An M&T POV. I hate this chap: It feels messed it up, emotionally and in quality of writing. This POV was supposed to come in CHP 3, but I never could understand Murtagh and still don't; his character doesn't work with me. Restrained Freedom really helped me with Murtagh. Some things are explained here, but nothing too exciting. Please point out any mistakes. Review and tell me what clicks and doesn't. Galby is a torn character and Murtagh will discover more about himself throughout my story, he is a confused character.

"So if the solution has never been to look in yourself, how is it that you expect to find it anywhere else?" – Immortal Tech

Uru'baen was a city alight with imprisoned beauty; the murky, serpentine rivers and squalid market stalls could only hope to conceal the hidden gem; never destroy. The impeccably white tower of Galbatorix's palace rose above the din of humanity, defiantly challenging disobedience and chaos: for if ever there was a word to describe Uru'baen, it was orderly. Nobles and peasants alike populated the bowels of the great, once elven, city; whilst soldiers and guards upheld the law, backed by the iron fist of state control. Uru'baen was special: perhaps the only city, within the bountiful borders of the Empire, to exist with a stern cohesion between lord and vassal; a place where the domineering pleasure places hosted the audacious meeting of prince and pauper; where one man's vision dictated fates whims, a man feared by his enemies and his subjects for his brutal methods of vengeance, yet respected: for who else, but a great man, could unite one fledgling nation beneath him? Was he not great when his presence empowered order and balance? Truly he was a worthy king as the city of Uru'baen prospered as he steered the vessel with fairness and righteous justice; a great warrior he was, with an insatiable thirst for revenge, but he was not the epitome of evil. No, he was a man as any other, with his vice and his virtues.

Then why do some men claim the rebels to be of right mind? When all they bring is chaos and death? When their armies consist of foreign warriors, Urgals and fiendish elves: the greatest perversions of nature? Whose mysterious magic would spell only disaster for the human race. Why should elves and dwarves decree man's fate? Because of their heightened prowess and congenital arrogance? Why not settle for their caves and forests? Which god gave them the right to invade the human realm? Why does Eragon uphold their aristocracy? Why trust elves and dwarves, when their lack of trust is clear?

Angry swarms of questions whirred through Murtagh's mind, each an irrational sting of irritation, burrowing and splintering deep beneath his skin, left to fester for days to come; haunting him with ghostly visages and paining worries; an itch that kept him awake, one that spilled over to Thorn; causing each day to pass with the same, excruciating, searching and distressing. Peace was found within oneself; yet what of the source? Who suffered for another's peace?

With a heavy sigh, Murtagh transferred his weight onto his left elbow, resting at a crooked angle as he observed the art blemishing the precipitous walls of the cavernous throne room. His eyes followed each stained colour, tracing the rough edges and sullen faces, culminating in the crude depiction of draconic glorification: shaking his head wistfully, Murtagh once again wondered at the king's stale taste in art. His obsession with dragons was something that had always escaped investigation.

A ruby bolt shot past the large, picturesque window as Thorn raced the exterior of Uru'baen; an eccentric, new hobby of his. The ridges of his wounds had been healed and Saphira's battering no longer coursed through his veins, only memory storing the encounter.

"Careful," he murmured to the dragon. No response was returned and Thorn soon flew out of sight. Leaving Murtagh to his own ringing thoughts.

Troubling images flashed over Murtagh's vision, the same, burning, questions presenting themselves. Releasing a deep, violent groan, Murtagh tore his conscious back into control; trembling for an articulate state of mind: his hands started to shake; clamping them to the edge of the windowsill, Murtagh defeated his raging heart and wormed for a new subject to focus upon. The black membranes of the whispering stone exposed itself to Murtagh, again. Its sinister pull had been stringing Murtagh for most of the afternoon: the stone, the one that had promised Galbatorix a miracle, when he had first embarked on the war against the riders; promised him power... power and miracles: a resurrection. Jarnunvösk had been promised: a missing link would be restored; a doubtful pact, but one Murtagh and any rider could understand and sympathies with. Galbatorix had danced to the tune set, yet the goal was no closer as when it was given.

The power achieved was never in doubt.

The stone had been silent for years; allowing Galbatorix free reign since their unfortunate meeting. Until recently: demanding that Galbatorix tested the blue rider; envisioning spectacular power: power that would influence the confrontation, deliver them victory in their quests. The intricacies had confounded Murtagh; neither he or Thorn knew what they had, supposedly, discovered within Eragon and – Murtagh suspected – nor did Galbatorix. They had plunged, blinded, into a pit of snakes, the comforting embrace of the Eldunari sorely missed. Fortunes grace had resulted in a shrouded success, of that they had been assured. What it entailed had yet to be revealed.

Once again cursing his own naivety, Murtagh turned sharply on his heels and slowly worked his way to his abode. The pattering of feet and silence of each gloomy hall passed, soon lulled him into a passive state, where random memories and emotions flitted and disappeared. At one point he passed a, forlorn looking, Galbatorix. Murtagh inclined his head, ever so slightly: he was ignored and forgotten.

No different from anything else in my life

Resuming his automatic journey, Murtagh took a turn and pressed out into a cold hallway, rooms branching of like slender fingers, each a new adventure. Thorn's absence was now extended; even his thoughts had disappeared, floating across the fabric of distance. Grimacing at his own isolation, Murtagh sped his steps, his rooms weren't far now. The lined wood of his door now visible against the steadily darkening hallway. The dark had never frightened Murtagh, but it seemed almost alive; differences stark from the norm. This was no natural day, or night.

Slipping through the gaping hole left by the door; Murtagh stumbled into his chambers, the smug glow of the candles biting at his exposed flesh.

So smug...

Zar'roc unclipped and flung across the, came to rest upon a chest of utensils, the dangerous edge glinting suspiciously as darkness dulled its reflexes and torment softened its blows.

Collapsing onto the velvet bed, Murtagh receded into calm stillness. Dark fringed his sight, before the demons of his past leapt.

Murtagh lost focus.

Hope you enjoyed. Really hard chap to write. Didn't proof read either. It is very short as well.