Chapter 7: Paths
Murtagh sat on his bed silently, ignoring the many gashes covering his entire body and the blood dripping onto the carpet. His clothes were torn and ripped, and the remains of his longbow lay in pieces at his feet. Thorn seemed to be barely conscious.
Utter defeat. Galbatorix had said to him. I have not been so disappointed in you since your escape from the palace, Murtagh Morzansson.
The rider coughed, than grimaced as crimson liquid flowed out between his lips. More than a few ribs had been crushed in the battle, along with a few fingers on his left hand.
A Shur'tugal, armed with four Eldunari and the finest blood of Morzan failed to triumph in a battle. It is simply ludicrous. The red rider of Empire sent fleeing by the elves. His dragon nearly killed. What would the people say about your humiliation?
Murtagh shifted his weight to his side, and immediately breathed in sharply as one of his wounds cracked open. Yet another red stain appeared on his tunic.
I have tried, time and time again, to draw out the talent that your father possessed. And time and time again, I have failed. Where is it, Murtagh? Where it that power the enemies of the Empire had learned to fear, learned to flee from?
Slowly, he unsheathed Zar'roc and brought it before his eyes. The black mark on the crimson blade glared tauntingly back at him, searing the symbol into his mind.
Where is it, Murtagh? Where is it?
His hands were trembling as he held the weapon. Shaking.
Where is it?
"Quiet!" he screamed. With a yell of frustration and agony, he flung the blood-red sword into the wall. It sank to the hilt with a dull sound.
I had so much hope for you, ever since you were a boy. Morzan was my friend, my best soldier and my winning card in the war. I was devastated when he died. Do you know how joy-filled I was when I heard that his son was alive and well, contrary to the rumors? Do you?
Breathing hard, he clutched his head, trying to ignore the dark, muttering voice inside his head. The whispers of a snake, he told himself. Just the whispers of a snake.
If you continue to be like this, you will never be able to reach the threshold that has been your dream since childhood. To be stronger than your father, yes? If you crave power, you will be able to do so. To be able to be like your father, in body and in mind.
"I… will not be… my father…" Murtagh uttered through gritted teeth.
I see that look in your eyes. There is defiance, but not directed to me. It has long been changed, now placed towards the thing you have been fighting against every moment of your life. Your fate.
Bastard.
You know it. You whimper about how you hate who you are. You cry on the cruelties of your life. But you have long since given up on trying to disobey me.
Bastard.
Instead, after all this time, you have chosen to embrace it. Embrace your new power, a power that makes you a lord, makes people insects under your feet.
Bastard
Embrace it more, Murtagh. As your father did. Like father, like son.
Bastard!!
He blinked. The chair in front of him had been smashed into pieces. It seemed that he had held it, and repeatedly slammed it against the floor. Again and again and again--
"Lord Murtagh?"
The dragon rider glanced up slowly. The door creaked open and there was a gasp.
"Lord Murtagh! What happened to you, to wound you to this degree?" The woman's voice was vaguely familiar. But his eyes could not focus well enough to discern the face. He thought he saw blue.
The maid from before… perhaps?
"Why haven't you healed them yet? I'll get the healers—"
"Fool." He muttered wearily. "If these could be healed by magic I would have done so long ago."
There was a silence. Then, the voice said, "Elven magic?"
"Of course." With a groan, he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes. "And you are not needed here. Get out, if you please."
There was a rustle. "His majesty ordered me to take care of your wounds. At first, I thought that they would be minor, seeing that I can only perform the most rudimentary of spells, and his majesty knows it… but it seems that I was mistaken."
"Get out. It is an order, and you shall obey it."
"Unlikely, Lord Murtagh. His majesty's words are law, and we are all vowed to obey them." There was another rustle of fabric, and something cool was pressed onto his wounds, wiping away the blood. "And as I was once a healer, it is not my nature to leave someone in this state alone, rider or no."
"I will live. And that is all that matters." He hissed.
A strip of fresh cloth was wrapped, layer upon layer, around his arm. "No, from my experience, and from what I have seen of your situation… you would have died in a few hours if I hadn't come. A certain death."
Murtagh choked, and his right eye cracked open a fraction. "What?"
"You had lost too much blood, and your magic completely used. There would be no chance if no one helped you." She said solemnly, without emotion.
"Why—"
She burst out in laughter. "Lord Murtagh... so you are one to be fooled so easily?" She said in a teasing voice. Murtagh's shoulders tensed, then sagged down.
Who is this woman?
"And as a healer, you deem it necessary to do something like that?" The rider sighed.
"You will live. And that is all that matters." She said, mimicking his previous tone. "But what concerns me is the fact that you did fall for that simple jest. It not only shows that you are wounded heavily, but also on the edge of rational thought."
"And what if I am?"
"Then it means that all is not well." A soft hand forced him upright and took off his tunic. "What brutality. The 'fair folk' don't deserve their name."
Murtagh chuckled. "That they don't."
"And as a passing note, it will be best for you if you recover quickly. Galbatorix plans to send you to Dras Leona in two day's time." She started to wrap the bandages around his chest.
He cursed. "And pray tell, why is that?"
"The blue rider's master has met his end at your hands. If that rider is as naïve and ruled by emotions as you have described him to the king, he will want to meet his mentors one final time. Yes?"
Murtagh nodded quietly. If Eragon was still like before, he would definitely do so. He could still remember the way Eragon had stood at Brom's grave. Silently, silently, standing there from when the sun rose and laterset.
He knew that feeling well. Very, very well. So many times that it was like a part of life to him, to watch loved ones die. But even so, each was as painful as the last, if not more agonizing, more aching to the heart…
There was a pat on his shoulder.
"It is done," The woman laughed lightly, stood up and bowed. "Lord Murtagh. Though I cannot heal the more serious wounds with magic, this shall suffice to keep you alive for two days. Then, you can try to heal them with your spells."
"Then you are dismissed." Murtagh stood up from his bed. "And please, if possible, do not disobey my orders again. Even if I truly would have died."
"I will keep that in mind in the future. Ah, yes… I almost forgot." Reaching into her bag, the woman pulled out a small, corked bottle. "Cesim's."
Taking it from her hands, Murtagh probedthe potionfor poisons and like before, found none. He grinned.
"You have my gratitude."
The woman smiled. But as always, she never did let the rider get a full glimpse of her face.
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So… who is she?
Is it that I have reached my wits end, and created the ultimately overused "Galbatorix daughter"?
Is it that she is a "Mary Sue" with a tearful story to share with us all?
Is it that she is just a random passerby just to prevent Murtagh from being too angsty?
Questions, questions, questions…
Anyhow, I'm really sorry for the delay. Had a few things that I had to do this week.
So, if you enjoyed it or you have a comment, please review!