unfair indeed.
"Are you intending on revealing anything to me soon, Murtagh, or would it be quicker for me to find what I want myself?" He asked dryly. Murtagh looked up at him in tired disgust and evident weariness of being toyed with as Galbatorix uncooperative plaything. Sighing, Galbatorix took this as an invitation to commit mental violation, and set about finding out about Murtagh's romantic life of his own accord, sordidly hoping that there would at least be some ounce of something desperately dirty to it to make this all worth the while.
He mused lightly as he broke into Murtagh's mind as ungracefully as he could find himself able to do that Morzan had used to hate this almost as much as his son did. Their screams were almost echoes of one another. Sadly Selena's blood had diluted things somewhat; Morzan had used to plead most satisfactorily for it to stop, whereas Murtagh simply screamed. A pity, but one he could overlook…
Murtagh sat panting, rocking himself backwards and forwards in the chair gently as the pain began to ebb away, whining softly with every breath of air that he managed to force into his battered lungs. His body ached. His mind was throbbing from the violation of having been forced to be examined, to be scrutinised and searched, laid bare. Memories that he did not want to have to remember insisted on making themselves prominent at such times. He was shivering, but his body felt unnaturally warm, sweating with the horrific exertion of trying desperately to keep a hold on his own mind. Some things he had come to learn to protect so well that even Galbatorix would struggle to find them, through sheer force of practice. His mind was his sanctuary when there was nowhere else to run and hide; he was not going to surrender it without putting up a vicious fight.
The chains, the torturous magic, the splintering feeling of having his thoughts laid bare had ended, but the horrific memory remained, a shadow of pain. Galbatorix was frowning with an expression that might almost have been disappointment, musing over whatever he had found of interest in Murtagh's thoughts. The last image that he had devoured hungrily had been of a time that seemed so long ago now. Watching Annette smile at the flattery of his trainer. Tornac. Murtagh broke into mental apologies to his trainer for allowing such a thing to have been discovered. He wondered at the lack of utter repulse on the king's face, at why there was such a tired boredom instead of a gleeful accusation. Murtagh looked away and continued to try and force his body to stop hurting.
"A kitchen girl?" Galbatorix asked slowly, as though the mere idea bemused him. "Hardly daring, Murtagh…"
For a moment, Murtagh simply stared blankly, struggling to comprehend. When things finally began to make feasible sense, he was unsure of what reaction presented itself to his mind. A combination somewhere between a twinge of guilt at hiding the truth, joy that his lust for his trainer had seemingly remained undiscovered, and amusement at the idea that he had managed to better the king. If it were not for the fact that his chest was aching desperately he might almost have found it within him to utterly enjoy this moment.
"What should I do with you, Murtagh? Shall I punish you for such an inappropriate affair with one of the servants?" Murtagh stared back tiredly. The tiredness in Galbatorix eyes gave him a glimmer of hope that perhaps the king too was too weary of this situation to want to punish him any further. Silence returned, but less as a malicious force as a weary defeat. The king exhaled slowly.
"There is a war coming, Murtagh. It's on the horizon. Oh it's too early for you to feel it yet, but it is coming. Things are moving. Greater forces than you can imagine are clashing and rising and in the middle of it, I am stuck with somewhat of a dilemma… you. What should I do with this ridiculous son of a rider?" There was an almost vaguely feral look of disgust and resent starting to mar the noble elven beauty of his otherwise terrifyingly crafted features. "Shall I perhaps test whether he is as naturally talented at flying as his father was?"
Murtagh's eyes widened in surprise. Galbatorix was watching him wearily in almost childlike fiendish amusement as his protégée was sent up into the air with barely a whispered word of the ancient language. Murtagh was simply a toy to him, and seemingly one with which he was finding a gleefully pleasant amusement in. The yelp of stark, animal terror that filled the room betrayed the idea that Murtagh was enjoying things rather less than the older man was. Galbatorix murmured another fluent string of language and watched with a mildly approving look as Murtagh ceased moving through the air and simply hung there, a dark scarecrow frozen in fall. The king eyed his younger, helpless companion with something of a scientific interest, before continuing.
"I see you don't quite possess Morzan's talent in that field… A pity."
There was a terrified bemusement over the forced calm of Murtagh's face. He was suspended almost his own height above the cold, cruel expanse of stone floor, and was all too aware that a man who didn't hold any particularly notable affection for him held the power to drop him down to meet this screaming gleam of grey as easily as he might lift a finger. It could not have been described by any means as one of the more cruel methods Galbatorix employed for extracting what information he desired to hear, and nor was it one of the more painful - nevertheless, his body was already tired of torture, and the image of slamming into that sea of harsh merciless stone was enough to turn his mind to desperation.
"It seems we are forced to make promises, Murtagh. I do hope that that is not beyond your capabilities?" Murtagh shook his head slowly. "Good. Good." Galbatorix repeated slowly. "You are going to promise that you will not let the love of a woman stand between yourself and honour. You are going to promise never to have intimate relations with a woman. You are going to promise that you will never give your love to a woman. Is that clear?"
Murtagh was silent whilst his mind frantically calculated. The wording would, it seemed, permit him to still give love to a man. Even if it was wrong, his plight was desperate. And yet, the idea of never loving a woman destroyed the promises he had given to his mother. He was torn. To obey Galbatorix was necessary, but it meant disobeying the one person he wanted to stay true to even in her death. She had loved Morzan through everything, through pain and fear and threat of death, yet he was too weak to be able to do so. He would rather live his pathetic life than give it for what she desired. The idea of betraying her meant more than the physical pain. This promise was going against his love for her as much as if he had destroyed the place where she lay asleep under the earth.
She had held him in what he could not have known were to be the last moments they shared. He thought now that, perhaps if he had known, he would have said something more worth saying, would have let her know just how much her love had meant, but he had been to young, too naïve to even contemplate such an idea. They had laid next to each other, side by side. Selena had smelt vaguely of lavender, which he recalled finding comforting, and told him stories of what he should be when he was old enough to take a love of his own. He remembered how she had taken off the ring that she had always worn, placed it in his hand, and closed his fingers tightly around it. How she had explained what it was for, how he had promised to give it to his lover when he found her. How she had kissed him. How the warmth of her body next to him had left, and he had fallen asleep, not knowing that when he woke again he would not ever know the feeling of having her beside him again. He had promised. He had given her his word that the ring was to be given to his wife, to the woman he loved. And Galbatorix was asking him to break that promise, to tear apart something that had been his only wish to fulfill for her. The dream of marriage had never seemed likely to come to reality, but making it certain in such a promise was too much to take.
"Quickly if you will, Murtagh." Galbatorix muttered tiredly, and he fell. It was too abrupt to give him any time to scream or be afraid, only aware of the ground rushing towards him. He jerked awkwardly a mere arm's length from the stone floor, and remained there. "You do remember how to do it? If not I am sure I can help you remember…" the sheer malice itself was enough to hurry his decision. The three words were so disgusting when they came from his mouth that he tried to imagine that they were not his own, just to hide from the shame of them.
"I will promise."
"Good boy Murtagh. That wasn't so hard now, was it?" Murtagh was numb as Galbatorix instructed him through the intricacies of exactly which words it was necessary to say, and it was with shame that he heard them repeated on his own lips, words that sealed his future from ever taking a wife. One promise severed his life from any possibility of the love his mother wanted. She had always taught of a life where there should be love despite all else. Where love could heal things that time could not. Where he was expected to marry, to take a lover and to spend his life with that same lover. It destroyed everything she had taught him, and because it was her, it cut deeper than he could possibly have imagined. He focused steadfastly on the image of Selena's beautiful eyes as he swore to the king, in his mind asking for her forgiveness, eyes closed, not daring to see the look of smug satisfaction on his captor's face.
And then it was done.
He was barely able to comprehend being led back to his quarters, the sound of the door closing, being left alone. Only the way that he collapsed back onto the bed, curled up around himself and lay in silence. Slowly, he took the small ring from his hand and placed it on the bed beside him. Selena had intended it as an engagement ring, as a sign of love that he would never again be allowed to feel. He looked at it for a long time, an image of a broken promise and a broken heart. It seemed to taunt him, to scream look what you've done.
"Forgive me." Murtagh sighed, as he slipped it underneath the pillow next to him, out of sight. He turned over emptily, trying to ease away a growing aching feeling inside of him. The physical pain would heal. The mental idea of having betrayed Selena was something he could never find it in him to forgive himself for.
Murtagh turned over and fell into uneasy sleep.
I finally did it!! I finished the dreaded chapter 13! ((unlucky for some… certainly for Murtagh, methinks.))
Please leave a review. This was weirdly hard to write - odd, since I'm usually a sadistic lover of torture scenes, that I somehow couldn't throw myself into this one with the appropriate zeal. -.- I'm kind of pleased with how this one turned out, but perhaps that's because I've been so desperate just to get it done with - only you can tell me if I'm right or not!
Comments on styling are particularly desired, no matter how nitpicky. (though a nice review is always an absolute thrill to receive and can really make my day, a constructive one is always appreciated too!)