Memories

"If you are determined to follow through on your words, this will lead you down the path you seek. But be cautious, for there will be no turning back. You must walk the path you choose to the very end."

He reached out his hand, elated, to receive this unexpected gift, which would set him apart from everything he had known. What he was, what he would become—perhaps even what he had been—everything would change.

"I wouldn't do this for anyone else," she said. "But I recognize your deep need and the signs of the times."

.*.*.*.

Transparent clouds, resembling lace thrown across the sky, shimmered with shifting colors. They began as a pale pink, transitioned to alizarin crimson, and ended in the dark purple of twilight. Occasionally, through the gaps, the light of the setting red sun slipped through, more intent on playing with the clouds than on spreading its light.

...And he was alone...

Perched atop the highest rock on the western edge of Aberon's cliff, where the rocks were sharply severed, as if by a giant, honed knife, scattering their fragments across the plain, Murtagh pondered the love he had lost. The Varden had long since departed Surda, and their leader, along with all the senior members, had left Castle Borromeo for the dwarf tunnels in Farthen Dûr. Nasuada had followed as well.

… Nasuada…

His eyes filled with the last image of her. He had seen her one morning as she left with her people. Proud and upright on her chestnut mare, with defiant eyes that always looked ahead, into a world opening up for her full of adventure. He was left behind, watching his love depart. Alone and abandoned, with a desolate heart, he kept looking at her until the long line of horses, people, and carriages of the entourage vanished into the morning mist in the distance of the plain.

… Nasuada…

Her name filled the young man's heart with sighs. In his dreams, as if she were a dream herself, he called out to her. At night, he relived the carefree moments they spent together in the forest. He trembled every time he remembered touching her soft hand, holding it tightly in his. Her tender skin rubbing against his fingers as they walked hand in hand along the stream, with her crystalline laughter still echoing in his ears. He would never forget the scent of her hair when he stood behind her, teaching her how to hold the bow. Nor the way her shining eyes gazed at his face, a sweet smile blossoming on her lips as they sat by the fire in the clearing, talking and sharing their meal.

All those moments had made him believe he had reached the heights of supreme happiness. Yet, he would never forget the sudden descent that followed. It hadn't been long since the time she had elevated him to the skies until the moment she cast him down into the abyss he now inhabited. It was on that very evening that she revealed she was leaving.

During the days, whenever his blade crossed with a student's, he would recall their heated confrontations in the Varden's training hall. Out of habit, his steps often led him through the old castle walls, up that same ancient staircase where he would climb once more, letting his gaze wander longingly over the now empty terrace. The same soldiers and the same maids exchanged the same whispered words of love in the courtyard below, always half-hidden in the shadows, veiled from prying eyes.

...And she was gone...

Murtagh took a deep breath of the moist evening air. On other occasions, like tonight, he would choose the steep cliff on the western side, where the outer walls of the city merged seamlessly with the craggy rocks of the hill. He would skillfully climb up, and from this height, he allowed his gaze to drift over the empty plain, as desolate as his heart. It was usually dusk, the time when the world began to quiet down. It was the moment when a flock of birds would burst out, to and from the city, on their last flight of the day. The time when a distant bell signaled a change of guard at the gates, and the last rays of the sun slanted through the clouds, painting the dried grass golden.

Murtagh had changed. Ever since the Varden had left, his world felt empty. He spent countless hours searching for his old self, but never finding him again. He missed the joy and carefree days of the past. Back when he would handle his daily duties effortlessly, unburdened by worries and concerns. When his mind was solely focused on his interests, and love's tyranny had not yet knocked on his heart's door. It wasn't that courage and hope had deserted him. They were always close by, illuminating the golden days of his youth. Yet, at times, he searched in vain for the joy he had lost. He constantly felt it had been stolen by almond-shaped dark eyes and coral-like lips.

… Nasuada…

A patch of sky emerged between the clouds above the edge of the cliff. The rays of light streamed silently and majestically through them, resonating with the bitterness of his melancholic heart. He knew that at that very moment, Nasuada was thinking of him, for she had promised him so before she left. Yet, the pain of her absence grew day by day, compelling him to try in vain to forget that he loved her.

.*.*.*.

Tornac struggled to prop himself up on his pillows, attempting to see what was happening outside his window. As the autumn sun set outside, the world continued to move at its usual brisk pace. It was the time when people, weary from the day's toil, abandoned their tasks and hurried home to spend the remaining time before nightfall with their families. The merchants packed up their unsold goods, and their assistants were already cleaning the sidewalks. Soon, they would lock the shop doors and retire to the upper floors. The voices of street vendors still reached his ears, hawking the last of their goods from the bottoms of their baskets, hoping to sell everything before dark. Women called their children, gathering them from playgrounds where they had lost track of the time, to wash them, feed them, and prepare them for the swiftly approaching night.

It was the time of day when Tornac would receive his daily unexpected visitor. In recent days, one of the last bright rays of dusk sneaked through the open slats of his window. It traced a brief path across the opposite wall, where his sword rested, before it faded into the twilight gloom. As the autumn evenings grew shorter, the ray's path on the wall became shorter and lower. Soon, winter would arrive, and the fencing master had the strange feeling that he was experiencing the last autumn of his life.

As every afternoon, the ray of light burst hastily into the room through the window opening – as it did abruptly every day – caressing the hilt of his sword and glimmering, playing briefly on the blade. The reflection of the metal wandered on the wall for a few minutes before it faded and disappeared forever. The world outside continued its usual rhythm.

Tornac collapsed back onto his pillows, exhausted, and closed his eyes. For the past week, he hadn't been able to get out of bed, except for a few agonizing attempts. His breathing had become more labored than ever, and his cough now left bloodstains on the handkerchief. Murtagh had taken over all the responsibilities at the school and in the house.

Tornac felt sorrowful for having become a burden. For months, he had hoped for an improvement in his health. The herbs provided by his doctor offered gradual relief at times, giving him brief moments of encouragement, allowing him to resume his duties and lessons at the school. However, he quickly realized that as the doses of medication increased, the illness returned with greater ferocity, making the days when his strength was sufficient increasingly fewer.

During this last difficult week, he had thought for the first time, that the end of his life was approaching. He understood that it was still too early to leave Murtagh alone in the world. The boy he had raised as his own was barely over fifteen years old, still too young to face life's challenges. At other times, he drew courage from the belief that he had fulfilled most of the duty he once swore to his lord—and even more. He had kept the boy alive, away from the dangers of his enemies. He had raised him free, educated him as best he could, offering him not only skills with the sword to defend himself, but also a wealth of knowledge. As a true lord, he had educated him, using his own savings to pay for renowned teachers in Aberon. The knowledge Murtagh had acquired was no different from that of the noble sons of the castle. He had raised him honorably, instilling in his mind and heart the concepts of justice, duty, and honor.

Tornac had never imagined that his end would come so soon. Even during his illness, he had hoped to still protect his lord for a few more years. But his hopes for an improvement in his condition were in vain. As he realized, his health continued to worsen. In the past week, he had moments when he feared that continuing to live this way might cost him his honor forever. Until now, he had fulfilled his duty and vows as best as he could, but one last act remained to be done. Since he had become incapable of assisting and defending his lord, he felt he owed him his very life. The sooner he left this world, the lesser burden he would place on Murtagh.

During this last week, Tornac often thought about his past. He recalled the time when, still young, he had entered Morzan's service and was later confined to the castle with his young lord. He reflected on the days and nights he had stood motionless beside him, guarding with his own sword the boy's play, studies, and carefree dreams. He vividly remembered the day the king's guard arrived at the castle, bringing the news of Morzan's death. He would never forget the night he became a deserter for the sake of his young master. Tornac owed loyalty to his king, but the oaths binding him to Morzan's son were even stronger. The deep love he felt for the child bound Murtagh to his honor even more tightly.

Memories swept Tornac away, as he recalled the time when he was still strong enough to carry his young lord on his back throughout that night... the night of their escape. When he ran, with the child clinging to his back, through unharvested fields to evade the mounted pursuers...

…"Hold on, my young lord..." he breathlessly whispered to the exhausted boy. "Salvation is near..."

When he hid among the reeds and swamps of the lake, seeing the torches of the mounted soldiers searching for them in the near distance, holding his breath...

…"Just a little more patience... They won't find us here... Soon we will be free..."

When—running out of hope—he reached the camp of the wandering peddlers at dawn. Galbatorix's horsemen were right behind him. They would have certainly captured him on the barren, rocky land south of Dras-Leona if he hadn't encountered that caravan.

…"Mercy, the soldiers are pursuing us..."

The peddlers were already awake at that time. Their men, armed, quickly formed a circle around them and began asking questions. Who were they… What had they done to be hunted by the soldiers… And Tornac, with the child on his back, a sword in one hand, and a knife in the other, stood ready to defend the life of his young master…

Far away, in the distance, a cloud of dust raised by Galbatorix's horsemen could be seen with the first light of dawn, as the hooves of their horses clattered on the ground. Soon, they would appear themselves… dark figures on the horizon…

It was a woman who saved them…

The woman, who seemed to have authority over the caravan leader, approached with a steady step, breaking through the circle of men, pushing two of them aside. After examining the boy (who was clinging exhaustedly to Tornac's shoulders) with a deep, scrutinizing gaze, she grabbed Tornac by the sleeve and pulled him into one of the wagons...

…"Don't be afraid... I will save you and your son..."

With a knife and a skilled hand she quickly cut Tornac's long, blond hair and smeared it with henna, turning it a deep red, all while issuing commands to everyone around. She gave him peasant clothes and a wide-brimmed hat, blending him seamlessly among the other men. Then she took the boy.

..."Many will see you... But with this hair, none of them will notice a thing... As for the child... leave him to me. Don't worry..."

The soldiers had arrived... After their initial questions about the fugitives and the negative answers they received from the peddlers, they started searching the wagons one by one… They passed him by without a second glance, without even considering using his hidden weapons. The woman was right; everyone's eyes were drawn to his messy, red hair, leaving his face unnoticed. The soldiers were looking for a guard of Morzan with a four-year-old boy, not a red-haired peasant. As for the boy...

..."Don't come too close, my lords..." The woman tended to her two sick children, a baby she held in her arms and a slightly older one lying covered in ragged, dirty bedding. "Smallpox has struck them both, my poor little ones... The fever has consumed their bodies…"

The soldiers stood aside when they heard about the smallpox, with no intention of entering the wagon. One guard, who dared to come closer, saw the naked baby in the woman's arms, its body covered with bright red rashes. The other child, lying in the semi-darkness of the wagon, was in a clearly worse condition. Pustules covered its face and shaved head, and blood dripped from horrific wounds. Death had already marked it and would soon claim its life. The man jumped back in disgust, signaling to the others not to come any closer. As Galbatorix's guards mounted their horses to turn their search in another direction, they could hear the baby screaming as possessed and the woman breaking down in wails, cursing gods and demons for the illness.

Later, Tornac learned that the woman had smeared the boy's face and head with blood from a slaughtered pig, pieces of which were boiling for breakfast, in a pot. The pus was nothing but small bits of fat, which disappeared with a wipe and a rinse in cold water. As for the baby... it wasn't suffering from smallpox but from infantile roseola, a rash that would pass with a little chamomile. The baby's screams were due to an artful pinch from the woman, further discouraging the soldiers and driving them away sooner.

Tornac smiled at this memory. The distance in time separating the sense of anxiety then, compared to the safety they lived in now, gave a somewhat comical hue to his recollection. The caravan had headed towards Belatona and later towards Furnost by Tüdosten Lake. Tornac stayed with the peddlers as their unofficial guard, while one of the merchant women took care of Murtagh in the same wagon as her own children. To ensure they completely escaped the Empire's hawks, after Furnost, Tornac took Murtagh and bade farewell to the caravan. From that point by the lake, the Surdan border was close and relatively easy to cross. He had arrived with the child in Aberon, where they settled, like a father now caring for his own son.

Quick, short breaths brought Tornac's mind back to the room. He felt a sharp pain piercing his chest and a surge of anger at himself. As a warrior, he would have preferred to fall to a sharp blade in the midst of a deadly battle. The pain of a blade would not have been as great as the agony brought by this illness.

He thought he needed boiling water to mix with the medicine powder, but his strength to get up was failing. The last light of the day faded, and he could barely make out the objects around him. Only Murtagh could help; he needed him to light a lamp... to boil the water... But Murtagh was late. He might have been delayed at his last lessons at the school, or perhaps he had gone for his usual evening walk near the castle. Tornac heard no noise from the floor below, so it was likely the latter.

He tried to calm himself, to steady his labored breath. Until this day, he had never been tormented by doubts about if he had done the right thing in changing the fate of Morzan's child. He had always believed that taking Murtagh away from Galbatorix's influence was the right decision. The boy might have lost wealth, a high position that might have awaited him at the royal court, and a superior education. But in return, he had gained the highest good: the freedom to choose his own path, to do whatever he desired in life.

"Father?"

The familiar voice made him open his eyes, though with difficulty. The light steps of the young man made the floorboards creak at familiar spots. Murtagh lit the oil lamp on the dresser, and moments later, a warm light filled the room, casting comforting shadows on the walls.

"Welcome, my young lord..." Although said with love, the words triggered a strong, continuous cough. Tornac hurried to hide the handkerchief under his pillow, to conceal the bloodstains, and with great relief, he accepted the filled cup Murtagh offered him. His medicine was ready, and little by little, the pain subsided, and his breathing eased.

"Don't call me that, father."

The boy sat at the edge of the bed, on the mattress. On his way back, as he passed through the market, he found the butcher's shop still open, he mentioned. A piece of beef was already boiling on the kitchen tripod, so his father could drink the broth to regain strength. As he did every evening, Murtagh began to recount the day's events regarding his students at the school, eagerly awaiting his father's advice on the course of the lessons.

"You can make your own decisions now," Tornac replied with a small smile that made his thin face look even more gaunt. "Beyond the knowledge you now possess, there is nothing I can teach you." Tornac was proud. The student had long surpassed his teacher. "I even acknowledge you as better than I am." He settled into his pillows and looked with great affection at the son he had raised as his own.

Murtagh's cheeks turned red, but pride didn't let his embarrassment show. "Don't say that, father. I'm sure there is still much you can teach me." The young man got up from the bed and busied himself, pretending to tidy up small things here and there, hiding his blush. "The broth will be ready soon. It's time to prepare your tray in the kitchen. I'll bring it to you soon."

"Murtagh!" Tornac's voice was stronger and more resolute than before. He patted the spot beside him on the bed, inviting him to sit at the edge of the bed once more. "I need to ask for your forgiveness about something."

Still holding the shirt he hadn't yet managed to fold and put away in the drawer, Murtagh sat down, awkward as before. In recent days, Tornac's health had worsened, and Murtagh disliked the tone in his father's last words.

"If anyone should ask for forgiveness, it is I who was late. But I..."

"It concerns the past," Tornac interrupted abruptly. "It concerns the days when I persuaded you to leave the guardianship of Galbatorix's guards."

"We've talked about this before, father." They had discussed this matter many times in the past, over and over again. There was no point in rehashing it once more.

"I took you from your inheritance, Murtagh! At the king's court, you would surely have had your rightful place—the wealth, a superior education."

Murtagh interrupted Tornac with a wave of his hand. "Tell me again—why did you do it?"

Tornac's eyes fixed on his son's face with even greater seriousness than before. "I believed the king would keep you as his captive, using you for his own purposes and nothing else. But I had loved you... I had loved you like the son I never had. I wanted to see you happy and free, to decide your own future and pursue anything else you wished for in life." Tornac shook his head with sadness. "Galbatorix would have exploited you for his own gain. I had seen him do it to others... to your mother... to change her..."

Murtagh took the sick man's hand and held it gently within his own. "So then?"

Tornac pressed his lips together. "I want to know you don't hold a grudge against me for taking you. That you are truly happy here in Aberon, but lately..." Since the Varden left Surda, Murtagh has been somewhat different—more distracted, a bit sad, not laughing as often. Tornac understood that he missed Nasuada. The love he felt for her was deep, and now that she was gone, it pained him not to see her.

Murtagh squeezed his hand. "You know I agree, father, with our new life here in Aberon." His eyes shone with emotion. "I am indebted to you for all the dangers you faced and the efforts you made to raise me. You took care of me, taught me everything you knew, and offered me an honest life. For that, I thank you. But there is something that... I must admit, has troubled me lately."

Tornac propped himself up on the pillows, pleased with his son's acceptance but puzzled by his concern. "Like what?"

"I wonder, since Galbatorix learned from his spies that the Varden and their leaders are living in Surda, could... could it be that he knows about us as well?"

These words made Tornac look at his young son intently. "I doubt it!"

"I mean, your reputation as a fencing master has been brilliant for so many years. Who can assure us that it hasn't spread beyond the kingdom of Surda? Since we've been using our real names until now, couldn't the king, if he heard about us, have linked you to Morzan's old guard and me to his lost son? Perhaps there's a danger we haven't yet realized. Perhaps it would be better if we followed the Varden's path to safety as well."

Tornac looked Murtagh in the eyes, a smile full of understanding spreading across his face. "My young son, my good lord, you know you are free to follow your heart. All these years, I have fulfilled my oaths to you, my lord. You owe me nothing that binds you close to me anymore. If you wish, all the roads are open before you and the choices are yours. Wasn't that the reason I once led you away from a certain, yet restrictive future? So that one day you could choose your own life's path? You can follow the Varden's path if you wish, or you can continue to maintain this fencing school in Surda, where there will always be honest work for you."

Tornac sighed lightly, and his voice dropped two tones. "You can even go back." Murtagh tried to interrupt him, but Tornac insisted on continuing. As long as the effect of the medicine lasted and he was still able to speak, he had to tell him everything on his mind, to warn him. "You must know that if you ever decided to return to the king, a surely bright future awaits you in Urû'baen, although I would not wish that for the boy I raised. Near the Varden again..." Tornac lifted himself up and, grabbing his son by both shoulders, leaned on him. "If you ever decided to follow them, you must be doubly and triply careful with them. If they ever recognized you from your lineage, know that you are in danger. No one can guarantee that if they found out you are truly Morzan's son, they wouldn't hesitate to take revenge on the son for the deeds of the hated father." Tornac was certain that the birth of Morzan's child had been kept a well-sealed secret. But no one could ever know for sure.

Hearing this counsel, Murtagh kept it in his mind. However, Tornac's evident love, expressed from the depths of his heart, moved him deeply.

"Father, you are wrong," Murtagh said, embracing him. "It would be unfair of me not to acknowledge that, with all your love for me and your sacrifices, you were not merely fulfilling your oath to your lord. Those same oaths that you say once bound you to me, equally bound me to you, even when I was a young child. For oaths like those, father, you know well, flow in both directions for those who take them and only cease with the end of one's life. As responsible as you were and are for me, so too am I responsible for you."

Murtagh released Tornac from his embrace and helped him lie back down. "But even above oaths and duty there is true love, the kind that binds father and son. We once swore to erase both our pasts. You became my father, and I became your son." Murtagh swallowed with difficulty. His emotions were so intense that he struggled to speak. Nevertheless, he had to say what he felt. "You must know that I bear your name with pride and honor, always. I will never abandon my father, especially now when he needs my help more than ever. So don't say again that I am free to take another path than the one you offered me. If we need to hide near the Varden to escape the king's fear, we will take that path together. Get well, and we will discuss it again in the spring."

Hearing the words of his boy, Tornac felt an overwhelming sense of pride. His pale, emaciated cheeks took on a rosy hue, and emotion brought a gleam of tears to his eyes, which he tried to hide by blinking rapidly.

Nothing more needed to be said. Murtagh's acknowledgment that he considered him a father, and that the corresponding address was not just for formality filled his heart with happiness. He felt his weak body flooded with great strength. It was as if he became once again the young warrior, the skillful swordsman, whom no one dared to stand in his way. Perhaps even the thought that had crossed his mind—that life was gradually leaving him and he was living the last autumn of his life—was nothing but a mistake. Perhaps, for the love he felt for his son, he could still overcome the illness.

That night, he happily accepted the food Murtagh brought him on a tray and ate with great appetite. Before bidding his son goodnight, he asked him to bring the sword close to him to have it by his pillow. That night passed more quietly than all the other difficult nights of recent times. The next morning brought the promise of a new day.

.*.*.*.

The winter that followed was harsh. Gray, leaden clouds, full of rain, often arrived from the east. The icy wind chilled to the bone. Dampness was abundant, and a pale sun rarely appeared to warm the soaked, cold earth.

Despite all the hopes for improvement that he and his son had, and the new medicines provided by the doctor, Tornac's health deteriorated significantly. Before the morning of a new spring arrived and the world began to bloom, and before a new light could fill his somber chamber, Murtagh watched with sorrow as Tornac closed his eyes for the last time.