Disclaimer : I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.

A/N : This story is dedicated to my most favorite writer. The one, I admire for his writing style – that's why the name 'Strong-Pen'. To Restrained Freedom for his healing story 'An Enemy's Heart'. May he finds the time and courage to finish it.

The youths exchanged between them a few more comments about the hilt, and the younger one was about to pay for it and gain possession of the dagger when a rancorous, accusatory voice rose above all the other noises of the market, like a menacing cloud obscuring the bright sun above.

'Son of Morzan!'

The words fell on him like thunder on a sunny day. He felt the voice of the woman like a sword, piercing him to his core. He turned slowly and saw her standing there at a short distance, her loose hair half covering her face, her breasts overflowing her dress, her right hand menacingly raised, pointing at him with an accusing forefinger. He stood frozen looking at the wrath on her face.

'Be cursed, son of Morzan!' the woman spat. 'Cursed, for the atrocious crimes of your father!'

All the eyes of the people fixed on the two youths, standing in the middle of the market. Aldon grabbed his shoulder.

'Let's go.'

He tightened his hold on the hilt of the dagger, his reflexes ready to defend himself.

'No!' Aldon whispered in his ear. 'You said we would not be involved in any trouble. Let's leave.'

He let the dagger fall on the bench and under the terrified glance of the seller he turned and headed towards the exit of the market square, Aldon on his heels. Men and women stunned hurriedly stepped aside letting them pass through as if the two young men carried the plague, fearful eyes staring at them.

He hadn't managed to make ten steps, when a hooded man stepped up to him. As the stranger raised his hand to point at him, he almost touched his chest.

'Morzansson!'

The man's face was obscure under the hood of his cloak, but two fiery, menacing eyes stood out in the shadows. The ominous tone of his voice rose for everyone to hear.

'Accursed son of the forsworn! Death to you, evil spawn!'

For a second time within a few minutes, the name of his father was heard in public, followed by curses and threats. Numbness seized his body, preventing him from reacting. Tornac's lessons concerned an armed, threatening enemy rather than verbal confrontations in the middle of the market. Aldon held his arm firmly and pulled him backwards.

'Come! Quickly!'

They rushed towards a side lane, when a crowd, aroused and led by another hooded man, closed off their exit, cursing angrily at his name again.

'Son of the Slaughterer! It is you who will pay for your father's crimes!'

Eyes pierced at him, hands rose up to point at or grab him.

Trying to avoid them, Aldon pulled at his shoulder and together they jumped above a woven basket seller's bench, scattering the merchandise and creating obstructions between them and the mob. They started running as quickly as they could, this time Aldon leading the way. The young man knew the market well enough, but it seemed that more and more people were gathering around them, shouting, cursing and threatening so that the passage through the crowd was turning increasingly difficult.

Aldon managed to scatter more goods as they passed, thus preventing the mob catching them up and creating a sufficient distance between them and the menacing crowd. The small, empty alley in front of them seemed marvelously advantageous at this time of need, and they rushed inside. The idea of reaching the citadel towards the upper square of the city, the proximity of the squad and the safety of the walls seemed comforting to their overwhelming fear too. But the end of the alley proved a dead end. Aldon should have known better.

They had to retreat and hide in an old house entrance, both young men panting, sweating and upset.

'… my terrible mistake … it should be the parallel way ...' Aldon whispered breathing hard. He grabbed Murtagh's shoulder once again. 'Listen! We must get separated.'

'Bad idea …'

'No! we have to.' Aldon stuck his friend and master's back at the door of the entrance. 'Don't you see? There is no other way … thus we will perplex them.'

The furious people hadn't spotted them hiding there so far. There was still time to go back to the main market road and from there try to reach the upper square. Aldon took off his own light brown mantle and handed it to his companion.

'Here, take my cloak and give me yours. This will definitely confuse them.'

'No, I won't put you to such a risk.'

Aldon's eyes shone.

'Do as I say Murtagh! There is not much time. Besides, I'm not the one they want. Even if they catch me, once they realise their mistake they will release me. You will have gained time.'

Reluctantly, the young man put on his friend's mantle and gave him his dark gray one. Aldon lifted his hood, then protectively covered Murtagh's head and half of his face.

'As soon as we are on the main road, you will run directly to the left. Climb the stairs and you will be out of the market.'

He grabbed his arm and led him once again. As soon as they exited the dead end, they almost came face to face with the furious mob searching for them, the two hooded men leading the others.

'Run!' Aldon instructed. 'You go the way I've told you. I'll see you soon, back in the citadel. Go!'

'There!' the first man shouted, pointing at the young man covered with a light brown mantle, who sped towards the left alley. Aldon delayed for a second, making sure that his friend was directed to the right way and that the threatening crowd had well seen him standing there, then turned and ran.

'The scum! They are breaking apart!' the other man cried.

'The one with the dark mantle! That's the man we want, leave the other!'

Aldon sensed them rushing behind him and sped as quickly as he could. He hoped that Murtagh would have the time to reach the upper square. The squad should have already seen the riot in the market, they should be near.

He directed himself towards a random spot. This part of the market had less traffic than the previous one. Τhe few merchants he bypassed, stared at him perplexed. The mob following left them astounded.

He was young, he was well trained and in a perfect physical condition. He would have escaped his persecutors running, but for the old beggar who sat squatting in a corner; seeing him running and all the others hunting him, he stretched his stick between the youth's legs, making him lose his balance and fall. Aldon hurriedly stood to go on running, but it was too late. The crowd had already reached him, furious men and women gathering from all directions. He faced them like a cornered wolf, finding no way out.

They formed a circle around him preventing his exit, most of them with sinister glares, some others out of curiosity. A few curses and threats were heard, before the two leaders stepped inside the cycle with a menacing purpose; their hands armed with the knives, the tall, burly woman had provided, out of her basket.

'Curse on you, son of Morzan! Die hard for your father's crimes!'

One grabbed the youth from the back of his mantle and held him, as he sank his knife into his kidney to cripple him; the other stabbed furiously at his chest, repeatedly, aiming at his heart. Aldon fell and the dark gray hood was lifted, revealing his face. His eyes were fixed on his murderer's with a questioning stare. His lips opened to ask, why? Why did he have to die, but his mouth filled with blood and collapsed on the dirty slabs of the street market.

Like a little scared bird his young life abandoned his chest, along with his last breath. His opened, beady eyes stared at the bright sun above without seeing it, his blood painted the pavement red.

'Damn it! It is not him! We stabbed the wrong boy' the one man shouted.

'He was his companion' the other stated. 'He deserved to die as well.' And he spat at the body.

The crowd around them, having seen the killing, started to disperse in a hurry. Some women shrieked. Most of them had stalked the youths since the beginning of the incident, others had joined later. But not many had expected things would get to murder. Now the fear of the consequences made most of them run. Both leaders and the tall, burly woman were among the first who disappeared. Just a few remained, whispering to each other, most of them unrelated to the persecution and the murder. Not even one dared to touch the youth's body, either trying to offer some help or declaring his death. The amount of shed blood overwhelmed them all.

Meanwhile, Murtagh had managed to reach the upper square ascending the stairs. Panting, and feeling the veins of his temples pounding, he leaned on the railing and from there he scanned the marketplace, trying to discern his friend among the furious crowd. He saw Aldon run towards the opposite direction of the square, the mob following him. He heard them shouting threats against the son of Morzan as a few roofs prevented his view for a while, but then he spotted his friend again, as he was reaching a higher place of the market, very close to a short alley leading out of it. The youth sped to reach it and he was very near the exit, leaving the crowd behind him. Murtagh's heart missed a beat when he saw Aldon stumble and fall. Cursing and shouting, the mob engulfed him with their bodies, preventing him from seeing more.

'Nooo!'

Understanding the peril and the menacing threat against his friend's life he turned back and, without much thinking, he started jumping the stairs three at a time and rushing towards the gathered people, the squad already descending from the castle, the clang of their weapons covering the clamor of the mob.

Reaching the aggregation from behind, he tried to come in front shoving and pushing.

'Let me pass! … Let me pass!'

He pushed them all aside and stood in the middle of the cycle not caring if they could threaten his life. Aldon's body lay in a pool of his blood.

…No! … no …no … this cannot be! … Oh, gods above … this cannot be happening …

He fell on his knees, held his friend in his arms and trying desperately to feel him breathing, touched his cheek on Aldon's mouth.

… Please! …please … gods … it cannot be …not him …

When he couldn't sense even the slightest of pulse, he looked terrified at Aldon's face. Wide, open eyes – those bright, friendly eyes, his familiar, laughing eyes – stared at him, without seeing him. The blood, flowing from his slashed chest, painted his clothes and hands dark red.

… This is not happening … this cannot be true …

He felt his eyelids burn and a strange wetness covered part of his sight. He turned to the remaining of the crowd and realized they were gazing at him. And then the question arose …

…Why? …

With eyes full of tears, and a raged voice he shouted at the people still standing around.

'Why? Why did you do this! He had nothing to do with Morzan. He was innocent.'

He grasped the body and held it tightly against his chest, smearing his clothing and hands with more blood and started rocking back and forth on his knees. The bystanders stared at him astounded. None dared threaten him; they had already had enough of blood.

'Soldiers!' a voice shouted.

'Τhe squad!' another cried.

Those having been left behind, flew around and disappeared running in all directions, leaving him alone, holding tightly the body of his friend, pain overflowing his core.

The squad had already reached him, replacing the crowd of people.

He clenched his fists, nails digging inside his flesh, ready to scream the injustice. And then the understanding hit him.

… It should be me …

And it was there, on the blood stained pavement of the market, surrounded by the guards that he raised those clenched fists to the sky, and howled, to be heard by the indifferent gods above.

'I am the son of Morzan! I am accursed!'

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

The guards led him back to the castle. Aldon's body was carried on a commandeered cart at the end of the line. Before they reached the entrance, he saw people gathered there, waiting, curious eyes prying on him, as if burning his soul. The news of the killing had already reached the citadel. Swordmaster Tornac was standing in front of all others. He grabbed his shoulder angrily and forced him inside.

'What have you done?' Tornac's voice was like a piercing steel. 'I've told you, you should never, ever exit the castle alone.'

He allowed himself to be dragged to a small inner courtyard and to be seated on a stone bench.

'Just stay here' the Swordmaster commanded and nodded to a guard to watch over him.

Tornac left, probably to see to Aldon's body and he stayed there alone, lost in his pain. His friend, his best friend, maybe his only friend had been killed because of his actions. In a haze he heard from a distance the wailing of women.

… his mother … his sisters …

He covered his face with his hands, not wanting to see the world around, nor to be seen. The guard was watching him with indifferent eyes.

… what have I done …

He had insisted on bringing his friend in the market. Aldon was reluctant to go … and then, he had left him alone …

He covered his ears, to stop listening to the lamentations of the women. If he could cover his memory too, so as not to remember …

He was still wearing his friend's brown mantle; the smell of Aldon's body left on the fabric, making him feel he was still near. He looked at his hands, stained with his blood.

It is all my fault. I should be the dead one.

And, it was his eyes, the beady, empty stare …

… Dead! …

In a short while Tornac returned and sat beside him, gesturing at the guard to leave.

'Did you miss the noise of the market so much?' His voice held a gentler hue now. He did not seem to be so angry.

'No, you do not understand! It is nothing like this.' He turned around to look at his trainer. 'It was the need to be free, to be outside of these walls for once.'

'Boy,' the Swordmaster commented with a low, hoarse voice. 'Your freedom was very expensive.'

He lowered his head with embarrassment. He bit his lips hard, until he tasted his own blood.

'Punish me Tornac … for I have disobeyed you.'

With a rough hand the man shuffled the shaggy, disarranged hair of the youth.

'You have already been punished, lad, and more than enough.'

He closed his eyes. Aldon's open chest was crimson inside his mind.

… the blood …

'I didn't … I … how could this possibly have happened? These dreadful stabs were meant for me.' He stroke his own chest hard with his fist. The young man was still shocked. He gazed at his blood-stained hands, not willing to believe what had happened. 'This … cannot be …'

'Listen to me!'

Tornac tried to catch his attention. Murtagh had once again covered his face, drawn in despair. The Swordmaster grabbed his arms and pulled them down.

'I said, listen to me!' Once he had made him pay attention, the Swordmaster stated calmly. 'Aldon was your servant and he did his duty: to protect your life.'

Murtagh shook his head.

'I should never have left him alone ... I …' He was still lost in his previous shocked state.

'They would have killed you both' Tornac added with a harsh voice.

'You don't understand …' the young man protested. 'You do not know how much he meant to me.'

'No! You do not understand.' Tornac shouted irritated. 'You know that I liked the boy!' He ran his fingers through his hair and snorted angrily. 'He did his duty to protect your life' he said in a milder tone. 'It was his duty to do so. He was a soldier, you were his Lord and he was obliged to protect you with his life.'

'I regarded him as my friend', Murtagh protested. 'And I believed that he considered me to be his friend too, not his Lord.' He breathed deeply, allowing his lungs to be filled with air mixed with Aldon's odor, arising from the mantle. 'And even if his duty was to protect my life that means that his life was my responsibility too. I was obliged to take care of him as well. This relation flows in two parts.'

'How very true!' Tornac agreed. 'So, the next time you decide to take a risk, you must consider the lives of those depending on you.'

He bowed his head in shame. The Swordmaster was right. He had made a mistake, a great mistake which Aldon had paid for with his life. There was no excuse for him, he should have listened to his friend and be more careful, he should have not disobeyed in the first place, he should have never left Aldon alone in the market. But ... the day had started so nicely ... If not these men had ever appeared ...

… the killers! …

Murtagh clenched his fists angrily.

'Who were these people, anyway?'

The Swordmaster shrugged.

'Oh! Some kind of fanatics against his Majesty. The soldiers will investigate, but I doubt that they will find something.'

Murtagh stirred annoyed.

'Were they the Varden?'

Tornac gave a cautious look, his voice filled with reservation.

'Did they say such a thing?'

'No, but …'

Tornac cut him short.

'The Varden are warriors, not murderers.'

A hint of hidden appreciation in his voice made the young man suspect that the Swordmaster estimated the rebels as opponents.

'No matter who did this, Aldon is dead!' Murtagh burst. And then, his voice faded abruptly, filled with guilt. 'And it is all my fault. If I had not lured him into the market, nothing would have happened to him. He is dead because of me.'

'He did his duty to protect you.' Tornac repeated accentuating the words one by one. 'But yes, you are responsible for his death. You should never have gone out! Murtagh, you are not allowed to go out for a reason.'

Tornac watched him bending his head once again and he felt sorry for the youth. The boy he had known from an early, a tender age. He felt sorry for both boys. The man ceased scolding him.

'I know how much you cared about him, but now it is too late. Even if you sit here and brood, you will not bring him back to life again. And the next time you decide that you care so much about someone's life, you must be ready to risk yours to protect them.'

'Morzan's to blame too.' Murtagh swallowed hard. 'They said … things about my father. Terrible things.'

Tornac craned his head, looking at him with a questioning gaze.

'I mean, I knew Morzan had betrayed the Riders,' Murtagh explained. 'And that he had helped the King kill a young Dragon Rider and steal his newborn Dragon. But … they called me names … Son of the Slaughterer, they called me. They spoke about atrocities ... I didn't know about them. Except that Morzan had physically hurt me.'

'Murtagh, you …'

'My friend is dead because of my father' the youth continued. 'Because of all the crimes he has committed. And I am responsible about it because I am his son.' He lifted his head, looking at Tornac in the eye. His eyelashes flickered, trying to stop wetness from developing there. 'I am cursed!'

Tornac looked at the young man with tenderness. His usually blunt, military style had already subsided.

'Murtagh, a son doesn't choose his father.'

The young man swallowed the lump that had stuck in his throat.

'I do not want to be judged by my father's deeds, it is not fair.'

Tornac thought for a while before he answered. He held the youth's arm supportively.

'Then, if you feel like that, try to redeem yourself.'

Murtagh jolted, stunned.

'How, why? I've done nothing wrong! I never harmed anyone.'

Tornac nodded in agreement.

'No, but others believe that your father did. As his heir, you are responsible for his actions, his misdeeds are your inheritance. If you want to be judged by your own actions, then you must strive to achieve respect through your deeds which will help others. Show to everyone that you deserve to be judged for your own doings and not your father's. When others see your actions, they will judge you and not your father in your face.' Tornac stood, gesturing for the young man to follow. 'Let us go inside. The King has sent his gift for your birthday. It is time to see it and then write a thankful letter to his Majesty.'

He stood reluctantly. Inside the palace, he would meet with others, strangers, indifferent people. He didn't like them to look at him as if he was something worthy of curiosity, or gossip behind his back. But Tornac led him through unfrequented corridors into an inner hall they used for sparring, during the coldest winter days.

The room was empty, except for a few wooden benches against the walls and a long, stone table under one of the wide windows, used to hold various training weapons. Placed in a prominent position on the stone surface, there was the leather sheath of a long hand-and-a-half sword, of the finest make. He fingered the hilt, feeling the touch of the hard, cold steel under his fingertips.

He clenched his fist in agony. The sight of the new, unused blade made him remember Aldon's open chest, the dreadful stabs.

I will make them pay for this.

He grabbed the hilt of the sword determined, anger stirring inside him. With his mind's eye, he could see Aldon in front of him standing and smiling. He could hear the words he knew he would have said.

'New sword gifted by the King? Let me see if you can handle your new, long blade, Show off' Aldon stretching his hand, teasingly provoking him. 'Fight with me! And may the best win!'

And then he saw the fiery eyes of the hooded man, the raised accusative finger.

'Son of the Slaughterer!'

And the shed blood on the pavement …

He sensed his body react in his desire for revenge, as if his hand acquired a life on its own, the sword its natural extension. His muscles stretched, hardened; he threw the sheath on the floor.

'Fight me Tornac!' rage overflew his heart. Abruptly, he turned and attacked.

In an instant the Swordmaster drew his blade and parried.

'Murtagh! Are you mad? These are not training blades. We will cut ourselves into shreds.'

He could neither listen, nor understand. What was Tornac talking about? The clanging of the steel was the only sound he would listen to. The revenge he would take, the only thing he would understand.

Tornac restrained himself into a defensive stance, but soon the first cuts on his hands and fingers caused the drops of blood to spatter on his face and clothes.

'Lad! Come back to your senses!' The Swordmaster tried hard to protect his inraged trainee from hurting himself, but soon, matching cuts inevitably appeared.

It was the deep gash on Tornac's arm that finally made his anger subside. He fell on his knees trying to breathe hard. A lump in his throat suffocated him. Sweat dripped in his eyes and he couldn't see clearly. He felt his new blade heavy in his hand. Tornac's cuts made him feel more pain, rather than his own. He looked inside his soul and felt frightened. In the beginning it was the pain, the shock and despair. Then, it turned to shame and guilt. And in the end the feelings became rage and anger. This kind of anger that accompanies you, during all your life, turning slowly but steadily your blood into bile, your joy into sorrow, your trust to others into suspicion. And you are never the same again.

He felt Tornac's hand hold his shoulder firmly, supportively, and Aldon's smile flashed again in his mind. No! he wouldn't let this happen to him, he would fight this overwhelming feeling. He opened his palm and let the blood drip on the stony floor.

'I swear this, on my blood and on my word of honor! One day, I will risk my life to protect the one I care for.' And then, his voice faded to a whisper. 'For his memory …'

Tornac led him to his chambers, took care of his visible wounds and watched him as he sat on his desk and composed the thankful letter to his Majesty, the King.

And as the light of the day – one of the last of the summer – subsided rather early, and the servants of the castle lit candles and torches to welcome the following night, the son of Morzan learned in this hard way that the most important thing is to protect the lives of those he cares for.

A/N : Thanks for reading.