Seven:
Farewell to Misery
You do resemble him a bit…
Sitting on the well's stony edge, slumped against the wood post, Murtagh bitterly recalled the day at the infirmary. It was Nasauda's idea. They would be leaving in three days, and in the mean time, she had asked him to help out in the infirmary.
It was horrible.
The sick wards were too small, the injured too many, and the healers too few. Dying men lay practically pilling over one another. Yet, even as they slowly lost their grip on life, they still found the energy to flinch and dwell on hatred when Murtagh tried to heal. He didn't blame them, not really. After all, he had led the men who put them in hospice in the first place, and his father, well, that didn't help much either. Although, what bothered him the most, was the little old lady who had suffered burns from an erratic kitchen fire; she had burst into terrified sobs before Murtagh could utter "Waíse."
You do resemble him a bit…That was what the head healer had said. Murtagh forced a bitter, empty laugh. I look like my father. I resemble the one man I hate more than Galbatorix…how ironic. Those truthful thoughts left him with a sour feeling that he had grown accustomed to over the years.
He reached for Zar'roc's hilt and released it from the scabbard. It gave a sinister, snake-like hiss. He held it up so that the blade glimmered in the moonlight. The sword had lived up to its name well. While wielding Zar'roc, Morzan had committed terrible deeds. He had destroyed and pillaged, tortured and corrupted. The scar on his back was proof of Morzan's reign of terror. And I almost killed Nasauda with this wrenched thing.
It seemed that Zar'roc— as its name plainly stated— was indeed nothing but a monument of sheer misery. It stood for nothing but a world of hopelessness. He remembered the tearful little old lady. It was because of Morzan that he was hated. It was because of Morzan who had helped Galbatorix come to power that he had lost his freewill. It was because of him that the Varden existed. Without Morzan, Galbatorix might not have created the Foresworn; he might not have been able to kill Shruikan rider. So then…why was he was so reluctant to let it go?
After all, it's just a sword. A mad man's sword passed down from father to son…a statement of my own misery. Maybe if I just…
He let Zar'roc's gleaming hilt slide out of his hand. Murtagh watched as it disappeared in the well's abyss. He heard the blade hit tip-first before vanishing for good, where it would wallow for all eternity, its misery forgotten to the world at last.
Somehow, knowing that he had thrown Zar'roc away, he felt somewhat relieved. Maybe now I won't resemble my father so much.
It's a start, Thorn said, looming above him. How was the infirmary? Did you make a good nurse?
It was horrible. He tried to hide the acrimony within, but he knew it was useless since Thorn always seemed to know more about him than himself. Everyone kept looking at me like I was going to blow them all to nothingness. He stared up at the starry sky, wishing he could disappear in the shadows.
If it makes you feel better, I scared the pee out of a little girl— literally.
It didn't. It only made him feel worse.
Thorn nudged him gently. It may be bad right now, but that will all change. We'll slay that monster and bring back its head as proof of our loyalty. Then they will have no reason to object.
But they'll still be afraid, Murtagh said. I am still the son of Morzan. They'll never let me forget that.
You're not Morzan's only son, Thorn reminded.
It doesn't matter. By blood or not, Eragon is not my brother. A brother is someone you grow up with. Someone you share many years of your childhood with. He remembered how willing Eragon had been to get his cousin away from the Twins. Brothers watch out for each other, no matter the cost. You are more my brother than Eragon.
Perhaps, Thorn said. But haven't you've looked out for Eragon on numerous occasions?
That was only because Eragon's head is filled with rocks.
Hmm…rock-brains must be a family trait then. He gave Murtagh another gentle nudge. Let's get to bed. Who knows what tomorrow has in store?
Politics. Prejudice. Controversy.
Thorn snapped at his elbow, just barely missing the skin. And no more wallowing in self pity!
I wasn't wallowing in self pity.
They walked together back to the castle through the courtyard over narrow cobblestone paths. Then what were you wallowing in?
I wasn't wallowing in anything. I was cursing my father's damn name!
You know if it weren't for Morzan, you wouldn't even exist. And then I would still be stuck in that egg.
Thorn!
I'm just being optimistic, Murtagh. If you don't stop floundering in those dark moods, you're never going to enjoy life.
Murtagh kicked absently at a loose stone. The whole world is out to get us, Thorn. The Varden hate us, the dwarves want our head on a pike, and Galbatorix is most likely out for our blood.
We did steal his last egg.
Murtagh smiled wryly. And right under his nose too!
He didn't even see it coming.
Stupid old geezer.