Memories

By Lindsay R. Honosky

Reviewers: Thank you so much for reading my story! I want to apologize to those of you who have read my other story, Pale Hope, and I haven't really started on its second installment. But, well, after reading Brisingr, I've sort of just lost the flow for that story. I'll try my best to keep with it.

Anyway, about this story. I thought that it would be interesting to see things through Tornac's point-of-view, since he's mentioned so little in the stories and is such a big influence on Murtagh's life (even though it's painfully obvious Paolini doesn't care much for Murtagh . . . sadface). So thank you for reading this story, and I'll keep updating as soon as possible. Please review, and constructive critizism is always welcome! And above all, PLEASE ENJOY!!

"Keep your knees bent! No, not that way; what, you think by stooping that low your opponent won't hit you? Now, watch where I put my feet and stay loose!"

"This is impossible! We've been at this for hours Tornac!" Murtagh, stabbing the longsword into the dirt, huffed over to the side of the yard and leaned against the wooden fence. It was a cool October day, the leaves on the trees just now turning into their full coats of browns and golds, and the boy had grown almost up to my chest by now. He looked much older than his fourteen years, which I could hardly blame him for wanting to act older than his age. His hair reached down to his shoulders now; he refused to let anyone near it since his mother died. Most of the baby fat had melted away from endless sword practice, revealing high cheek bones and a pointed chin, much like his father. Thankfully, he still bore the eyes of his mother; those deep emerald orbs that only grew more intense over the years.

I laid my own weapon down and walked towards him, removing my helm, "I know this is frustrating, learning a new style of swordplay, but if you want to be prepared for another attack--"

"If we left, we wouldn't have to worry about it." He snapped, staring at the ground moodily. It seemed as if, every year around his birthday, some would-be assassin came out of nowhere and decided that now would be a good time for revenge, for loved ones or some other that was slain by Morzan, or just an idiot who thought they could win favor with His Majesty by smothering a young child while they sleep. It started out with a good many when he was younger, but I guess after the boy had maimed a good dozen or so of the fools, they started to trickle down. However, a trickle still isn't a drout, and I was damn sure to make Murtagh ready for anything.

I stared at my hands, helpless, "You know we can't leave, Murtagh. I would be--"

"Abandoning your duty?" He laughed harshly, "Yes, you are one of the most valuable swords in the kingdom, Tornac, but you are hardly expendable."

"I swore an oath, boy, that I would protect His Highness and his people until my time on this Earth was at an end. Now, speak no more of this," I stood, suddenly very wary. A soft breeze gently soothed my burning face, the sweat feeling like cool water flowing down my forehead.

I was about to walk away when I heard Murtagh asked, "Why do you follow him?"

I turned, "Excuse me?"

"Why?" He didn't meet my gaze, but looked at his hands instead, "I've never really met the king before, not privately anyway, and there's nothing very special about him. I mean, I couldn't see myself just blindly following a man who sits here, safe, while the people of his country suffer beneath his reign." Then his eyes met mine, the green pools searching for answers desperatly, "I want to know why. Why do you follow a man who allows people to steal babes from their mothers before they are even given a name? Why do you follow a man who raises taxes for the more unfortunate while he allows those of the higher ups to go free of this responsibility? And why would you follow a man who single-handedly destroyed the Ride--" As if the air around him were choking him, Murtagh stopped suddenly, his entire form shaking.

I just stood their, not knowing what to do. Then the words, the worst thing I could have said in that instant, escaped my lips before I could chain them away forever, "Are you asking me this, or Morzan?"

I'd never seen such a fury before in my life. His head shot up, emerald fire alive in his eyes, "What?"

"I'm sorry, I've misspoken--" But it was to late, for before I could finish my sentence, Murtagh shot toward the Main Hall of the castle, tearing bits of practice armor off as he did.

I sat, holding my head in my hands. How could I have said something like that? Especially to an already rebellious teenager who's on edge for his special birthday "surprise". A jolt of fear ran through me then, for he was running in a blind rage, alone, in a castle that had repeatedly attempted to take his life. I stood, running after the boy as fast as my legs could carry me. Now, I'm not going to say that I caught up with him instantly, for as the boy aged, so did I, and not in a favorable manner. My sword arm grew sore at the joins, and my fingers ached as I gripped my hilt. I tired quicker, and sometimes I felt worse getting out of bed than crawling into it. You can imagine then how easy it was for a fourteen-year-old boy to loose a forty-three-year-old man.

It must have taken me three hours to search the entire Main Hall, passing elaborate tapestries, beautiful paintings by artists either long dead or hidden in his or her forest, and statues of great heroes and mighty beasts that were so elegantly carved, they seemed alive in their own haunting way. However, I never even so much as caught a glimpse of the boy, my heart slowly crawling to my throat. My thoughts raced frantically, Where could he have gone? Surely he's to old to just be grabbed! What if it was a magic user? He can shield his mind well enough. . . Then, in the corridor between the towers that led to his room and the Eastern Hall, I saw him standing in the light of a nearby window. His entire body was stiff with what I guessed was fear, his eyes wider than a doe's when she knows the wolf has finally cornered her. A silhouette of someone loomed not to far before him, however due to the glare of the sun, I could not make out the features. Instead, I just quickened my pace, hoping against hope that I could get there before something happened.

I was half way there when I heard his voice.

"Ah, well if it isn't young Murtagh! My, you've grown into a fine young man. Your mother would be proud." He stood there in such diminished splendor that for a moment I didn't realize who he was. The king chose to wore a simple red tunic with a black, long-sleeved undershirt beneath it. He wore simple leather pants, the only exception is that they were black and had the look of long use, with simple rider boots and a small short sword resting by his hip. Around his head was a simple circle of silver, accenting his graying beard and gray-blue eyes. A smile was on his face, yet it was the type of smile you would expect a viper to give a mouse before its final strike. He came closer to the boy, "Getting tall, aren't we? Morzan was a tall man, you get that honest. And his looks, of course, you should think your dear mother for your eyes. Morzan had the eyes of a dog, one blue and one black! I can't remember the breed, do you know?"

He stood, so silent for a moment I thought he'd turned into one of the statues I'd passed earlier. Then, in a very nervous tone, I heard him say, "H-husky, I believe, Your Grace."

"Yes! That's it! A most beautiful breed of dog, wouldn't you agree?" He clapped Murtagh on the shoulder, smiling, "I see Tornac here has taught you more than mere swordplay, haven't you ser?"

This time I froze, not aware that he knew of my presence. I saluted and tried to hid my surprise, "I have tried my best, sire."

"And a fine job, Tornac, a fine job! How old are you now, boy? Twelve? Thirteen?"

"Fourteen, if it please Your Grace."

His Majesty's eyes widened, "Fourteen? By the Gods, almost a man grown! If I remember correctly, today is your birthday, is it not?" A shy smile spread on Murtagh's face, and the king laughed, "Well, it's a good thing you have some humility. Your father, bless his soul, would've had the entire castle in an uproar over the birth of, oh, how did he put it? I believe he said it was the 'Day-the-Greatest-Human-Being-Came-Into-Existence'. Ah, but enough about your father," a sympathetic smile crossed the king's lips, "I know it's a touchy subject with you. How is your back, boy?"

"It's healed, Your Majesty." Murtagh replied stiffly.

An awkward silence filled the hall. I coughed, trying to clear the tension, "Your Majesty, if I may be so bold, what honor do we have of your visit today? Normally you're locked up in your study, or on some political outing."

"Ah, yes! Always to the point, eh, Tornac?" He laughed then, the notes of his voice echoing up and down the hall. Once his mirth had subsided, he said, "I was searching for you, actually, to speak of," his eyes flashed to Murtagh, "certain matters."

A cold pit formed in my stomach, "Yes, Your Grace?"

"Ah, but such a meeting can wait for another day. Why, I wouldn't want to ruin whatever plans you had with the young Murtagh here! You're only fourteen once, you know! Oh!" The king, if only for a moment, had a suspicious glint in his eye, and I felt as if something terrible were about to happen. The king snapped his fingers, then clasped Murtagh around the shoulder, "I guess it would be poor of me to know it was your birthday and not give you a present, eh?"

"No, Your Grace! Don't trouble yourself with--!"

"Bah, you are the son of a dear friend of mine! What would he say to me, if he knew I was so stingy with his son for thirteen years, not even stopping by to wish him a birthday greeting. No, you'll get something this year, yes." With this his attention turned back to me, "Do you mind if I borrow him for a moment, Tornac? It'll only take an hour or so."

An hour or so for what? Was my first thought, while my instincts told me to take the boy and run as far as I could with him until freedom or death took me. This man that stood before me, my king, wore so many different masks that it was hard to tell who he would be from one minute to the next. As a young man, I had followed him like anyone would their liege lord, raising high in his armies to prove my loyalty without question. And then she came, that woman from a little mountain village, her big green eyes so innocent and pure, so in love with the greatest knight in the kingdom. And then I saw what happened to her, and my entire world was flipped on its shoulder. Of course, in this closed space, in the presence of my king, I could only bow and say, "Of course, Your Majesty."

"Very good! Well then, Murtagh, follow me. And keep a brisk pace; I hate stragglers." Murtagh looked back at me once more, to see if it were alright. I nodded and waved him off, hoping against hope that nothing happened.

XXXXXXX

The sun had set behind the castle walls by the time he returned. I sat patiently while he wondered across the yard, a curious frown upon his face. I called him over, and he quickened his pace slightly. It wasn't long before he sat beside me, resting once again on the simple wooden fence. I looked up into the setting sky and asked, "Well, what was the king's gift to you?"

"It was. . . strange," he paused for a moment, admiring the different reds and oranges of the dusk sky, "he brought me to some room I'd never seen before. A secret study, he said, and led me down a long corridor. I could hardly see anything, then suddenly a blinding light shone through the middle of the room, and these two stones. . ." He trailed off, "Well, they weren't like any stones I'd ever seen. One was so green I thought that it could easily shame any emerald set before it, with very thin golden veins running through it. Kind of like marble." A smile quickly appeared on his face, "But the other, it was like nothing I'd ever seen before. It was such a beautiful red, like the shades of a rose in full bloom, but it also had veins; white ones. It had the haunting beauty of blood on fresh snow." He looked at me, frowning, "Why would the king show me something like that?"

Disquieted, I answered simply, "I don't know."

"Maybe it meant nothing, he. . ." He started fingering a lock of his hair, a habit he'd developed into lately, "He isn't so bad. The king, I mean."

"Oh?"

"I had imagined this being, you know, someone I would be beneath. But he talked to me just like you do, without any fear or hatred in his eyes. In fact, he seemed generally interested in what I thought about this and that, though some of his questions were rather strange."

I raised an eyebrow, "How so?"

Murtagh shrugged, "For some reason, he wanted to know if I knew magic, or any form of it. He asked what I knew about my father and the Riders, what kind of weapon I preferred, things of that sort. Then, when we were in the room with the stones, he asked which one I liked the most. Of course, I said the red one, and he gave me this, very unsettling smile. As if he were looking at me and could see me like no one else could. But," he shook his head, "maybe I'm just being paranoid."

I sighed, "Murtagh, you asked me why I follow the king?"

"I don't want to start that again--"

"I follow him because, when I was a little older than you, I joined him willingly. I served for twenty some years in his army, never questioning my loyalty, until I saw how quickly this place changes people. And it always seems to happen to people who the king shows great interest in. I've seen how quickly His Majesty can change from a magnificent and charming leader, to a cruel, heartless dictator. You must be wary of him, for you still have the chance to do as you wish." I sighed, feeling very much my age.

"Why can't you leave?" He asked, a note of fear in his voice.

"Where would I go? I have no family, no home to call my own. I have a good life here. And," I ruffled his hair, something that annoyed him now in his older years, "if I left, who would look after you?"

"Yes, well, you forget, old man, that I've already bested you twice in our practice matches."

"Aye, but only with the hand-and-a-half sword. You're very decent with a short sword, at best, but I pray you never fight a foe with a longsword, least you become even shorter than the blade then you are now." He gave me an embarrassed glare, and I laughed harder than I had all night. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I smiled and said, "Now, I think it's about time I showed you my present."

"I thought you promised not to get me anything," he said, trying but failing to hid his surprise.

"Yes, well, I lied. Now, are you going to follow me or not." He nodded, and I started off towards our destination, aware of his cautious eyes burning a hole into my back.

It took us less than five minutes to reach the stables. I stopped outside the door, nodding to the nearest stable boy to open the doors for us. I held back a laugh as an anxious smile appeared on the boy's face. With a slight tilt of my head, I said, "Go on."

"What?"

"You'll find it in the last stall on the right. Now go on, before I go to sleep standing!"

I didn't have to say it again. Murtagh half walked, half ran to the doorway, disappearing out of sight within the dimly lit stable. I waited for a while until I heard a loud gasp, then he shouted my name. Smiling, I walked into the stable, the penned up horses wikkering softly as I walked past; a few snipping at me for a piece of apple or sugar cube. I found him where I told him to go, a boyish grin plastered to his face. He looked up at me, then quickly darted his gaze back to the muzzle he was slowly stroking, "Is he really mine?"

"Of course! What, you thought I'd tell you to go in here for a piece of straw?"

"He's beautiful. . ." Murtagh said in an awed voice. I was so happy that I was grinning like an idiot myself. Two of the finest war horses the king had in his stables had recently had a colt, and many had bid on the tiny creature. However, being captain of the guard has its advantages, and thankfully this horse was going to a kind master instead of some idiotic noble who would only use him as a bragging right and forget about him the rest of the time. The colt was a beautiful deep gray, with soft brown eyes and a black mane. He was old for a colt, but very well tempered, and had already been broken as well, so he would be ready to ride with a few months. Murtagh ran his fingers through the colt's main, "Thank you. Thank you, so much."

"It's about time you had a proper horse to ride," I said, rubbing the beast's nose. It snorted, then tossed his head lightly.

"How much--?"

"It doesn't matter. Now," I laughed, "a great steed needs a great name. What should it be, Murtagh?"

A sly smile played on his lips, "You both have gray hair, maybe I should name him after you."

"A poor choice for a name," I snapped, "I'm not worthy of such a beast."

Murtagh gently guided the horses face to his, staring him eye-to-eye, or as best he could at least. Laughing, he asked, "What about it, boy? Are you Tornac?"

The colt rose onto his back legs, a loud whinny echoing through the stable. Coming back down, he gently locked his teeth on the shoulder of my shirt. Tears were in Murtagh's eyes as he laughed, "Well then, there's your answer. Tornac it is!"

I sighed, smiling but still slightly annoyed, "This is going to be quite confusing."