Murtagh felt for a moment like a spell had frozen him in place, and someone had set off an explosion next to his head.
There was a ringing in his ears, and a hundred flickering images, memories all flooding him in one great wave, as he stared down at the earnest-faced boy, whose features he now recognized.
Shame what happened to him, Aberfell's voice said in the distant past, his eyes crinkling with a sad smile, He was a good man.
Those words, spoken of Tornac, spoken in kindness to Murtagh, had caused Aberfell's death. One of only a few people who had been friendly to Murtagh in Uru'baen, Aberfell had been truly concerned with Murtagh's well-being, and not just what he could do for him.
You may kill him, The King's voice had drawled casually, sealing the young man's fate.
Now to Murtagh's mind came unbidden the terrible images from that day in the courtyard, when he'd defeated Aberfell in a display of swordsmanship, and the king had ordered his doom. Aberfell had knelt before him, painfully understanding, his kind face not marred by hatred for what Murtagh was about to steal from him. His life. His dreams. His time with his family.
It's alright, Aberfell had said, resigned.
And in the corner, a woman had clutched her son's head to her torso, hiding his eyes from what was about to happen, so he would not live with the memory of watching his father die. That same boy now stood before Murtagh, reflecting back his father's eyes, and Murtagh was speechless.
Of all the many deaths he was responsible for, of all the people whose lives he had cut short, he hadn't expected this. He felt Thorn's surprise and grief mingling with his own, and they were paralyzed.
There was silence in the clearing as Murtagh stared, his ears ringing. He was still sitting atop Thorn, frozen in the moment, as the young boy shifted his gaze to Arya and back, unsure.
Before Thorn or Murtagh could recover themselves and say something, the boy seemed to decided that he was supposed to speak, and, with a unsure stutter, he twisted his hand over his sternum in the Elves' traditional greeting.
"A–atra estern—"
"No," Murtagh blurted out, interrupting the boy, who blinked in surprise. Murtagh finally managed to get his limbs to move, jerkily and uncertain, and he dismounted.
"N–you don't…." Murtagh started, swallowing tightly, "I'm not an elf," He concluded limply.
In truth, he had to stop the boy, because he could not bear to watch Aberfell's son bow to him and give him a greeting of respect. How could he let that happen? It would be shameful.
"I…" Murtagh started, blinking too much, trying to get his jumbled thoughts back in order. Kellan looked confused, like he had done something wrong.
He thinks you're angry with him, you're making it worse. Say something useful, Murtagh thought frantically, but his mouth was dry and no words came to mind.
He looked to Arya for help, but she seemed to be watching the scene unfold with careful stillness, unwilling to step in, waiting for the two of them to deal this out together. Thankfully, Thorn recovered his wits before Murtagh, and he drew Kellan's attention away as he brought his head low towards the young rider and his dragon.
Well-met, Kellan-Son-Aberfell, Thorn murmured with a low melancholy. Kellan shifted, as he felt the press of Thorn's mind for the first time.
And well-met, Tilyah-Sky-Scales, truly your color is that of a new-risen day, a fine fit among the company of Winged–Ones.
The rose-pink dragon blinked and ducked her neck a bit, as Thorn sent a mental image of a sunrise, the sky brushed a beautiful pink. Murtagh felt the touch of the dragon's mind, which was like a soft breeze rippling through a light-filled forest.
Thank you, Thorn-Ruby-Scales, She murmured with a blink.
Thorn had bought him a few seconds to get himself composed after the sudden shock, and with a tight breath Murtagh forced himself to look at Kellan again.
"The two of you fly well together," He complimented, knowing that it often took a while for dragon and rider to move smoothly in the sky. Kellan looked like he couldn't meet Murtagh's eyes for more than a few seconds.
"Th–thank you, master," He said, and Murtagh felt a tight twist.
The boy was being stunningly polite, calm, and respectful; Murtagh had expected glares and cursing and sullenness. He wasn't sure this was better; he didn't know what to do with it—with reserved deference—he wanted Kellan to shout at him, to stamp his feet and fling insults, then they could get it out and get it over with. But the boy was strikingly composed for someone so young, facing something so complicated. Murtagh wasn't sure if he should bring it up first, or wait for Kellan to say something, but he was spared the decision when Arya finally said,
"Kellan, perhaps you can show Murtagh the Crags. He has not visited the stream or the glades before. And I'm sure, Tilyah, that Thorn would like to be shown the valley. Firnen can join you."
Kellan nodded, and Murtagh tried to get himself to take a full breath, reorganizing his thoughts, coming back to his body after going numb for a few moments. Arya gave Murtagh a bolstering look, as Kellan looked at his dragon, something silently passing between them, before he hesitatingly turned towards a wooded path.
Remember, Thorn said softly as he turned to follow Firnen to the edge of the crags, You are both riders; you have that much in common.
Murtagh nodded only slightly, following Kellan as he ducked into the shadows of the trees, away from the clearing where Arya slipped into the small hut.
They walked in silence for a while, the sounds of the forest filling the air around them; it was lighter in this part of the woods, so close to the cliff-face which allowed the sun to filter in through the trees more freely than in the dense dells.
Murtagh walked slightly behind Kellan, who couldn't seem to decide whether to stroll briskly or to slow down. The boy was not looking at him, but somehow Murtagh felt all Kellan's energy focused on him, like he was staring at him through the back of his head.
Murtagh took deep breaths to keep himself calm, and tried to organize his thoughts. Here they were, in Ellesmera, alone, and they had come to it. Aberfell's death lay between them like a smoldering fire, and they would have to talk it out, as Eragon said, before either of them could move on.
Most of all, Murtagh wanted Kellan to feel safe—like he could express whatever it was he wanted to express, without fear of reprimand. So Murtagh tried to channel the teaching of the Eldunari, who always seemed to be able to handle even the strongest of emotions, and return with fitting wisdom.
You are a master dragon rider, He reminded himself, You have to show him he can trust you. You have to make the first move.
"How have you found Ellesmera?" Murtagh asked, deciding it was a safe enough topic, and one that the two of them could relate on. Kellan glanced his way nervously as they walked.
"The elves are… very nice to me," He said, his lanky legs tripping a bit on the roots. Despite his unnerved state, Murtagh could spot an evasion when he heard one. Kellan was being polite.
"They can be a bit much," Murtagh offered, and Kellan looked his way, first surprised, then a little relieved. He nodded a bit bashfully.
"Um…. yes, a bit much," He agreed, "Lots of rules that seem… well, a little silly to me; and some of them can be… intense."
He glanced at Murtagh, as if checking that it was okay to voice his criticisms.
"But they've given me and Tilyah everything we need," He clarified quickly, "And–and we've learned a lot, and they always help me when I get lost."
He nodded his conclusion, as though determined to say more positive than negative things about his hosts. Murtagh took note of it, and appreciated the instinct.
"Master Arya says this is your first time here too," Kellan offered after a moment, likely hoping to steer away from the topic of Elves and their eccentricities.
Murtagh nodded.
"Aye."
"Why didn't you ever visit before? I mean–um–with Master Eragon or the others."
Murtagh paused a moment before he spoke, ducking under a low-hanging pine bow, whose tresses were interwoven with glistening spiderwebs.
He was reluctant to go into that painful territory, but there was nothing for it, he just had to get it out.
"...Master Arya has taught you about Master Oromis and Master Glaedr? Who used to live on the Crags?" He asked, and Kellan nodded, his eyes blinking widely.
"Well… during the war I was enslaved to the Usurper King," Murtagh said matter-of-factly, keeping his eyes ahead and his voice even, "And he used me and Thorn to end their lives."
Out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh saw a wince pass Kellan's face, as though the boy had not realized where his question would lead. No doubt Arya had told him about the Rider War, and about Murtagh's role in it, but he had failed to connect Ellesmera to Oromis and Glaedr's death.
"The elves were wounded by their loss, of course," Murtagh continued stalwartly, "And many of them were angry with me, as was their right. So out of respect I have stayed away from here, to give them time to grieve."
Kellan's lips were tight, and Murtagh could see him thinking hard.
"But you…" He hesitated, "I mean, M–Master Arya said that… that Galbatorix took over your mind, that–that he killed Oromis, and you didn't have any choice."
Murtagh nodded.
"That is true," He concurred, "But it was still my hand, my sword."
He gestured to Zar'roc, and saw Kellan's glance.
"It is understandable," Murtagh said meaningfully, "That Oromis' friends would wish to keep away from me, or maybe harbor resentment towards me. It may be that seeing Thorn and I brings up bad feelings for them, and those feelings are legitimate. I do not fault them for that."
Kellan's eyes flickered, and he looked down.
"But… they've forgiven you now?" He asked, looking ahead on the path instead of at Murtagh. Murtagh took a breath.
"Well. Master Arya has, and many of our friends at Mt. Argnor," Murtagh said with a sigh, "Of the others, I do not know yet. But Master Arya says that now is a good time for me to come here, and to give those Elves who wish to confront me about their feelings a chance to do so. And I trust her judgment."
They crunched over last year's layer of leaves, and Murtagh heard the bubble of a stream growing closer.
"Did you—I mean… do you remember what it was like? Fighting M–Master Oromis?" Kellan asked, as the path opened up onto a small clearing which sloped down towards a gentle riverbank, clear water bubbling past and wildflowers beginning to peek up over the green grasses.
"You mean do I remember killing him?" Murtagh asked, and Kellan nodded nervously.
"No," He said softly, "Not exactly. I have glimpses, impressions… and Thorn has shown me his memories. But I was not there in those moments; it was like I was asleep."
They were standing on the edge of the bank now, watching the water go by, near to a row of three stumps that seemed to be worn from many years of being used as seats. No doubt this was where Arya had the students work on their meditation.
They were both silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of the forest glade.
"And… was it like that… with my father?" Kellan asked, his hesitant voice mixing with the noise of the stream, "Did the King… take over your mind then too?"
Murtagh took a long breath, squinting as the sun sparkled off the small waves.
"No," He said finally, "I was awake, when I killed him."
He wanted to say 'when he died' or 'when he lost his life'—that would've felt kinder, that blow might've landed softer. But it wasn't the truth, and he owed Kellan total honesty.
He waited for the anger to come, but instead Kellan just watched a bird flutter over their heads. His small face full of heavy thoughts.
"My mum always told me it wasn't your fault what happened," He said quietly after a moment, "So I guess I thought… maybe it was the same as with Master Oromis. That the King made you do it."
Murtagh blinked, feeling a sudden heat behind his eyes, a wonder at this woman he hardly knew, who had watched him kill her husband, and who had later apparently defended him to her orphaned son. He had not expected this, and it took him a moment to stifle the pain that it brought up.
"The King did make me do it," Murtagh managed to say finally, seeing that Kellan's statement had become a question, "But not by taking over my body."
Murtagh held his hands behind his back, breathing carefully to stay calm and keep his voice even.
"He owned me," He explained, "And I had to do whatever he said. Your father was a friend to me, and he was kind when many others weren't. The King knew that, and he didn't like it. He wanted me to feel completely alone, which is why he made me do what I did."
Murtagh forced himself to look down at the boy's face.
"I would've given anything not to hurt your father."
Kellan's brow creased, and his mouth twisted a bit as he looked down at the moist dirt beneath their feet. He seemed to hesitate a moment, before saying,
"I guess I always thought… or I always wondered if maybe…" Kellan shifted, "If maybe you could've said no? If maybe you could've tried not to, and the king might've… changed his mind..."
Murtagh grimaced, hearing just how young Kellan was, the weak hopefulness in his voice, even all these years later, when his father had been gone for half his life.
The truth was, if Murtagh had said no, then Galbatorix would have killed not only Aberfell, but his wife and Kellan as well. That was a lesson Murtagh had been taught early on, and it was why he had obeyed the first time when Galbatorix had demanded he kill the swordsman.
But telling Kellan that would be cruel—the boy deserved the truth, but that truth was one that would haunt him for the rest of his life: that his father had died to save him. Murtagh knew he couldn't lay the blame at Kellan's feet, so he chose a different truth instead.
"I assume Master Arya has taught you about True Names?" He said, and Kellan nodded seriously.
"But I don't know mine yet, or Tilyah," He clarified.
"That's okay. It takes time," Murtagh assured. "But Galbatorix knew mine, and Thorn's—and he used them to make us his slaves. When he gave us an order, we had to obey. If I had tried to fight it that day… he would have hurt your father much worse."
Murtagh hoped that was enough of an answer to settle the questions in Kellan's heart, without being cruel to his memory of his father. The boy puzzled for a moment, his head down.
Then he nodded.
"Yeah, I figured," He said, trying to sound like he didn't really care.
"It's okay if you're angry with me, Kellan," Murtagh said softly, under the sound of the river, "I took something precious from you, and it's your right to hate me for it. And if you and Tilyah don't want to train with me, then we can work around it. You can learn from Master Eragon and Master Arya; Thorn and I won't force you to let us be your teachers."
Kellan sniffed, scuffing his boot in the mud. Murtagh watched him carefully, waiting for the verdict, waiting to see what he would choose. After a long moment he spoke.
"When I was little," Kellan started thoughtfully, "I sort of thought that maybe once I got big I should challenge you to a duel or something, t–to avenge my father's name."
He spoke matter-of-factly.
"That's what my friends said you ought to do, if somebody killed your father. That's what the heroes do in the old stories, anyway."
Kellan gave an apologetic shrug.
"But my mum said that would be crazy, because you're a dragon rider, and even if I got, like, really big and good at fighting like my dad… that I probably couldn't beat you anyway…"
Kellan swallowed, frowning down.
"But sometimes I wanted to. It seemed like… maybe that would make it feel better."
Murtagh nodded, understanding. Vengeance had a quiet allure that tugged at the soul, promising to fill in all the emptiness and silence any pain—a promise which, he knew personally, it never fulfilled.
"I guess I stopped thinking that when I got older, though," Kellan shrugged, as if he were a wizened old man and not a boy barely into adolescence, "Because if everybody who's ever had somebody killed goes and kills the person who killed their person… then nobody would be alive for long, and everybody would be killers."
He shrugged again.
"And I guess I thought that if you ever had a son, I wouldn't want him to feel like I felt."
Kellan lifted his eyes to Murtagh with a simple, frank look, not quite realizing the impact his words were having, the way tears were pricking at Murtagh's eyes from the boy's unexpected, undeserved compassion.
Kellan spoke quickly and frankly, with the open honesty that only children had.
"And Tilyah says that if the King really is the one who made you hurt my dad, then I should get my vengeance on him; except you already got my vengeance on him for me. So she said if my dad was really your friend, and you really didn't mean to hurt him," Kellan concluded, "Then… then maybe it would be okay for me to be your friend too; if you want to be."
Kellan was blinking up at Murtagh with an expectant look, his eyes reflecting the open and trusting nature that Murtagh remembered receiving from the boy's father—the attitude that said, I'll choose to believe the best of you.
Murtagh grimaced, his heart hot and his throat tight.
"I'd… I'd be honored," He said at last, with a tearful smile.
Kellan nodded, seeming like he had accomplished a task, and was trying to appear grown-up and official.
"Well, alright," He decided, then seemed to remember something, and he cleared his throat, sticking out his hand for Murtagh to shake, as though they were brokering a deal of friendship.
"Alright," Murtagh agreed, shaking Kellan's hand in return, and wondering when fate had decided to start being kind to him.
For the rest of that day, Murtagh was too relieved by Kellan's calm reaction and seeming acceptance of him to worry about the possible animosity of the elves, or Nasuada's conflict with the dwarves. He was walking around in a sort of surprised haze, following Kellan as the boy showed him everything he had learned so far in Ellesmera.
Somehow the boy seemed eager for Murtagh to think highly of him, rather than hateful and suspicious towards him. His formal, reserved affect had given way to a nervous eagerness, as though the agreement they had reached by the stream had given Kellan permission to be exuberant.
He matched Rhiannath in his ability to chatter, and Tilyah, when she was around him, seemed even more excited than he was to demonstrate to Murtagh and Thorn what they had learned together.
It was exhausting in a way Murtagh had not expected, but the afternoon passed quickly because of it, and soon Arya told Kellan it was time to meditate, and then prepare to attend the welcome banquet.
The boy gave Arya a serious bow, and said,
"Yes, master," As Tilyah followed suit.
It felt like a rush of wind had passed through when he was finally gone, and Arya and Murtagh were left alone for a moment. Arya welcomed Murtagh into the small, comfortable hut, and laid out plates of fresh-stewed vegetables and warm bread.
The place felt warm and lived-in, full of life just as much as memories. Murtagh tried to imagine Oromis living here, passing the long years with his partner, living with the pain of the past, but still surrounded by beauty and life. It was a painful place to be, but somehow also comforting, like there were still traces of the old rider in the world, and his memory lived on.
"I did not realize that you had known Kellan's father personally," Arya said softly as she poured a small bit of faelnirv for him, "I assumed he was simply a casualty of the war, otherwise I would have given you some advanced warning."
Murtagh nodded.
"It's alright. I guess he didn't quite know how to tell you."
Arya's green eyes watched him for a moment, and then she nodded.
"He seems to be reacting well enough, anyway."
Murtagh swallowed, looking through the small, round window onto a wooded cliffside.
"I think I owe that to his mother," He mused, taking a sip of the elves' nectar and feeling his tired limbs rejuvenated, "It seems she didn't teach him to think of me as a monster, and I suppose he listened."
Murtagh twisted a piece of fruit between his hands—thinking, remembering the brave woman, the way she had looked at him that day in the courtyard, when her husband lay dead at his feet, like the two of them had become players in a tragic performance, left standing after the great speeches had ended and death had claimed his victims.
How had she known? How had she seen through her own grief in that moment to understand Murtagh's situation? To understand why he had done what he had done?
"She must be a wise woman, to have such compassion," Arya complimented.
"More compassion than I could ask for, or deserve," Murtagh concluded with a murmur.
Though he understood that he could not have prevented Aberfell's death, the swordmaster's wife had every right to hate him for what he'd done, and had chosen not to. It gave him hope for his race, to know that some humans were capable of such forgiveness.
"The purest compassion is that which is undeserved and unasked for," Arya offered, "But as usual I think you underestimate your own worthiness. I did not know him, but from what you have said, I believe your friend knew that; and perhaps his wife honors him by forgiving you."
Murtagh met Arya's calm gaze, letting her soft assurances pass over him. The two of them had developed an honest friendship, and though they saw each other as equals, there were times when her long years of life gave her a perspective that neither Eragon or Nasuada could offer. Murtagh did not argue with her assessment, and chose to simply be thankful for Kellan's grace, and to repay the boy by training him to be a good rider, as well as a great one.