Inheritance Cycle 1. Prologue

**Important note: Spring cleaning in process. I have decided that, once and for all, I need to re-edit this in order to proceed further with it. I've come to a block and realise that I can't go further without amending the things I'm not happy about in previous chapters. This could take time, but please, I implore of you, stick with me. If you could possibly re-review amendments, it would be appreciated, though they may often be minor. **

**I have also found more of a plot (it was lurking in my pen pot, waiting to be used) so finally my story can now have some structure!  
**

Title: The Cruel Honour Of Love

Author: Last Generation Lintu, LGL, Luisa

Genre: Slash/Romance/Action/Death/Angst

Pairing: slash, Murtagh/Tornac

Warnings: SPOILERS! Though that won't come till much much later. Slash, obviously. Possibly mature themes, but I'm just covering my back here, and everything should be suitable for a T rating. . Some violence. Death and implied Suicide themes. If anything of the aforementioned nature upsets you, don't read

Takes place: Before Eragon

Disclaimer: Murtagh, Eragon (if I even bother to bring him into this… he bores me.) and other mentioned characters are the sole property of Christopher Paolini. The name Tornac is copyright to Christopher Paolini, but as he is described very very little in the books, his characterisation is pretty much all mine. The story is all mine. I am not making money for this. Thanks. X

[A/N: In case you were interested, for the purposes of this I have fiddled with ages a little, making Murtagh 23 or so years, and Tornac to be around 28.

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1. Prologue

Love. Ah, such a sweet and easy word to say. So much more bitter the reality.

"_You have to realise Murtagh, that you cannot let such foolish emotions get in the way of your training!"_

Honour - now there's a word that rolls so beautifully on the tongue, but once placed in the cruel vice of the world, becomes something fatally desired. People shroud the world in cruel wars just to gain some precious little honour.

"_Murtagh, please, I can't be the reason for your fall… Murtagh, you're destroying me by doing this… Murtagh, are you blind? Can't you see?"_

Now here's the question - which is more important? Love or honour? In a bitter world where we are denied the gift of both, which should we choose?

"_Never say those words. Ever again, do you hear me? Never say those things, Murtagh, you absolute fool!"_

I always thought that was such a simple question to answer. Love only leads to downfall. Honour brings you all that you could ever wish for. What need had I for something as pretty as love? What is love but a ridiculous trinket, carried in a hopeful heart for years before it is finally realised how very false, how very deceptive it truly is.

"_There is a price to pay for your disloyalty, Murtagh. There is a price to pay for these foolish emotions…"_

I always though that I would not be able to keep myself from love. I thought that pure mental discipline could keep me away from it, could keep me focussed on what really mattered.

"_Tornac! Let him go… please.. Do what you will to me, but just let him go!"_

Well I tell you now, that is a lie. A pure, painful lie.

"_Murtagh, concentrate! Train… concentrate! That blood in your veins is there for a reason, now fight!"_

I've learnt the truth. And I've learnt it in the hardest way imaginable.

"_I'm coming further and further undone each and every day. Every day brings new challenges, new descisions… new pain…"_

I went against everything that I had learnt. Disobeyed rules set so deep it is a sin in itself merely to unearth them. I have sealed my own destiny with three short words.

"_I love you."_

I have learnt pain, learnt love, learnt things in between. Been forced into decisions I was never meant to make. I have learnt betrayal.

"_I can't just watch you die! Leave! Run you stupid boy! This fate wasn't meant for you!"_

My soul has been tortured, trapped in a labyrinth of lies, love, and pain. I put myself through both physical and mental agony. And why?

"_You have to learn that sometimes the right choice means letting go, Murtagh. Your father had to learn, and now so must you. I am telling you to let go of him!"_

I'll tell you why. Because I felt so much for him. He was my world, the spark that finally ignited my soul in this cold world. I felt so much…

"_Stop… Murtagh please stop… Murtagh… Murtagh you can't… Murtagh… stop, please, just stop this…"_

And what of me now?

"_If you get killed, do you think I could live with that? Do you think I could live with the guilt of knowing I am as good as your murderer?"_

What do I still feel?

"_Stop your wailing. You forced this upon yourself Murtagh. Now watch him die…"_

Hate?

"_What have you done? Murtagh, what have you done?"_

Anger?

"_Do you think I intended, even for one moment, for this to happen?"_

Pain?

"_Tornac, you can't… Tornac! NO!"_

No.

"_I did not want to hurt you Murtagh. I rather hoped that you would be like your father. But disobedience warrants pain."_

I feel nothing.

"_Breathe, damn you! Breathe! Don't… let…go… Breathe…"_

I am Murtagh.

"_Tornac? Tornac!"_

And I feel nothing.

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	2. Of Silence

**Chapter 1: Fire and Ice**

Murtagh stood, shivering, in an icy courtyard, his arms folded closely to his chest in a vain effort at keeping warm. Only Galbatorix could possibly consider it appropriate to breach every rule of humanity and force him to train even on the harshest winter days. His shirt felt uncomfortably thin, not offering even the slightest protection from this engulfing cold. Impatiently, he shuffled his feet, letting out short shaky breaths between tightly gritted teeth.

Where was his trainer? He was not at all fond of the man - tall, harsh, cruel, with sharply chiselled features on his proud face to match. - and usually waited for his arrival with tired apprehension about how hard he would have to push himself in the merciless lesson that followed. But today was different. He desperately wanted to finish the session, to go back inside and just allow his frozen fingers to regain feeling - that was, if he ever managed to prise them from the damned sword…

A clacking sound as hurried footsteps echoed around the courtyard made him jerk up, and then lower his eyes again wearily. It was not the man he was waiting for. He contented himself with listening to the rhythm of the footsteps as they mirrored the heavy thumping of blood resounding in his ears.

"Murtagh?" came a breathless inquiry, in a voice laced with warm drippings of a rich European accent that he could not quite place. Tiredly, he made a small mutter, and raised his eyes, to see a man not much older than himself, and of very similar height and a slight build, beaming at him from behind waves of black hair that hung casually about his shoulders, with a thin line of a moustache, a small neatly cut goatee, and deep silver grey eyes. "Well, you're exactly how I was told you would be." he smiled. Murtagh stared back through his own intense brown eyes, halfway between confusion and weary resentment. But the object of interest was already walking around him slowly, looking from every angle, stopping every once in a while to make a small hum of impressed approval before coming to a halt in front of him again, smiling with perfectly white almost lupine teeth, brushing his hair back carelessly with one hand , extending the other amiably. Murtagh merely stared at it, becoming more bemused by the minute.

"I'm your new trainer." the man offered, sensing that the moment of silence had gone on for far longer than necessary. Murtagh's mouth formed a small 'oh', of surprise, but still refused to take the offered hand, instead staring at him, bewildered, taking in every aspect carefully. The well tailored jacket that covered a shirt with elegant lace at the throat, the battered crimson boots - all of which made Murtagh frown slightly - this was not fighting attire, and yet this man was to train him? Eyes of the purest silver grey sparkled at him, holding so much pure childish excitement in their depths. Murtagh found himself oddly enchanted with those eyes as they met his own, only finally dropping his gaze to the floor when he felt he could not take their intensity any longer. The wind was causing his thick hair to whip around rebelliously, shaking free from its soft neat waves around a face that Murtagh had no words for save for the fact that it was beautiful, beautiful like he had never imagined a person's face could be. Everything about it seemed perfect, seemed soft and romantic and yet so full of character and intelligence. And those eyes… he could feel himself being pulled into them, almost drowning in them, as they searched his own… He had never experienced anything like it before. His body was icy, freezing, and yet… and yet his mind, his heart, were on fire…

Before Murtagh's mind had had time to grasp the situation, his trainer had drawn a thin tapering sword with a metallic clang, and was smiling darkly at his newly acquired pupil, turning the handle through his hands, giving occasional flicks of it.

"They tell me that you are good at fighting Murtagh." he remarked quietly, fingering the edge of the fatally beautiful weapon in his hand lovingly, holding it up to the light as if to examine it. "They tell me that you spar well."

"Well enough." Murtagh muttered warily, beginning to feel distaste for the man already. He looked up, from caressing his sword, plainly amused, but not allowing such a hideous emotion to mar his perfect features.

"I will be the judge of that…"

Without warning, a thin sword whipped past his left ear, and Murtagh jumped back, shocked. Another deadly swipe was made, and he gasped as it came just a little close to him for comfort, forcing his frozen fingers into action just in time to parry the blow.

"You're going to kill me!" he yelled, as blow after blow was made in quick succession, forcing him to come back to his senses. His opponent shook his head slightly.

"The sword is blunted. Concentrate more on using that piece of metal in your hands instead of waving it around aimlessly if you please…"

Angrily Murtagh lashed out, stung by the insult, but with an apologetic smile his trainer darted away, returning with disturbingly more power and deadly precision than Murtagh had seen in his life. This time, Murtagh could not quite move fast enough, and let out a startled yelp as the metal connected with his side, before glaring venomously at the man in front of him. He hurriedly pushed the stinging sensation to the back of his mind.

"Dear dear me…" the trainer muttered quietly, eying his pupil "Concentrate Murtagh…"

"I am concentrating." he muttered exasperated between clenched teeth, ignoring the sharp stinging sensation from the hit and trying to regain his now shattered reputation. The man was making a fool of him, he realised bitterly. His brilliant silver eyes shone ever brighter with contained laughter. He was not even exerting himself, managing to simply twirl and dance effortlessly with the shining sword in his hands. The steel of his blade might have well have been a mere extension of his own slight limbs, seeming natural in his hands. Why couldn't he feel hate for him? Why couldn't he just focus and fight? Why-

Murtagh hit out again, growling in frustration as his trainer merely whirled away from the attempt. He wanted so desperately to be able to hate him. Wanted to be able to detest the man with everything in him… but somehow, he just couldn't. Couldn't use anger as a fuel for focussing himself on sparring, because there was something in his opponent which his heart simply refused to hate. He threw himself at him, fully exasperated, but missed again.

His trainer clicked his tongue softly. "Now now Murtagh, let's not get arrogant shall we? Please try to concentrate…"

His concentration dipped for mere seconds as he watched his opponent in silent amazement. If it were not happening in front of his very eyes, he would never have believed such a man to be so able with a sword - but the surprising truth, it seemed, was that he was so very beyond merely being able. Beyond the shrouds of the fancy lace and romantic accent, the man was a fighter. And such a beautiful one. Murderously beautiful. Just those eyes made him forget about fighting, about even the bitter thought of using a sword against such a thing, about caring about the weapon streaking past his vision. Such eyes like he had never seen before. So deep. So silver… Was it normal to feel this way? What was wrong with him-

There was a hard swipe at his legs, sending him sprawling, letting out a yell of bewilderment as he was sent crashing to the ground. The air rang with the sound of his trainer laughing - not, to Murtaghs deep surprise, the cruel laughter of a winner scorning his prey, but the simple childish delight which seemed to fill the man, as he watched Murtagh lie back, staring at the sky, sorely nursing a crushed ego, but more than a little enchanted by the laughter of the other man.

"Parrying needs work, and your concentration is simply dreadful, but I daresay we'll make a good fighter out of you. It seems you have had at least some training work of value." He heard his teacher say, as he continued to laugh quietly under his breath, sheathing his weapon. Murtagh merely let out a slow hiss between his teeth. And stared blankly at the shifting clouds above him.

"You have not won yet." he growled. The trainer blinked for a moment, grey eyes enchantingly wide, like an owl staring down at prey, confused at why it was still moving. Slowly, he made his way over to his pupil, boots clicking softly on the ground, before stopping just short of his prey's shoulder. Murtagh turned his head slightly, to look up at the man standing over him.

"Is that so?" he asked quietly, with a hint of amusement filling his soft voice. "And why do you say that, Murtagh?"

"By no fair rules of sparring have you won." Murtagh pronounced carefully, nervous though he did not know why. "At least, none of which I know of." he added quickly. There was a brief silence of pause. A look of mixed admiration and confusion flickered over the mans face, and he nodded silently to himself, twirling the handle of his sword through his willowy fingers.

"Yes, I suppose you are right… exceptionally well noted, Murtagh. But do you really wish to fight even after you have been beaten? You're at my mercy. Powerless." he smiled darkly. "Do you really insist on continuing the fight? I have you on the floor, do you want to spar with me from down there - though I'll warrant that would be impressive, it would also be completely foolhardy arrogance, and I very much doubt you would last long that way…"

"I will fight until there is a fair winner." Murtagh muttered, panting. An deeply unfathomable look flashed over his trainer's face for a mere second - Admiration? Confusion? Respect?

"Well then… let me see, I believe that bloodshed is one of the oldest conditions for defining a champion…" he stared into Murtagh's deep brown eyes. "Am I correct?" His pupil nodded jerkily, cautiously, and then let out a cry of surprise, as the point, the only sharp part of his trainer's sword, skated across his cheek. There was a small satisfied smile from the man above him as he watched a hot droplet of crimson trickle unsteadily down Murtagh's face. "Well then, I believe that makes me the winner, Murtagh."

Murtagh slowly brought his hand up to his cheek, feeling the thick blood from the scratch, confused, cheated, but very much beaten. He glanced down as a hand was offered to help him up, noted the fact that the nails were bitten down on the willowy fingers, and he warily took it, stumbling up and hastily brushing the dirt from himself.

"You must learn, Murtagh, that I play by no rules but my own. There are no rules to me. It is when you play by rules that you are merely fulfilling expectations, you understand?" Murtagh looked up, confused, but the trainer went on, "Rules are merely restrictions. Consider it, Murtagh…" He looked over Murtagh for one final time, before turning on his heels.

"It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance Murtagh. I will look forward to training you."

Murtagh watched, wordlessly, as the man made his way back inside the palace, tugging his lace cuffs back into place on his wrists.

"You never told me your name." he called, wanting to know more about his mysterious new acquaintance, but the other man was already tugging the hefty wooden door to the warmth of the inside. As the door swung open, creaking on its hinges, Murtagh heard him call back quietly, barely audible above the screams of wind in his ears;

"My name is Tornac."

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**Author: and there you have the first chapter. Hopefully it introduced my beautiful little twosome well enough…**

**Kindly review. It means a lot to me.**


	3. The Ruins Of My Life

**Constructive criticism very much appreciated, as always.**

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**Chapter 2: Heritage and Violins**

_Tornac… _

It fitted him so wonderfully, Murtagh realised - mysterious, clearly foreign, and more than a little beautiful. A gloriously toxic combination… if only he wasn't feeling too cold to enjoy it. He winced as he closed the door, his fingers unsteady and trembling from the cold, and stepped into the warmth, every extremity immediately starting to throb, adding to the nagging sting all over him from the sharp attack by his new trainer's viciously beautiful sword. Galbatorix seemed to choose his trainers for their merciless regimes that cared so very little whether or not he was injured as long as he was training. Which seemed to fit in hideously well with the king's twisted ethics thought Murtagh bitterly, rubbing his hands together to try and regain some feeling in them. But as long as he could avoid meeting the man his father had so proudly served, he would hold his thoughts inside the private boundaries of his own thoughts.

He was in a long hallway, with the faint smell of burning from the heavy usage of the lamps that adorned the walls, flickering with a hazy red-orange glow. He always used this route - not least because it was rarely used by anyone else, leading to nowhere that anyone else really had reason to go to - no longer bothered by the many haunting memories still attached to this corridor. A corridor that had once been paced so constantly by a man who had been nearly a mirror of the one who now walked down it. Morzan's footsteps had once echoed just as his sons did now, though his had held more menace than the rhythm of confusion that now filled the hall. There were too many memories of a man clad in dark robes patrolling, pacing, as though waiting for something, of the way he would so angrily corner any servant who dared to break his peace with their pattering footsteps, at how the low growl of his dragon could be heard from just outside the door. And the most haunting of all - of a drunken time, when the man's own mind had turned against him to a point where even his own son had seemed too much of a disturbance. Memories of shouts, of a sword… of crimson blood trickling in between the flagstones before Murtagh's eyes as he had slipped into darkness, the line of scar-tissue streaking down his back a constant reminder of a thing he struggled so hard to forget.

Murtagh had hated the man almost more than he had right to- but he still could not tell whether the little shiver he so constantly received when he was prowling the shadows of the hall was from disgust, or a strange form of pride in the honour his father had struggled so hard to achieve. He never could tell whether he was proud or disgusted with the blood that ran through his veins. He had loved living here, once. Found it oddly enchanting that he could look out of the window and see this kingdom spread out before him, in the knowledge that his father had once had so much power here. Had even managed to push the hatred that he had received from him, the scar running down his back, the despise he had felt in return, had managed to push it all away and, for just one moment… appreciate his father, respect him, see how hard he had fought to achieve the power he had evidently been all too fond of. He was almost surprised at how much his own mind ached for just the tiniest breath of this wonderful power, this beautiful honour, how his senses were desperate just to try a little of it, just once, just to see what it felt like. He wanted to know what it was to have this sort of honour, to be justified in having the confidence he was born with. But some born instinct made every sense scream that he was not going to be the same man that Morzan had been. He would not be his father.

Slowly, he made his way up the winding stone stairway that snaked up to the room that had once belonged to Morzan. They were not so very similar really, when he thought about it... They had the same looks - stunningly attractive and sickeningly vain because of it - dark hair, dark eyes… but it was not really any more than appearances they had in common… or at least, so Murtagh liked to think. After all: Morzan had undertaken the intense physical and mental pain of training out of choice - Murtagh reluctantly went along with the king's wishes for him because even he did not dare to question them. Morzan had willingly served the king - Murtagh was forced into a contract because of his father's blood in him. Morzan had been so weak to love - Murtagh had no particular interest in the flirtatious games that his father had so willingly partaken in. Morzan had been a man who was feared - Murtagh was merely an object of curiosity and interest. Morzan had been a rider, sitting proudly on his dragon. Murtagh would never be a rider - the king viciously guarded the eggs - that it was rumoured in whispers he caught from servants talking amongst themselves - he owned. But, as much as he tried to ignore it, to push it away, to pretend it wasn't real… they were similar. Both with the same spark for fighting, with very little regard for studies of any type other than in using a sword, both so attractive as to receive a bombardment of unwanted attention, both with the same hatred for the other…

Morzan had known who he was, and had clearly not been afraid to show it. Murtagh, on the other hand, was as different as it was possible to be from his father in that particular respect. He supposed vaguely that it was the product of being kept apart from company for so long, not really knowing who he was because he did not know who anybody was - not that that was forced. No. Galbatorix had laid down no rules about Murtagh being with others, that was a very personal choice. It was simply that he did not bother to put in the huge self-effort required in order to communicate with all of the people around him. Could not bare to be around those eyes, those expressions. It was not fear or hate that he saw all around him, mirrored with his image in their shining glances. It was pity. And pity he could not take.

Give him hatred, give him anger, give him simple crude disgust, and he could understand it. Could see why they would turn away, could make sense of it. The hate stung, but he was born for pain. Pain was logical. The only lesson he had learned from a father who was always too detached; a cruel lesson both in the teaching and the learning - but a useful one. Pity, on the other hand, was far from logic. It was almost ironic how, although a loud rush of angry voices shouting at him made his head pound, made him feel sick, made him irritable, he never completely snapped. He would vent his anger on an unfortunate sparring partner, but never let it become visible how bitter he really felt. But receiving more respect than he knew he deserved (pitifully little), there was a lingering unease that made him more painfully uncomfortable than any hate. It was when he was subjected to this confusion of emotion that he become closest to losing his head and just yelling for those around him to please behave normally. This ridiculous kindness drove him to the brink of insanity.

He almost felt he had a right to be hated, to be thrown around roughly, to be slung into the shadows... Had almost grown to enjoy the solitude in fact. His father had treated him that way, why not everyone around him? In a sense, he had come to accept that it seemed he was born for it, it was his fate to be that way, and who was he to question the power of fate? Murtagh Morzanson, the man who existed simply to be hated. He had been brought into the world for a sole purpose - and that seemed to be to hide from the world, locked inside the safety of his room, listening to the world around him as it moved on without him. Without Murtagh. Without the confused mess of a man who had never really been meant to live in the first place.

They had been a strange family indeed - not that they spent any significant amount of time with each other. His father, so powerful and yet so horribly weak to the charms of love - it would have been funny, he realised bitterly, if he had not been the product of this pitifully broken romance. Sometimes he could see why his father hated him so much - he was an embarrassment, proof that the proud heartless man had had it in him to give in to such a foolish thing as love. His mother, such a pretty thing, and so fragile, so easily broken. The one who had left and never came back. The one to leave her son alone, in a world that could never really understand or care for him… and so he stopped understanding and caring for the world. Murtagh, Murtagh, Murtagh. What of Murtagh? The child who had sat silently, always watching, his dark eyes full of unanswered questions. The shadow, creeping along deserted corridors, running his finger-tips over the walls in the darkness, not even knowing who he really was. What of Murtagh?

Did he really love to be alone? Did he really long to sit for hours in moonlit rooms, lying trapped up inside the webs of his mind, allowing the world to move on from him, to forget him? Was it true that he did he not want to be the great and powerful - and yet so terrible - man that his father had been? Did he truly wish to pass his life by, a whisper, just wanting to be forgotten, to live forever in a dream and never wake to see what he truly was? Did he really want all of that? Was he merely denying the ache inside -the ache for something more, something better, something much greater, for some recognition, some power, some honour - was he just suppressing that because he was so afraid that once he tasted honour he would not be able to get enough? That he would push himself to every extreme just to show the world that he was more than just the man they thought they knew?

Inside the dark confines of his imagination, Murtagh desperately wanted a taste of power. More than most people could even begin to comprehend. He wanted every one of his senses to be filled with the thing that had driven hundreds to their deaths, that had changed so many lives - some for better some for much much worse. He wanted power, and he wanted it badly. That was one trait he had in common with the father who had despised him - a furious lust for power. But, unlike Morzan, he had long since given up on trying to get it. The dragon had brought his father power so easily - how was Murtagh, a mere man with no fancy beast to aid him, supposed to achieve that same product?

As the door softly clicked open, Murtagh stepped into his room, looking around it with more than a little distaste. There were still hideous gashes in the wall, the product of Morzan drunkenly chucking his sword around all those years ago. Murtagh wished silently that he had continued to his the wall instead of his son's back. Murtagh realised suddenly that he wished ridiculously often. His life was made up of broken promises, unanswered prayers, denied wishes. Merely a drastic portfolio of broken hopes collected together in one hopeless fabric of a life.

He eyed his reflection in a polished copper mirror. As usual, the man who stared back in the mirror did not look like who he thought he was, but he looked attractive. He could not help but look attractive - it was the one thing his parents had seemed to make right when he was created. He was confused, different, alone - but at least he had looks, he thought bitterly. Ironic. Quite possibly the most useless gift he could ever have been presented with had been the only one of note which he had received from his parents. He had the same diabolically dark hair as his father, and deep brown eyes to match, a stunning yet somehow wicked combination that only seemed to add to the mystery surrounding him, the mystery that made servant girls whisper behind his back when they thought so very foolishly that he could not hear. Like his father too, he rarely wore anything besides his life's colour scheme - an elegant but rather un-romantic choice of black, accented with more black. Yes, his appearance was almost a reflection of a younger Morzan…proud, strong and beautiful… which he sorely hated, but could not change. But, as Murtagh had decided, if he did have to be like Morzan in some way, it was better to have his father's looks than his temper. Yes, better to look the devil than to behave as one.

Murtagh collapsed onto his bed, letting out a small tired sigh. Winter was seeming to span a whole year of its own - lingering days filled with cold and ice and nothing much to do. He had given up on the lessons that Galbatorix had insisted he had, failing everything he was supposed to study because he hadn't the willpower to plow his way through the pages of the thick book it was commanded that he read. Morzan had been a fighter not an intellectual, and Murtagh supposed he had inherited that from his father too. But the fat volumes that he had kicked under the bed, hidden behind a wooden cupboard, and even - in a moment of extreme annoyance - dropped out of the window, were seeming all the more tempting in these dreary days of frost and ice. Peering under the dark wooden bed frame, he retrieved the battered book he was supposed to read, and flicked through it with distaste.

He was jolted from his study however, when there was an odd noise from the disused servant quarters. Murtagh frowned. The quarters had not been used after Morzan died - so what was this noise? It was a horrible scraping sound, raspy and then suddenly whining. Cautiously, Murtagh closed his book with a snapping sound and got to his feet, confused, to investigate the source of the sounds.

When he closed his door and turned, he was startled to see the door to the servant quarters slightly ajar. Now that was something strange… warily, he pushed it a little further open, curious. There were two almost identical cries of surprise as Murtagh and Tornac's eyes met. Tornac stared in astonishment with his slightly mournful silver eyes over the top of some sort of wooden thing which appeared to be the source of the sound, but Murtagh had no clue what it was.

Murtagh was the first to regain his composure, shuffling in and leaning on the doorframe casually, trying not to appear too excited by either his trainer or the object in his hands. "What is it?" he asked curtly, indicating the wooden thing in Tornac's hands. Tornac glanced from him to his wooden instrument, before meeting Murtagh's glance again, clearly trying hard to contain his amusement.

"It's a violin." he said slowly, carefully, voice resounding with the beautiful accent that intrigued Murtagh so very much, the smile innocently hidden from his face save for a slight glittering in his eyes. "Haven't you ever seen a violin before?" Murtagh shook his head slowly. "where I come from, we play music on it." Tornac explained helpfully to a bemused looking Murtagh, who was mentally cursing himself for not studying this sort of thing and thus making himself look a complete fool.

"Music?" he asked, perhaps sounding a little too sceptical - Tornac's face fell slightly, as he reassured Murtagh that, yes, violins were used to play music, and asked if he could perhaps show him. Murtagh, intrigued, nodded, standing up a little straighter against the wall in poorly contained interest. Tornac's childish smile returned to his face, as he carefully put a thin bow to the strings, and began to turn pegs slowly. Murtagh stared at it in shock and distaste. "Hells… music?!" he commented, and then, seeing Tornac give him a disappointed glare, hurriedly added. "I mean to say that it's a different 'music' to that I'm used to."

Tornac looked at him, with the smile temporarily replaced with weary annoyance at his pupil's ignorance. "It sounds horrible, Murtagh, because I am tuning it." he articulated dryly, "it always does. You have to learn to hold your tongue a little longer, and maybe you will find that there are better things in life than you had ever thought possible. Have a little patience please." Murtagh frowned, taken aback, and obediently stopped questioning, and watched, silent, still desperate to hear what sound the violin made. After a while, Tornac stopped, stretched his fingers out, glanced furtively at a still intrigued Murtagh, and started to play.

Murtagh watched, astounded, entranced not only by the music but by the man playing the thing that made such a beautiful sound. Tornac looked up, saw the amazement making its way into Murtagh's brown eyes, and smiled, continuing to play. Murtagh cocked his head to one side like a dog interested in what its master was doing, watching Tornac's fingers carefully, wondering how the violin was making such an elegant sound. When Tornac finally did play his closing note, and lifted the bow from the strings, Murtagh was staring, brown eyes wide and filled with their usual confusion. Tornac looked to him silently seeking an opinion.

"It's better than I thought" Murtagh muttered, quietly, carelessly. Not showing any of the glowing vivacity in his eyes. Tornac smiled back for a moment, finding Murtagh's reluctance somehow entertaining.

"Does it still make your horrible noise?" he asked, his voice irritated but his features smiling radiantly, happy at seeing his pupil so excited by his violin. Murtagh shook his head slowly. "I see you need to work on your patience as well as your concentration." he remarked. "Dear me, there is a lot of work to do on you, isn't there Murtagh?" Without waiting for a reply, he started to wrap up his violin in a thick cloth. "Now if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to." he looked up expectantly, waiting for Murtagh to leave.

Murtagh, being Murtagh, didn't. "Why are you here?" he asked softly, his dark eyes never for a moment leaving the man in the centre of the room. Tornac raised one eyebrow in a way that Murtagh found strangely sweet, and then wordlessly cursed himself for thinking so.

"Memory to work on too, Murtagh?" he clicked his tongue in disapproval. "I am to teach you how to fight better. In case you had forgotten we had a sparring lesson just this morning." Murtagh frowned, irritated at Tornac's tone.

"I meant here." he quietly indicated the room they were standing in. "why the servant quarters? These have been locked for quite some time."

Tornac could not hide the smile from creeping onto his face. "Murtagh, Murtagh, what am I to do with you… these are the servants quarters for servants of the master in that room just there." he indicated Murtagh's own room. "and unless I am very much delirious, drunk, or otherwise incapable of thought, I believe that you are the current resident of it. As your trainer, I am to stay in here." he indicated the room. "Question answered?" Murtagh's mouth formed a small 'oh' before nodding slightly. "And now may I please have a little peace? I may be staying in servant quarters, but I will remind you that I will most certainly not be attending to your every need like some sort of maid. I will train you, that is the extent of it Murtagh. I am not paid to wash, dress and feed you. I only deal with swords. Unless, that is, you require help with finding the door?" He pointed to the thick wooden door behind Murtagh. "You go through there, Murtagh. Not the most intelligent of nobles, are you? Dear dear me… a little brat prince indeed."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow, eyes sparking dangerously, as Tornac looked at him, in mock pensive decision, before beginning again; "Ah! No, I am sorry, your arrogance quite made me think so, but now I come to think of it, a noble would not dare to come to his servants quarters for fear of ruining his reputation." Tornac smiled darkly, twirling his violin bow in his fingers. "You, on the other hand, have all the pride with none of the dignity." He nodded towards the door. "That way to the door, Murtagh… I assume you do not need a map?" Murtagh gritted his teeth to avoid responding to the provoking, seeing the smile in Tornac's eyes and knowing full well that the man was enjoying teasing him. His mind refused to feel hatred for the thing that so sweetly mocked him, finding it too childishly playful, too lovely a thing to be hated. Instead he decided that, like their sparring match, this was a fight he was completely outdone in.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you." he told him dryly, and quickly left Tornac's room, closing the door softly behind him and returning to his room, fuming but unable to let it out on anything. He could still not bring himself to hate Tornac, he realised, and was disgusted with himself. He realised that more of the irritation came from this disability to feel what he should have than from the provoking itself. He opened the book and stared at the pages, mind full of the melancholy beauty of the violin… and the mournful, murderously irresistible silver eyes of the man who played it.

* * *

Murtagh never saw the way Tornac stared after him, stared into the door long after Murtagh had closed it, thinking very much the same of the beautifully deep brown eyes that when they had shown so much excitement beyond the pride had held a dark sort of beauty in them.

Tornac finally stopped looking at the space Murtagh had just vacated, and put his violin away, quietly smiling to himself. Murtagh… He allowed his mind to wonder aimlessly to his pupil, smiling slightly at the thought of those dark eyes and that terribly sweet, proud and yet totally bemused expression that seemed to be constantly on his face. Very confident - he positively adored that. Loved the way he was confident to a point of it just being brash stupidity, willing to take even the most ridiculous risks just to try and get a result. Yes, he liked the man… so much so that it confused Tornac. Liked him more than he recalled ever liking somebody before - and on such small snatches of meetings. There was something there, a spark that he doubted Murtagh had even realised himself yet. Something that made him convinced that his pupil could be great, could be powerful, could learn swordsmanship better than most even dreamed of… but it was not even just about the sword. It was pure determination, a burning desire to be great, to achieve, to be noticed. To be different, and be able to be proud of it. Yes, there was the same flame inside. All he needed to do was to let it out of his new pupil.

He loved Murtagh's character, loved how strong and powerful - and yet how pleasantly breakable all at the same time - he was. Found the over-confidence, the frank expression of exactly what he thought and lack of concentration secretly rather enticing. Part of him wanted to fight this wonderful thing, wanted to spar with Murtagh again and again just to see how he used his sword, to tear his ego and his reputation to tatters, just to see the little defeated look cross his face, just to have him at his mercy… the other part cried desperately to be careful not to hurt this gorgeous thing, to be careful not to taunt him too much, not to push too far. Not to harm him. Wanted to force his new pupil to the very brink of all possibility, and at the same time hold him so close as to positively smother him with protection. But that would do nothing to improve Murtagh's fighting skill, and so he would have to restrain from being overly cautious with him. After all - there was so much power there too running through those veins. Murtagh was not going to be quite so easily broken as he imagined. No.

He loved the innocence. Loved how sweet, so well spoken - or at least, when he wanted to be - how careful Murtagh was, beyond all of those dark smiles, those little dark flickers in his eyes when he became overly confident, beyond the way he could not help but be frank, beyond the lack of patience. Wanted to see again and again the way he looked up with such angelic bewilderment, and yet such a dark spark that let him know he would fight another day, when he was defeated. He loved the confusion in those brown eyes as they had looked over him warily, loved the way they were so innocently uncertain… he loved the way they stared at his violin in pure amazement, enjoying its sound with quiet simple appreciation. Loved the way Murtagh's dark eyes remained fixed on the object of his fascination… but he was going to have to forget love. It was his job, his duty, to bring honour to his pupil, and so he would.

…just not necessarily in the way Murtagh would be expecting.

* * *

**Author: you have no idea how many times I wrote and rewrote different versions of this chapter, most of which will probably end up as random later chapters instead… but anyway… I was listening to so much Children of Bodom and Soilwork it's unbelievable…**

**That was chapter 2! Quite long by my standards. Please please review - I'm getting lots of hits but suspiciously few reviews! It only takes two seconds of your time. What are you waiting for?**

**Oh, and I know that Christopher paolini uses scrolls instead of books, but I don't care - I hate the word scroll. Stuff Paolini. **

**Anyway, enough of that.**

**REVIEW!!!**


	4. Shy

-1[A/N: thank you so much those of you who reviewed!!! You absolutely made my day! -beams-

A few small corrections to make:

1. I've rerated as 'M' just because I guess slash should come under M anyway, plus I just realised that I only ever read fics in the M section, so maybe it'll get read more if it's in the right place.

2. Readjustment to ages: Tornac should be around 28-ish, Murtagh still around 23.

Thanks, hope you enjoy -hides nervously-

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Chapter 3: Brooms and Friendships

Murtagh lay awake, alone, watching the patterns of light change across the ceiling, as all around him the world slept. Murtagh never had been one for sleep. The dark, the silence, it only fed his already over-active mind, keeping him awake until he could finally manage to clear it - usually in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes the lack of sleep would be so bad that Murtagh simply would get up, pull on his shirt, and wonder the silent palace by himself, a dark ghost haunting the shadows on a moonlit mission for dreams that refused to come - all as if this were the perfectly normal thing to do. He would wile away hours sitting watching the stars move across the sky, hours pondering on questions he never quite managed to solve. Dead hours that he could never remember later, no matter how hard he tried to recall them.

Sighing, he reached for where he had abandoned the book, lying with its spine open, and stared at it uninterestedly. He was at a loss as to why Galbatorix was so keen for him to read this particular one - and he was certainly keen. At last count, Murtagh owned a rather impressive total of six of the same volume (making a total of seven including the one he had disposed of out of the window); all 'gifts' from the man who was eager for him to read it. The seemingly endless drone of scrawled writing, tightly packed onto the pages so that it made his eyes hurt to read it, told him nothing of notable value or interest. Dragons, riders, small excited scribed notes on magic - what use were they to him? Old stories, worthless and twisted accounts of something that had no relevance to him. Tales of beasts roaming the skies, carrying their riders - it could have been excited if it didn't sicken him to know his father had helped to murder so many of them… or was the little wrenching in his stomach really pride?

Murtagh contented himself with staring wearily at the carefully drawn illustrations, trying to imagine one of these dragons, these enormous dragons… trying to imagine one of them prowling the skies outside his closed shutters. More than once before he had been unable to sleep before he had opened them the slightest crack just to assure himself. There was never anything there. Never any magnificent wings silhouetted across the moon. Never any darkly mournful roar as it soared. Nothing. But, safe at the back of his mind, Murtagh always entertained a personal hope that there would be dragons once again. Even if he was not to have one himself, to be able to see with his own eyes one of the legendary things would be enough to give him a new belief in life.

He looked at the picture taking over most of the parchment-like page. They must have been truly beautiful, dragons. He was too young to remember anything of them other than slight uncertain memories of seeing his father riding off into the sky. Maybe if Murtagh had known that he would never come back, he would have tried to get a better look at the dark beast that he was riding… but as it was, he had been far too young to know anything of the way that riders had been hunted until they all became the death of each other. Too young to know to be afraid of his father, too young to comprehend the tempestuous rage of politics and emotions surrounding him. Too young to know that he was the only child of a very special race. The only child of the forsworn.

The life of a rider was a solitary one - especially for those few, the forsworn. Love? What need had they for such a fragile thing? But somehow his father had still been so attracted to it. Somehow the man who had been feared by so many had given in to a beautiful woman, somehow become so emotionally attached to her that Murtagh had come to life… Murtagh. Who, it seemed, was destined for much lesser fates than his father had been. Destined to pass life by with nothing much to show for the time he'd spent. Just a watcher, a waiter for some grander time. Dragons had, really, been before his time. And their revival would no doubt be after. He was merely a timekeeper in the middle. Nothing to do but spar, and learn, and spar some more - all this preparation for wars that were going to take place after his death, for fights he would most likely not even have a chance to take part in. Murtagh was not _totally _against the idea of a relatively peaceful life… but the idea was not exactly the most exciting he had ever considered.

Now dragons, on the other hand… however terrible they could be, dragons sounded so darkly amazing… the thought of coming close to one made him shiver with excitement. But it was not to be. Never to be…

Murtagh jolted awake, not even knowing at what point he had drifted into sleep. Slowly, he got to his feet, running his fingers through his dark hair idly, wondering what time it was. There was a very soft pattering on the shutters, which he put down to being rain, a distant rhythm in the cold morning light. Tiredly Murtagh rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a little unintended shiver, as he got up to let the light into his room. His face still in his hands, he flicked the latch, pushing the thick shutters open with a slight clatter as they hit into the outside wall.

He would have just continued his little morning routine as he usually did if it had not been that his eyes flickered past his fingers wearily, and at once widened in surprise. Murtagh looked out in shock, seeing that what he had thought was rain was in fact a powdery coating of snow drifting onto the world. Somehow this whole wretched kingdom looked undeniably stunning in it's white cloak. Murtagh's mind immediately raced to working out how deep the layer was. Carefully he poked at a drift residing on the window frame, and smiled to himself as he realised that, utterly tragically, it was too deep to train today. Murtagh let out a private exclamation of satisfaction. Then realised rather slowly that he had nothing else to do anyway. And then remembered that he no longer had his old trainer, but in fact was due a lesson with…

_Tornac?! _Murtagh's eyes fixed on a dark figure against the snow, practicing with an unmistakeably thin sword. Frowning, he watched, somewhat bemused. The man was insane to be training at this time, let alone in these conditions… but watching him was so completely entrancing that Murtagh didn't want him to stop. He watched the dark haired man whirl, spinning his sword, fighting over and over an enemy who was not even there. Nobody to spar with - not at this ridiculous hour - and so Tornac had been reduced to sparring with _himself_. Which was turning out to be incredibly good entertainment for the pupil watching from his window. From time to time, he stopped, brushed his long hair back behind his ears, seemed to just allow himself time to breathe… before resuming again, a violent dance of a man and his sword.

Murtagh's brown eyes flickered more than once with a strange admiration, something he himself could not even completely comprehend why he felt. Admittedly, Tornac was more than a fair swordsman, the best Murtagh had ever had the pleasure to watch by a rather long way… but then again, he was sure there were others even better. Others who would make this darkly beautiful man seem powerless, useless. So why was it that he felt a tiny pang of pride watching him spin on the snow, watching this man he had barely met whirling in the veil of fragile white flakes? Why did it feel so good to watch Tornac? Why did he suddenly not feel how cold it was outside? Why did a part of him want to run down there right now and join in training…?

Reluctantly pulling himself away from the object of his fascination, Murtagh padded across his room, wincing at the cold under his feet, to pull on his shirt and go and find something to eat before the palace became too overrun with unwanted companies and unwanted attention. But he found himself oddly distracted and shuffling towards the window to get brief glances of the man who was still training. Tugging on his jerkin, he was still trying to stare out of the window at the same time. While he was attempting to make his hair a little more presentable, his brown eyes were forever wondering to someone outside. Someone so entrancing Murtagh was at a lack of words to describe him properly.

Eventually, he forced himself to leave staring idly at the man in the snow, telling himself that if he waited any longer he would not be able to eat in peace, would be surrounded by so many curious people that it would be positively murderous. Careful to lock the door behind him - not something he normally did, but since it seemed he was sharing this part of the palace now he wanted to be sure - Murtagh descended down the stone steps, the sound of his steps echoing around him. It was bitterly cold - he shivered involuntarily. He hated this damned winter…

Tumbling into the deserted dining hall, he received the normal glances of interest from the palace servants who were busy readying it for when most people had their first meal. Murtagh, having never been one for crowds, continued to arrive an hour beforehand to wolf down some food before disappearing again until lunch would be served - when, true to form, he hurried down long before it was supposed to be served to steal some small meal and eat it by himself in the blessed privacy of his own room. Murtagh positively loathed any unnecessary conversation with the people who eyed him so sympathetically, preferring instead to retain his mystique by rarely being seen by anyone at all, save for servants and his trainer. He had not even seen Galbatorix for such blissful long years. Unfortunately, he feared that all too soon that particular little record was going to be reset, and he would once again have to meet this man his father had adored so very much. Ignorant of the glares of the kitchen servants, Murtagh started to help himself to food.

"Morning." He looked up to see the person he considered to be his best, and only friend. Annette was a strikingly attractive girl, only a little younger than he was, with even darker hair and a fiery spirit to match. Murtagh had been savagely beaten at long arguments before now by her - to his shame - but there was an undeniable bond between the two, a special link he shared with nobody else. There always had been something enthralling about the kitchen girl who, instead of scampering away from him like a frightened rabbit, had firmly stood her ground. Something fascinating about the way she had willingly offered to heal a cut he had received being a little too daring with his trainer. There was something mystifying about the way her blue eyes would sparkle with an almost feral glint when she was plotting something - which was often - and when she laughed - which was strictly reserved for the company of her friend Murtagh. Even something funny about the way they had met - when she had shouted at him and found it appropriate to deposit a pail of dirty soap suds over him. The surly servant was quite a different person, Murtagh had discovered, when taken aside to enjoy anything, even something as seemingly trivial as having a friendly conversation. Quite a charming young lady when given the chance, but an absolute devil provided with the right opportunity.

"Morning." he muttered back tiredly, not wholly in the mood for conversation, his mind still vaguely on Tornac.

"Somebody isn't very talkative this morning." she smiled, sweeping the stone floor with a battered looking broom that Murtagh highly doubted was good for anything apart from perhaps using as firewood. He watched her stab at the gloomy shadowed corners viciously, before stepping back, a mixture of triumph and disgust on her face as she eyed a clump of dust. Murtagh settled himself down onto a wooden bench at the side of the room to eat. "Cold, isn't it?" she asked conversationally, flicking the sugaring of dust around the floor idly and turning to him. Murtagh nodded absently, staring at a point on the wall blankly. She threw her long hair behind her shoulders dismissively, turning away with a slight sigh. "You really are distracted today. What would be on your mind?"

Murtagh snapped back to reality, glancing at his friend. "New trainer."

A smile broke over her face, eyes sparkling wildly, hands folding over the top of the broom. "So that's who he is! Foreign, quite attractive…" she tapped her slender fingers together thoughtfully. "I don't believe I caught his name. I haven't seen him myself you know, but I overheard some of the maids giggling about him. Quite charming I hear… with the most beautiful pair of grey eyes I was told."

Murtagh smiled, toying with his food idly. "Tornac. He's called Tornac." Such a sweetly foreign name it made him happy just to say it, just to listen to the sound it made. Just to remember what it had sounded like when it had been said by its owner. Oddly, he received a huge feeling of pride at the way Tornac was attracting so much good attention. A little shiver of thrill that ran down his spine that he could not quite identify as either pride or excitement, but was vaguely aware that it was one of them.

Annette nodded, satisfied, tickling the floor with the wirey broom bristles, repeating the name to herself as she committed it to memory, evidently already tiring of her morning duties. "He's good?"

"The best swordsman I've ever seen." Murtagh told her sincerely, imagining the rush of adrenaline from fighting him, already imagining the pair of silver eyes that had glittered with childish excitement. Imagining how it had felt to watch him as he trained alone in the snow, silently watching as the patterns of his footsteps covered the flat blankets of white covering the courtyard.

"I look forward to meeting him." she grinned. "I need to see if he is as stunning as I've heard he is"

"Oh he is!" Murtagh told her, perhaps with just a _little _too much vivacity, his eyes lighting up in excitement. Annette merely turned away, smiling wickedly to herself. Murtagh hurried to regain some dignity. "Wait until you see him spar. It's unlike any swordsmanship you've ever seen." He could feel himself tingeing pinker as Annette made a feeble pretence of being absorbed in cleaning the floor, hiding a smile he knew would be covering her pretty face. "You have to see. You will be amazed by him." he muttered quietly. She leaned on the wall, eyes fixed on him, a knowing and yet indecipherable smile on her face as he had thought it would be.

Yawning slightly, Murtagh ran his hand through his hair, leaving strands of it falling unruly over his eyes - but he was too tired to really care. He needed more sleep, he told himself. These snatched hours were not enough for him - in future he would have to try and force himself into sleep much earlier. Perhaps then he wouldn't be so tired, perhaps-

Wrapped up in his thoughts, Murtagh didn't at first recognise the cold, damp, dark mess of shivers. A still panting Tornac wandered into the dining hall, Annette raising an eyebrow as he deposited snow onto the floor. Ignoring her, he threw Murtagh a mournful little smile that would have melted the ice outside in mere moments, and certainly melted parts of Murtagh's heart that previously he wasn't even aware he possessed.

"Nice morning!" Tornac smiled shyly, casually brushing his hair behind his ears with one hand, slightly out of breath from his snow-shrouded training session. He made a little involuntary shiver, still smiling at his pupil. "Cold though…" he looked at Murtagh casually. "Is it a problem if I eat now?"

Murtagh shook his head slightly, staring into Tornac's terrifyingly perfect silver eyes and finding himself at a loss for words. There was a something unnaturally wonderful about his eyes. A small flash that passed through them as he was forced to look away, clearing his throat, muttering something perfectly inaudible and poking at his food. To his relief, Annette broke the silence by viciously confronting Tornac about the snow on her newly cleaned floor. Murtagh watched her as she pointed to the offending mess, glaring and snappily informing him that she had worked hard all morning to clean it. Murtagh couldn't help but feel sympathy for Tornac - who now looked uncharacteristically shy and more than a little intimidated by the ranting kitchen girl in front of him. But, to Murtagh's surprise and deep admiration, he had soon managed to gather himself together, take the broom from Annette's hands, carefully sweep away the snow, and return it to a thoroughly bemused Annette with a sweeping bow and a lupine smile, extending a hand cheerfully.

"Murtagh, you haven't introduced me to this pretty young lady." he scolded him quietly, before turning his full attention to Annette, "my name is Tornac." he told her, as always the perfect gentleman, seemingly oblivious to her wordless surprise. Finally, Annette managed to come to her senses and politely introduced herself, her cheeks blushing a light shade of rose. Murtagh supposed nobody had even told her she was 'pretty' before , let alone how beautiful she really was - strange for somebody so attractive but common for a servant. Annette shook his hand and instantly curtsied; looking confused if not more than a little thrilled - leaving a silence hanging in the air, fragile as a snowflake.

Had he forgotten how beautiful Tornac's silver eyes were? They were so enchanting he was wishing that Tornac could turn to face him just a little more so that he might get to see them clearer. How could he still be so blown away by the wonderful perfection of his trainer, how could he still forget all the words he could have used to describe him? Murtagh wished he would say something else, just so that he could hear his accent again, hear the beautiful way his pronunciation was so very different from anything else he had heard before. Tornac was still wearing his odd choice of delicately romantic lace, but had today seemingly thought it more appropriate to accent it with dark leather, all, Murtagh noted, fastidiously tailored to precisely the right cut - here was a man who was altogether more careful in his appearance than even Murtagh was.

He was snapped from his thoughts by Annette's fleeting laugh - a soft, gentle laugh - and then Tornac's unforgettable laugh, so sweetly childish as he whispered to Annette;

"I think that Murtagh has something on his mind." Annette smiled, sparkles in her blue eyes as she and Tornac watched Murtagh blink up at them stupidly. Was his embarrassment showing? He could not tell. He sincerely hoped that he was not blushing quite as much as he imagined; but from the darkly mischievous look shimmering ominously in Annette's eyes he really was.

Finding the awkward silence to be his ideal moment for making a hurried escape, Murtagh got to his feet and with a mumbled apology slipped out of the room, hoping that Tornac had not noticed his staring too much. Cursing himself mentally, Murtagh quickly retreated to the private safety of his room.


	5. My Dreams A Drop Of Fuel For A Nightmare

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-1**Thank you for your reviews!**

**I made a few very small alterations to the prologue and decided to rewrite Chapter 4. Prologue was just a matter of a phrase I didn't much like. Chapter four I scrapped because it didn't seem… right, you know? I've kept some small parts of the original, but after having three weeks or so with no decent inspiration from it I decided that a rewrite was the best option. Oh, and I also renamed the chapters. Don't ask why, I can't tell you the answer because I just do not know!**

**I've read far too much slash over the past few weeks, and am now fully infected with it's wonderful addiction.**

Somebody tell me if this is too fast or slow or whatever. ;) I'm wondering about the speed.

**Also I'd really appreciate if somebody could tell me how to achieve a line separator rather than having to use rows of x's! **

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Chapter 4: In Dreams

Most of the day passed with very little event of note or value. Murtagh found, somewhat to his hidden pleasure and somewhat to his deep dismay, that Tornac did not consider snow to be a worthy reason for cancelling a sparring lesson. Somehow his trainer had known that Murtagh was going to be less than cooperative about the prospect of sparring in the cold, and so had parked himself outside Murtagh's door, refused to move, and had knocked on Murtagh's door incessantly until he finally surrendered and opened it. Tornac had told him dryly that in the time it had taken him to stop pretending that he was not there and could not hear the noise he had been making on the door, he had fallen a full hour late for his lesson - which Murtagh had taken to mean as he would not have a full lesson. Instead it meant sparring even after the sky was going a dusky purple and was getting hard to see.

Murtagh returned to his room sore, shivering, and covered in bruises from where Tornac's blows had continually been far too fast for him to parry. Tornac seemed able to retain a child-like joy for the entire training session, beaming every time he managed to get a hit on Murtagh - rather more often than Murtagh would have liked - and even more when Murtagh finally managed to hit _him _- which a was pathetically uncommon occurrence. Murtagh however struggled to keep up even his less than convincing appearance of being excited over losing sparring match after sparring match in the freezing cold. He stuck his finger in his mouth to try and regain some sort of feeling, and kicked off his boots tiredly, collapsing onto his bed, wincing slightly. He could not decide why he was still completely incapable of hating the man who trained him this hard. His previous trainer had been cruel, brutal certainly - but Tornac was just relentless in his lessons, never seeming to tire and clearly expecting the same of Murtagh. 

His back ached… he had trained too hard. Slowly he tugged off his shirt, and wincing, traced his fingers along the scar, remembering with shocking clarity how it had felt. Remembered, even now, the dull collapse of his thoughts around him as he had blacked out: the way that sleep had seemed so tempting to sink down into; the explosion down his spine that he could not comprehend; the groggy downfall into a pain-induced hell; waking to more pain than he had ever imagined possible. A memory that, no matter how hard he tried to forget, continued to push itself up to the surface in defiance. 

He collapsed onto his bed with a soft tired hiss between gritted teeth, rubbing his hand over his face roughly. His fascination with Tornac was starting to burn in his chest again. The memory of such beautiful silver eyes, the slight mournful edge to his smile that made it nothing short of - he forced himself to admit - irresistible. Was it wrong to think his trainer so irresistible? Murtagh sighed to himself, and decided that the cold had quite gone to his head.

From Tornac's room was the faint sound of violin playing, a haunting little melody that enraptured his mind with its beauty. He was caught in its entrancing web, trapped and fully aware of the fact. Something in the music made him shiver uncomfortably, and yet at the same time it calmed him and allowed him to relax blissfully against the soft fabric of the bed-cover. Now here was a pleasurable feeling… a warmth not unlike being covered over with unimaginably soft blankets that spread right up his spine, easing an utterly weary Murtagh down into floating lacy dreams. As he fell asleep he registered the violin carrying on into the night.

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_He was younger again, running down a tall corridor that to his inexperienced eyes seemed to stretch high into the realms of clouds that his father's dragon roamed. The dragon, in fact, was the reason he was here, he knew as he knew vague instincts, a fuzzy certainty of why he was here. He wanted to see the dragon again - for although he terrified the servants who scuttled past, Murtagh doted on him, loved to reach out and touch his red scales and feel the resounding growl that travelled right along his arm. He had seen it land in the courtyard late into the night, when logic stated that children of such a young age should be sleeping, but Murtagh rarely slept. People always remarked quietly among themselves that there was something uncanny about the understanding of the world in the boy, something uncanny about the brown eyes that peered out form shadows, fastidiously comprehending what adults seemed to fail to grasp. Perhaps that was why, now, he raced outside to see the growling form of the dragon, knowing somehow that it would not hurt him._

_But the dragon was not there. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, a feeling of gut disappointment, but one that quickly faded with the realisation that the dragon would be hunting and would return in the beautiful hues of the evening. He was usually in a more playful mood after he had devoured some small meal, and so Murtagh supposed to himself that it would make better sense to see him in the evening. His father would be drinking by then, naturally. How blissfully well fate worked out for Murtagh, he thought to himself, and resolved to visit the dragon later._

_With a quiet restrained excitement, Murtagh hurtled back into the corridor, expecting to be able to dash straight back to the safety of his room, but instead to his surprise colliding with a shivering wreck in curled in the middle of the floor. With some form of twisted recognition, Murtagh stared in surprise to see his father, curled into a tight ball, a strange sobbing sound emitting from him. Thinking to comfort him, Murtagh reached out affectionately but was viciously slapped away. _

_Hurt, his brown eyes fixed on his father's tired, melancholy green ones, searching for an answer or apology but receiving none. A shiver of unknown apprehension ran up his spine as the man got to his feet, shaking, eyes showing a clouded picture of Morzan's grasp at alcohol to make some of the stresses of life fade. Already knowing the outcome inside his mind, and powerless to change it, Murtagh turned to run back to his room._

_No!…_

_The shout came from both Murtagh's older, more experienced mind, knowing precisely the pattern that fate took, and from his father, a combined command that rang in Murtagh's mind anyway as he hurried back to the safety of his mother. Trapped inside his own mind, Murtagh took a deep breath of apprehension._

_He knew even before he felt it hacking into flesh across his back that Morzan's sword would be tossed at him. Knew of the pain that would erupt, hot and sticky like the blood he knew all too well would be dripping, dripping, dripping onto the floor. Knew that next to him, he would fuzzily hear the sound of Morzan picking up his sword, oblivious to what act he had just committed. Inside his own thoughts he counted the footsteps until the pain was going to come. _

_His vision exploded white, a scream escaping from both his own voice and that of a much younger Murtagh, who collapsed onto the floor. There was the cool slam of stone against him as he reeled and pounded into the flagstones hard, the blood trickling past his eyes as his head began to spin. The pain was unbelievable, ripping him apart, not able to be released in a scream but yet he continued his futile attempt at externalising it. Inside his head, Murtagh counted down the precise number of seconds until he lost consciousness - an agonising 26 seconds of unendurable torture that he knew all too well - delirious from the pain. Each second came with a desperate ragged gasp for air, dragging on until Murtagh thought his mind might shatter before it ended. He counted the last eight seconds until his fragile trail of thoughts would all but collapse into darkness…_

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Waking abruptly, Murtagh gasped shallowly at air, eyes looking around him in fear, whines of screams fading as they caught in his throat. Fingers shaking, he brushed his hair out of his eyes, still panting for air, the feeling of cool sweat uncomfortable down his back. Brown eyes still wide with fear, he curled up into himself in the darkness, waiting for his heart to stop shuddering adrenaline around his body, breathing too hard. Trembling, he reached to his shoulder, brushing his fingertips against the place where the tip of the sword had impacted heavily into moments before the rest of the metal had sliced across him. He had relived that dream too many times for his liking.

After what seemed a horrific eternity he could breathe again, remembrance of pain fading from his back, left to stare around him in the dark, the only sounds his own calming heartbeat in his ears and the sound of his breathing. By then Murtagh was too terrified to re-enter sleep and stayed stubbornly awake, refusing to allow himself to be dragged into repetition of his nightmare and instead sat emptily considering nothing. His thoughts smouldered around him, distant shadows of ideas that burned just out of his reach. Not that this bothered him. In Murtagh's eyes the more he thought, the worse his situation seemed, and so as a rule he did not allow himself to overly contemplate matters. 

He waited until the sun was breaching the horizon to drag himself out of bed and, grabbing up his shirt, went to wash some of the cold sweat away, exhausted from the night of almost no rest but knowing that his only option was to get through the day. Wearily, Murtagh splashed water over himself, knowing that there would be a long day ahead of him. 

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Tornac waited patiently for Murtagh to join him in the courtyard. He had, of course, arrived scrupously promptly, and had been waiting ever since for the arrival of his pupil, who it seemed did not consider the idea of sparring in the snow quite as exiting as Tornac in his childish happiness did. Finally the door opened and Murtagh tumbled out, brown eyes weary and not really seeming to be in a fit mood to spar. This meant relatively little to Tornac however, who beamed at his appearance - albeit a rather disgruntled and tired one - and watched as Murtagh positioned himself to fight. 

Smiling with excitement, Tornac launched himself at his young companion, feeling the shock from his blade impacting with Murtagh's in a rush of pleasurable pain shooting up his arm from the force of contact. Murtagh visibly gritted his teeth and pushed him back forcibly, sending his light frame skittering across the snow only to run back with renewed energy to attack again. Murtagh hit out hard, frustration rising to an almost unbearable level until finally Tornac decided that he had toyed with him quite long enough and joyfully drove in for the kill, backing Murtagh into a wall and raising his sword to his neck.

"Dead!" Tornac grinned. Murtagh made some mutter of tired acknowledgement, rolled his brown eyes in defeat. "But now, to teach! I don't approve of your previous trainer's technique at all." Tornac frowned, a small childish dissatisfaction that was playful behind its criticism. "For a start that isn't the right way to hold a sword in my method... Dear me there is just too much to do with you, Murtagh…" 

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Murtagh glanced down to his right hand in a mild confusion, before Tornac laid down his weapon and made to show him how he considered best to hold one. Murtagh had expected him to be rough, but instead found to his somewhat pleasant surprise that Tornac was wonderfully gentle, prying his sword from his grip softly before cautiously slowly moving his fingers back to a new hold, all the while his silver eyes fixed on Murtagh's own for approval. The light caress of his fingers against his made his pupil shiver slightly, noticing how beautifully caring Tornac's touch was. 

"That's better…" Tornac muttered to himself, letting his fingers loose so that Murtagh was holding the sword himself and stepping back to assess the result with a perfected precision. "Let's try again shall we?" He swung at Murtagh experimentally, allowing his pupil time to contemplate this foreign way of holding his sword, before cautiously the second blade rose to meet his own. Murtagh was wordlessly amazed at how very natural this felt, how much simpler than before, and soon settled into the rhythm of fighting Tornac, confidence starting to show behind today's tired meekness. Tornac encouraged every rise in esteem until a rare smile started to break at the corner of Murtagh's face, a smile of confidence and comfort despite his fighting being more than inferior to his trainer's.

There was something magical about the way the violent beauty of the swords brought their bodies closer together, something fascinatingly distraction about fighting somebody so perfect. Murtagh thought hazily through concentrated sparring that, if only Tornac had been a woman, this wouldn't have dragged on so long. He would be his by now. He would have made the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes upon; not that he had ever felt like this about women… He smiled.

A smile that his trainer did not know, could not know, was reserved for his beautiful silver eyes alone, a smile that nobody else had ever had the pleasure to witness, save for perhaps Annette on occasion. But with Tornac Murtagh began to feel a security, a safety in being with the man that he found nowhere else, and he found himself taking more and more pleasure in it. Tornac won with predictable repetition, but seemed so delighted with both himself and his pupil that Murtagh almost began to wonder if he was actually allowing him to win just to see this amazing joy that spread across Tornac's face as he routinely declared with glee that Murtagh was -

"Dead!" Murtagh groaned in mock upset, tired and bruised but still somehow enjoying himself wonderfully, and lifted his eyes to see Tornac releasing his thin sword from across Murtagh's chest and pushing it back into its scabbard with a flourish. "I think that's enough for today."

"No!" Murtagh gasped, perhaps just a little too firmly, because Tornac fixed him with a look that was as unreadable as it was disturbing. 

"No?" he parroted quietly, head cocking to one side in interest.

"Just once more?" Murtagh muttered. "It's still light." he indicated the horizon.

Tornac began to laugh, such a sweet little laugh that Murtagh started to laugh along with him until there was the clang of metal and he returned to his sense with a jolt to parry away the hit. "You just don't know when you've had enough do you Murtagh?" he grinned, whirling. Murtagh fought back silently, struggling to keep his focus. 

"Well you know, Murtagh?" He span, but was caught off guard by Tornac's sword slicing air mere centimetres from his arm and stumbled backwards, only just keeping his balance, but in the process having his sword stolen with a vivid flick of his trainer's wrist. There was the cold kiss of metal against his neck in an instant.

"I like that." Tornac whispered, smiling as he stepped away, turned on his heel and walked back inside, sheathing his sword instinctively. Murtagh panted for breath in the cold, brown eyes empty but his heart pounding with excitement as he repeated softly

"I like that…"

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**Hohum. I just got hold of the HINDER album along with piles of slash ficlets, so that was hugely enjoyable to write.**

And yes, I'm aware that other than looking at each other they haven't actually got to do anything yet. So sue me. XD I'm a romantic, I take things slowly, but I think something might happen soon-ish, so stay tuned. '

\/p> 


	6. Broken

-1**Thank you if you read my rewrite to chapter 4! R n R would be much appreciated on it. I got fed up with the stupidity and immaturity of the original. And yeah, I know, I completely rewrote it. So sue me. xD  
**

**I'm on a short holiday so it gives me more time to write and concentrate on art work I need to get done. Which is always a good thing.**

**On a less good note I've a nasty suspicion that I've managed to damage a nerve in my first finger of my right hand. I'll have to see if it gets worse and maybe see someone about it, because it sure as hell doesn't feel right and I can't type with it. I'm ambidextrous but I still object to losing the full use of my right hand.**

**And the 'Hinder' album is becoming addictive. I think I may end up writing some slashy little song fics to these songs… hmm. -author muses- Also borrowed a 'The Used' album from a friend, which I'm growing around to liking more and more. And got some 'Serj Tankien' songs from my brother, which are frankly bizarre but annoyingly catchy... My favourite is the song 'sky is over', a strange mixture of weird vocals and thumpy melody. Am looking forward to getting some new Sonata Arctica albums sometime next week though, so look out for SA inspired fics!**

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Chapter 5:

Murtagh soon regretted spending so long exerting himself, and resorted to lying in self-pitying melancholy solitude in the thick blankets, listening to the sounds of the palace life continuing with no notice of the fact that he was confined to bed, his back too stiff to move without serious discomfort. He wound the edge of a rough coverlet around his hands vaguely, pulling it close to his body as if it would provide some form of solace, burying his nose in it so that his dark brown eyes stared out lifelessly with listless weariness. The sun was setting, the glaring orange hues disturbing his eyes as he struggled to sleep to forget about the aching that streaked mercilessly through the scarred line on his back. 

It was by no means the first time that he had spent an evening cooped up like a caged bird, feeling restlessly agitated by it all and at the same time so tired that he could sleep any minute, if only the pain would allow for it. Annette had become used to it, sometimes coming to visit him in his lonely hiding when he did not make any appearance at meal times, usually with restrained but evident concern. On more than a single occasion she had smuggled food up to him, but Murtagh was rarely in the mood and wanted nothing save to be granted the release of sleep, which she noted with obvious annoyance but never complained, having far too good a heart behind all of her devilish rebellion. He wondered muzzily whether perhaps dinner had finished, which could result in a visit, but he reserved very little hope of it. Annette was busier than ever, and he doubted she would have time to waste on his anti-social flail at self-pity. It was almost dark, he could see outside the window, and suddenly realised foolishly that he had never closed the shutters. Groaning, Murtagh decided to gather up as much energy as possible for the daunting task of making it all of the way to the window and back. Just the seemingly simple task of removing his shirt had been a drawn out tedious process. He could not even begin to imagine how it might be possible to get to the window, and neither did he particularly want to worsen his outlook by bothering to contemplate it.

An hour or more trickled by, with no change to the scene other than the sky darkening to an oblivion of star-speckled black. With the shutters thrown so wildly open and Murtagh in no fit state to close them, the room was slowly growing frigid. Shivering, Murtagh pulled the blanket tighter around him, burying his face in it to ignore all of the unpleasant sensations tickling at his spine. The night was slowly becoming more and more uncomfortable, and still sleep had not bothered to grace him with its salvatory presence. Drowning in his own miserable little hell, Murtagh started to wander whether or not his father would be laughing if he could see now what his stupid drunken act had resulted in. He wandered vaguely whether he would have hit him before now for the way he would no doubt have found his son's pain amusing.

He was entrapped in these pointless wanderings when there was a shy tap at the door, followed by the calling of his name in a glorious accent he knew only one person could possibly possess, an accent that was tinged with a charming amount of worry. There was sympathy in his tone quite alien to Murtagh, who had rarely been the subject of any meagre act of compassion let alone true caring. He had grown to become satisfied with pretending that he was, and so the lack of attention was no longer quite as troubling as it might have been. Murtagh heard his name called again, the tapping becoming just a little more frantic. Whether a moment of insanity or inspiration, Murtagh called back. There was a moment of confused silence. Tornac knocked again, clearly bewildered as to why Murtagh was not opening the door.

Curiosity soon got the better of his trainer, who found the door to be unlocked, and pushed it open with a child-like fascination of one who feels that he should not really be doing what he is. There was the soft pad of his footsteps across the floor.

"It's cold in here!" Tornac remarked with worry, "You must be freezing. Why don't you close the shutters? Dear me Murtagh, even less sense than I'd thought of you!"

"I would have done that hours ago if I could." Murtagh growled tiredly, foreseeing a fractured misunderstanding mirroring that he usually received from a well-meaning but nevertheless unknowing Annette. The surprised silence that radiated from his trainer seemed to confirm his suspicions. But instead of a bewildered conversation, there was the sound of more pattering footsteps and Murtagh looked up to see Tornac diligently pulling the shutters closed, latching them with meticulous care that Murtagh himself would not have seen it fit to bother with. When he was quite satisfied that they were tight, he padded to the other side of the room, out of Murtagh's pitifully small impaired field of vision. Murtagh frowned in confusion at the sounds of Tornac moving something around, and instantly tried to crane to see what he was doing. He looked just in time to see the flicker of flames as Tornac lit the fire and fed it with the loving attention of one caring for a beloved pet. Excitedly, he poked wood into it, watching with pride as the flames started to flare.

"Thank you." Murtagh felt himself flush with surprise that somebody cared enough as to try and keep him warm. The room quickly started to warm a little, and Murtagh closed his eyes in the hope that sleep would come sooner in this new heated climate. He opened them again in surprise when the bed shifted slightly as Tornac sat on it next to him, his knees tucked under him neatly, his hands folded over one another precisely on his lap. Tornac, it was quickly becoming evident, was fastidious about everything nearly as much as he insisted on being over his personal appearance - save for his hair, which still remained gracefully casual. He eyed Murtagh with critical judgementalism.

"You weren't at dinner." he remarked in quiet accusation as though this were nearly as unforgivable as to commit murder. "Are you sick?" Murtagh peered up, and felt his breath hitch in his throat to realise that two perfect silver eyes were fixed on him, two perfectly beautiful silver eyes. Beautiful was the only word that came to his mind. He wanted to write whole songs, with all of the flauntiest vocabulary he could produce, just to describe how wonderful they were, but doubted that even then he would have served the justice, and if nothing else Murtagh knew he would make a rather terrible poet.

"My back's stiff."

"I told you that you didn't know when enough was good for you!" Tornac scolded playfully. "I would have stopped if you'd told me you were going to be like this."

"I didn't exactly plan for it." Murtagh muttered, aware that he was staring and turning to try and face Tornac better. His back protested and he yelped uncomfortably, wincing, and ended up lying in a daze of pain, feeling awkward on his stomach. With a tired growl of irritation at himself, Murtagh pressed his face into a pillow wearily to try and bury the ache and rest. Somehow Tornac's presence was solace in itself, he didn't need to be able to see him. 

"Sounds painful." Tornac remarked, voice unreadable, silver eyes never once leaving Murtagh, his jet black hair falling over his shoulders casually.

"It is." Murtagh whined.

"I'll rub your back for you. Ah, it seems I am forced into nurse maid duties! Because, Murtagh, from what I have seen you aren't capable of taking care of yourself. And as your trainer I consider it my duty to keep you in condition to spar." He tensed in wonderful, pleasurable shock as Tornac's warm fingers started to stroke along the tops of his shoulder blades softly, not bothering to wait for an answer. Unfamiliar with the luxury of attention being spent on him, Murtagh froze in surprise, attentive to the feeling of inexperienced unexpected contact. This was something completely new and unexplored to him, and Murtagh decided simply that whatever it was, he liked it. When there was no protest, Tornac gently rubbed his hands over Murtagh's shoulders, a pleasant sensation of delicate concerned care that started to press into Murtagh's mind demandingly.

"Your friend is charming." Tornac told him conversationally. "I've never met a more lovely young lady. It's a shame you aren't as sensible as she is."

"Who, Annette?" Murtagh ignored all attempt at provoking, mind running amok as pleasure started to fuzz away at the edges of his frozen cold thoughts, Tornac's personal fire burning away at the numbing ice. 

"mmm." Tornac dropped his taunting reluctantly. Murtagh liked the concentration of pressure along his spine, and tiredly told Tornac so, to another of his little laughs, this one proud at the compliment. 

"I used to do healing work before I decided to train egocentric irritating people like you to wave swords around."

"Why change?"

"I don't like blood." Tornac laughed in embarrassment. "Hate it in fact, it makes me feel quite faint. That is not a quality one looks for in a healer, as you can imagine. And I wasn't quite as good with care and bandages as I am with violence and swords." 

There was a little pause of surprise and upset when Tornac's fingers found the smooth line of scar tissue. Cautiously, he traced along it, the raw feelings thrilling to Murtagh's mind. He reached the point where blanket was pulled around the bottom of Murtagh's shoulder blades, and looked to him in askance. Murtagh gave him a look of permission and, electrifyingly slowly, Tornac explored along it, appalled at how long it stretched out for. "How did you get this?" he whispered, the shock evident under the control in his tone.

"My father wasn't particularly fond of children." Murtagh muttered with tired light sarcasm, and the gasped softly as Tornac's hands pressed against him.

"Sorry! Too hard?" Tornac took his hands away in a timid apology.

"No, it's just… your hands are very warm." Murtagh murmured, a shy smile starting to find its way onto his face. "It's nice actually. Just… unexpected."

"I'm not surprised, you're so cold!" Tornac laughed, reintroducing his hands to Murtagh's back gently. "Keeping the window open was rather silly, but I must say I expected no less of you." His laughter was soft, a childishly sweet sound that pleasantly tickled in Murtagh's ears. It suddenly occurred to Murtagh just how innocently young Tornac seemed, even though he must have been some years older than himself. The beautiful sparking moments of immaturity were nothing short of adorable, and Murtagh willingly fell prey to the charms of Tornac's touch against him.

It was soothingly reassuring, and yet enticingly sensual all at once. Murtagh let out a little mewling purr of comfort, which Tornac regarded as encouragement and continued to caress the younger's back, easing away the stiffness from every inch of it. There was a blissful silence, the only slight sounds those of the howling wind behind his shutters and the slight gentle sound of Tornac's bare skin rubbing against his. It was a moment of heavenly perfect in Murtagh's world, a wonderful passionate contentment, the like of which he had never felt before. It was making him feel so comfortingly sleepy that he closed his eyes and relaxed against Tornac, loving the firm reassurance of his hands, and the slight whispering tickle of the lace at his cuffs. Tornac was so warm, and the care he was giving to Murtagh was welcomely appreciated. Murtagh couldn't recall being this comfortable with human contact before, even with Annette, feeling awkward and embarrassed in company. But here was a wonderful spark of friendship that he readily accepted. The fact that it was his trainer that was showing affection was a meaningless detail. Murtagh lost all trail of logical thought to a dozy haze of sleep that Tornac's hands tenderly coaxed him into.

"Better?" He felt Tornac's hands move away from his back and felt the bed shift as he shuffled his position.

"Yes thank you."

"Ah, learned some manners have we? Very good. A notable improvement." Murtagh was too tired to argue and just mumbled an inaudible response. "It's late, get some rest, you need it. You won't be any fun to defeat if you're too tired." he teased. "I'd better put the fire out for you in case you forget and burn the room down. I wouldn't mind but my room, I will remind you, is just feet away and if it's not too much trouble I would prefer not to roast to death tonight." With a little almost inaudible laugh, Tornac slipped off the bed and went to tend to the fire.

Murtagh's last sleepy acknowledgement was of the door closing softly behind Tornac as he went out.

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**I think my finger's got worse. I really must get this checked out… maybe I'll just ask Tornac to do it because he's such a sweetie. ' Ah, I wish I wouldn't fall so desperately in love with fictional characters. I just want to kiss him bless him.**

**Anyway, there was chapter 5. Painstakingly typed with only three of the fingers on my right hand. Ah, what I put myself through for slash eh? What can I say, I'm a slashaholic. **

**Written to a varied soundtrack, my mind concocting ideas for songfics all the while. I really do recommend 'Hinder' for inspiration, I've used them often in my non internet writings as well as a lot of Murtagh fiction, most of which is just stashed away on some unknown drive of my old computer...**

**In short, PLEASE review and cheer me up, I have loads of work, my finger is crippled, and I can't marry a guy because he's fictional! The woes of a European goth girl, eh? =**


	7. Black Sheep

-1**It's been a while since I updated, I know, but I'm struggling a lot with things at the moment, and apologies for that. My finger appears to have sorted itself out more or less, which is a huge relief. I can type with it today so I'm hoping that was just a temporary little thing. Hopefully I won't get that again, it was really unpleasant! **

**I also managed to get hold of a whole load of new music, mostly from the band sonata arctica, so this chapter has an underlying SA theme running through it, if you know the band you may pick up on occasional references!! ;) The chapter title is a tribute to these guys, I'm thinking of changing all of the titles to SA songs... They're finnish and they're power metal, I really do recommend them, they've become one of my very favourite bands and have cured many a case of the feared "block". With Sonata Arctica blasting in my ears I'm happy. Tony Kakko, you are my cure. Actually coincidentally Tony provided a key inspiration for my beloved Tornac, I just changed his sexuality a bit ;)… Kiitos Tony, minä rakastan sinua!**

**Speaking of whom, Tornac gets this chapter all to himself, more or less. FINALLY you get to see him through his own eyes rather than Murtagh's, and hopefully see him a little more truly because of it. **

**  
Please R n R, as I'm particularly interested in what people think of my baby in this one -huggles Tornac tightly-**

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Chapter 6: Black Sheep

Tornac brushed strands of his black hair out of his eyes pensively, splashing water in his face and shivering as cold fat droplets ran down his neck, grabbing a shirt he had discarded the night before and quickly drying them away. Peering out of the window absently, he started to run his fingers through his hair. The sun was nearly risen, the sky tickling the ground a playful sunshine hue. Perfect light, and such a waste to allow it to slip away whilst he slept. It seemed a hideous shame to squander such beautiful hours on the menial task of sleeping when the time could be better used to further perfect his sword technique. If that was to mean spending the morning in the cold privacy of a solitude silence, then it was a sacrifice he would willingly make. Tornac really always had been one who favoured his own company over that of others. Or at least, save for very few special people. One of which he had spent his night dreaming hopelessly of.

His had been a large family, a close and tender family, but one that had been torn past more than its fair due of loss, and one somewhat less perfect than outward appearances seemed. He had always been the quietest one, the one who wondered to himself in such ways as were considered unhealthy to wonder. The one who pined for education, for books, for scholarly things that were beyond his grasp. The one who became the object of rather a lot of humour - albeit in a gentle kind fashion of playful mockery - among both older and younger siblings. Tornac had been the ninth of eleven and the fifth of six to manage to cope with the struggle of growing through infanthood. Though never the youngest there had always been a tendency to regard him as the child of the family, which his carefully nursed retained glimmer of immaturity did nothing to quell. Being made the little mysterious and yet humorous black sheep of his family by numerous older siblings however had not been anything that Tornac particularly disliked, and so his inner child had been held onto tightly and protected for its worth, for the way that it gave him some identity, some sense of being unique - which he treasured above much of the rest of his vivacious personality.

He smiled to himself as he ran strands of hair absently between his fingers. The childish excitement still remained even today, the capacity to become enchanted by such simple wondrous delightful things as snow, and winning, and lace, and to allow himself to become so wholly enraptured that he simply could not force his eyes away and would become obsessed with such ridiculous things. It had set him apart from a family that had been disfigured through lost to become, for the most part, a serious and restrained community where a calm and sensible maturity came over at the earliest possible egress from the silly naïve restraints of childhood. To Tornac, this meant relatively little. He valued childhood highly, and was particularly enraptured by the differences in the way the world could be seen through a child's eyes. Whether it was considering something enthralling or showing a little of his seemingly undying energy, Tornac was forever a younger man at heart.

The opportunity for some little money had arisen somewhat by accident and certainly to a murmur of jealousy from siblings. Tornac, being eager for learning and knowledge, had gone about trying to study better how to care for a broken world, a broken race, a broken person. But healing had never been a particularly successful occupation for a man who was always dreaming. He tired quickly of the continuous repetition of whiling away day after rainy day caring for people significantly older than he was, who were seldom polite and even less still grateful - and had a distaste for blood that allowed itself to become all too evident. He found that there was very little intellect to be found or indeed used in the wrapping of cuts or cleaning of blood, and for somebody so hungry for new things this was a disappointing boredom.

He could remember even now the way he would return home, finding even his own hands repulsive because they were coated in blood. Having always been unduly concerned to a point of being wildly obsessive about cleanliness, Tornac had found blood nothing short of disgusting and having his hands covered in it made him shudder at the sickening revulsion of it all. He wanted so desperately to clean the horrifying repulse of it away, wanted to scrub at it unrelentingly until no sign of nauseating crimson remained, which was made no easier by the fact that the stain was on his own skin. He would not want to think about how somebody else's blood was coating his fingers, not want to look at the sanguine water because it was such an abhorrence of his scrupulous habits. He grew to develop a removal from the situation so that he could distract his mind briefly whilst his hands frantically rubbed each other clean in the water, but never truly learned to control the fearful disgust of it.

Sparring was something altogether more pleasant as an experience. Tornac could recall the detached bliss of whirling, captivated in his own exclusive universe of bliss with his blade, oblivious to the world around him, happy just to continue this elaborate little dance he had been meticulously perfecting over the past weeks so that the routine of knowing when to twist and when to move became an automated response of his subconscious mind. With a violent little flourish he would finish, pausing for a minute to pant for breath, smiling to himself. The results of his long diligent hours of training slowly became apparent, and he was proud of the fact.

Why he was so keenly fond of violence, well, Tornac himself had never been quite certain. Perhaps it was the murderous grace of it, or perhaps the way that it worked as a perfect externalising of every emotion. Just as the painter meticulously worked on his creation as though it were his very being, so Tornac worked to perfect his sparring, considering it to be the purest art form that it was possible for a man to partake in. He would devote priceless hours into the careful honing of the technique of using the thin sword that came to be almost an extension of himself, such was its value and familiarity. He would while away hours of time in his own private little world, content with his own company and the friendship of his sword. The metal became his closest ally, his fickle little lover, stole the most important place in his heart so that there wasn't any space anymore for anything as false as love.

Ah, love. Love, for Tornac, had always been something a little unique. It was not simply the fact that, unlike his siblings, he at first showed very little interest in pursuing other people - fancying his own company far above that confusion of another's. Indeed, had it not been for what he saw now to be a rather silly unnecessary flourish in one of his sparring afternoons rendering his arm very much useless for some months - much to his sincerest mournful upset and deep frustration at the time - he might never have found the thrills of love at all. It was not even just that, when his passion for swords was allowed to be placed aside for long enough so that he finally did begin to show interests, they were blatant and poorly hidden - Tornac became so amazed by the idea of romance that he spent no time considering how his relentless watching of people was making his point painfully clear. No. The true difference was so wonderfully simple, and yet seemingly impossible to comprehend. Tornac was not sure at what point it had become so apparent that it was not just women he found beautifully attractive - it was a deep inside premonition, something that it seemed had constantly resided, unnoticed, at the back of his mind. Oh, women were beautiful, certainly. But to Tornac's eyes, so too were men. So beautiful that he would find himself sitting aimlessly dreaming of how it would feel to be wrapped in their arms, so warm and safe, or staring rather blatantly at somebody who caught his particular fancy in an unrelenting and not completely undisturbing manner that led some large number of people to start to murmur amongst themselves that too much sparring was quite clearly bad for the head, or else that it was not only his arm that needed to be healed, and that the man was ill.

Tornac smiled to himself, leaning on the window heavily and staring out, silver grey eyes intrigued as they followed the flight path of one hundred tiny pairs of starling wings, so breakable and fragile as they flitted through the clouds. He had been anything but _ill _- indeed he had been the happiest he had ever felt in his life. Save for perhaps the first time anybody had kissed him - the still vivid memory continued to give him such a warm comfortable feeling, an internal contentment that he did not suppose could ever quite be matched. His smile grew as he remembered how wonderful it had felt, how innocent and yet how sensual. And the feeling of being so very safe in somebody else's embrace, the feeling that the world was turning just perfectly. His first kiss had been with another man, unbeknown to his family. Even now he remembered very little of the details of how it had come about, but to his eyes it was of little consequence. More important was the warm hard feeling it induced inside of him, and how blissful it had been to make such pure contact with somebody, and the bliss in the ignorance of everything and everybody else.

Of course, despite how happy he had been, there was still a discontentment with the world he had been raised in. A discontentment in the arrangement for him to spend the rest of his years with a woman he felt nothing for instead of any number of the beautiful people he wished so desperately could be his for an eternity. Of course, had he suggested it, he had no doubt that his family would have been disgusted at the idea of his union to another man, or to a woman who had as little money and as much individuality as he possessed himself., despite that being his desire. And so the arguments began, a divide becoming daily more and more evident between himself and a world that wanted him to do against his will with a simple acceptance, and while out his days as a man who he knew he wasn't. The albescence from his sparring started to take its toll, and soon Tornac was pining for the beautiful aggression of sparring, making him nothing short of intensely irritable, and the arguing ran vicious and loud through the days of feeling hopelessly caged. At the earliest hint that he was regaining some feasible use of his injured arm, he hurried to the release of the outside world to reacquaint himself with his blade and fought away many fast, violent hours of contained agitation, but of course by then the discontent had long since gone beyond all healing.

Something in his ambitious personality had craved for something more, for something to fulfil his childish dreams of pursuing his sparring obsession to something on a level of a profession, to build his life out of the thing he adored more than anything else. He had never even regretted it, never regretted the innocent little lies he had woven to inform every friend or brother that he was going to fight in a war that he never for a single minute intended on partaking in. And so it had come about that Tornac began his trials to form the life that he wanted so very badly to live. The struggle to reach the most prestigious of training duties had by no means been easy, but such was his determination that he had persisted in battling himself to the places he wanted to be, to train the pupils he believed would be the strongest. And thus he had arrived at Murtagh. Ah, Murtagh. Now here was something special, something powerfully different and beautiful all at once.

He smiled, stifling a small yawn with an almost lupine quality about it, and moving sleekly away from the window to check himself briefly in a small polished mirror, his vanity being properly satisfied before he made for the door, a far away expression of happiness still remaining on his face. Perhaps it was through his childish playfulness or maybe that blissful memory of his first kiss that Tornac had retained an extremely tactile personality, being somebody who relied strongly on showing his affection for people through touch, and adored to be held and touched back in return. Tornac was a man who loved to be cuddled and petted in a way that did nothing but further show his child-like approach to love. Words were soft and beautiful, he knew, but to hold somebody meant so much more than words were ever capable of describing. Subconsciously, he pressed the door open, careful not to allow it to creak. The memory of somebody's unique and individual touch and by extension their feel when he touched them, had always remained special to him, each person having a special subtle difference to it, just as peoples appearances and scents were beautifully refreshingly different. And, as with scents and appearances, some were naturally much more pleasurable than others, drawing the attraction more powerfully until he was a helpless hopeless mass of devilish infatuation.

Tornac blinked in surprise to see that Murtagh's door remained a little ajar, resting slightly apart from the latch. Murtagh… a smile wavered into his eyes just thinking about his pupil. He was electrifying to touch without even touching Tornac back in return, a special little explosive hot thrill he could still feel running through his chest in the memory of his skin against his own. He had loved the excuse to be able to show some small affection to a man he was fast coming to privately adore. In a moment of rash decision, and against all sense in him, he cautiously nudged the door a little further from its frame so that he could slink inside. There was a warm comfort in Murtagh's room that he had noticed the night before - but now, as he saw it in a new morning light, he began to wonder if that was just because of the beautiful man who it belonged to.

He had known right from his first sight of his new pupil that he would be carefully nursing his desperate little infatuation for some time, an infatuation with those dark eyes and that proud, confused little expression. Tornac always had been subject to painfully obsessive longings for people, and here was simply his perfect match, somebody confident to contrast exhilaratingly from his childish playfulness, somebody dark to match his undying little shimmer of light. Somebody beautiful. Murtagh was sleeping quietly, curled up with his dark hair slightly matted. Tornac bit his nails wordlessly, wondering how it would feel to be allowed to comb it out between his fingers. He cocked his head to one side happily, watching as Murtagh slept and pondering to himself what his pupil was dreaming of, smiling to himself as his mind began to conjure images of what it would feel like to be the person to watch the man in front of him wake up every morning, to watch his beautiful dark eyes the last seconds before he fell asleep and his first waking moments too. Tornac knew very well what he _himself _dreamed of, what he had dreamed of ever since meeting the man he watched now. What would it feel, he wondered, for this to be any different so that Murtagh had belonged to a different society where the love of another man was not so widely forbidden and unspoken of. What would it feel for this man to be something other than simply a pupil and to become a friend. _Or indeed a lover_, he felt his heart chide devilishly.

Oh of course, he would never let any slight sign of his little obsession become evident. Tornac had trained himself in regimental self-control so that nobody would ever entirely know what thoughts he had of them, nobody could ever completely read his expression as he looked at them. Had things been any different, he knew that he would have fallen for this man hopelessly even just at the very first sight of him. But the pressing fact was that this _was _different, this was a profession and nothing more, and he scolded himself for even dreaming of it becoming otherwise. Dutifully, Tornac pulled himself away from Murtagh's room with an almost painful little flicker of longing, that was soon displaced by an enthusiasm for sparring.

He clicked open the door to the courtyard, and allowed himself a moment to close his eyes and simply breathe in the cold smell of the morning, the reassuring smells of rain and pine and life. Slowly, he began to fight with an imagined man, a smile of content taking over his face. A man with dark hair and confused yet beautiful brown eyes. A man who, unknown to Tornac, had somewhat of a little infatuation of his own as he woke up to peer out of his window at his trainer sparring his first hours away.

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**Hmmmmm. This was a hard chapter to write. This stage of a relationship always seems the hardest to write for me, as I'm always worried over it being too slow or too fast. Please R n R, comments on how the pacing is working (or indeed, NOT working if that be the case!) would be very very much appreciated! I'm worried about controlling the characters so they don't become all ooc. Thank you. X**


	8. Picturing The Past

**I've decided to revert to my long trusted old method of writing at unmentionable hours of the day as somehow - I've written whole essays on this subject for other non internet works, shows what a mad girl I am - the subconscious mind works more freely and allows us to simply open up to the true story inside of us instead of relying on the forced imagination of the conscious brain whilst we are beginning to feel especially tired. Just watched bloodties, new to virgin1 -yay- and it's my perfect idea of a vampiric night in after the rather nice meal I was treated to down at the noodle bar in town. Mmm. Puts me in a good mood for writing.**

**After a little thought I have decided to alter the chapter titles to all be names of Sonata Arctica songs. Consider it my tribute to a band very close to my heart. ;)**

**This is something of an angsty (my word processor battled long and hard with me over typing that word) and reminiscent chapter for Murtagh for about half of it. Not the most cheerful one I've written, but by no means depressing I hope. **

And yes my little couple WILL be doing something other than just look at each other!! ;) This will most likely be the final slow, thinking, pondering sort of chapter, and hopefully now that you are introduced properly to my babies some interaction can begin!

**Bananasquash - Thank you for reviewing. I was particularly concerned about the pace because I know that some people prefer faster romances.**

**Hot4Garrett - Thank you for adding me to your story alert list! D **

Siren Of The Rose - wow. I don't know what words to say. Thank you so very very much for how happy your reviews made me!! I'll hold you responsible for keeping me awake typing this. ;) It doesn't matter, I'm enjoying myself actually, so hey. And thank you for the favourite adds! D

Chapter 7: Picturing the Past

* * *

Murtagh hugged his cloak a little tighter around his shoulders as protection from the mounting gusts of wind, pushing his hair from his tired eyes as he stumbled down the slippery track leading a little way away from the castle that could only be described at present to be a homely prison. The damp early dawn mists shrouded the world with a lace like sinister draping, unseen by the world that was all but sleeping through the beginning of the day. Murtagh, on the contrary, was very much awake, and was making a startlingly ungraceful hurtle down to a place he knew almost painfully well before it was brought to anybody's attention that he was missing.

This little pilgrimage had become a strict annual occurrence, which had, as of yet, escaped the notice of the king, and as such had become a secretive yet ritually important vigil for the man who now ran through the dew soaked grass, ducking past arm-like structures of branches as he tumbled down the slight slope towards his intention. This was a place known to very few people as anywhere of particular note, but to Murtagh it was the last grip on the perfect life he might once have had, a desperate final foothold on all hope of sanity he still retained a chance at possessing. As he avoided a malicious whip of a thin bush root, his mind fixed solely on the sad importance of the day, he looked around subconsciously, eyes scanning for familiar marks to guide him.

Little conspicuous indications prompted him closer and closer to his private little place, until, panting he brushed into a small and perfect gap in the dense cluster of forestation. A little trickling stream caught the slender blades of light in a perfect mysterious symphony of water, running unpredictably alongside a sweeping low entrapment of willow branches that he pressed his way underneath into the cage-like limbs of a private natural tomb. A smile broke out over his face as he collapsed heavily onto his knees next to the object of his search, his fingers brushing shakily along the harsh familiar stone surface of the last memory of the last member of kin he had possessed. Gently, he brushed away the moss which had invaded the otherwise pretty headstone, cleaning it off with the same care he would have used if it had been on she herself instead of merely her grave.

Her name was beautiful even in the carving of stone it was now confined to, beautiful even though it was nothing but the sad memory of a woman too long departed from Murtagh's world, beautiful even though the only reason it rested there was the remembrance than mortal life was all too fragile. From what little fragmented memory he still held, he knew in his heart that she truly had been beautiful, with such wonderfully deep, caring yet somehow proud brown eyes that would have mirrored his perfectly if they had been living to stare at him now.

He knew that it had _felt _beautiful, to be held and loved just for brief fleeting moments whilst his father was away, to be shown the love that he watched her pour into the wreck of the man who would return home ever more broken than he had been and would plunge down into a despairing mess of alcohol release. He knew how wonderfully ideal life had been when she had been there to treasure him, to treasure this part of herself that fate had allowed to become in the world. She was beautiful and that was why he had only wanted for her to be buried in a beautiful place, which indeed he had found, so many long years behind him.

"Happy birthday." he breathed, grinning, receiving an electrifying shiver of momentary bliss at the memory of his mother, his last most precious star that had been snatched away from him too prematurely. A little sad smile crossed over his face as he shuffled himself into the safety of the protection he felt around the headstone that was the world's only remnant of a woman who had fearlessly held against everything to keep him safe.

"I've missed you…" smiling fondly to himself, he settled properly into the comfort of being in a place he felt properly safe in, for a rare moment looking completely joyful.

"I'm twenty-three today." he remarked, a disturbed look shattering his sustained calm expression, starting to absently caress the soil underneath his fingers, soil that held his mother. "The same age as you were when you married father…" he pondered for a moment, and then a small frown flickered into his eyes.

"No I haven't met anybody special yet. I don't believe Galbatorix intends for me to be married," He paused, fearing inside the confines of his own mind just _what _Galbatorix intended for him when their inevitable meeting would occur. Just as he visited his mother every year vigilantly, so too was the mandatory audience with the king. One of these always occurred the day of his birthday. The other, much less pleasant, always the day after.

"Not that that's of any consequence, but I don't suppose he believes that love is important…" he sighed, and eyed the headstone affectionately. "I sometimes think that the last little spark of love was left from the world along with you. There isn't love anymore; there's war, and there's blood and seemingly nothing else is of matter. What there is could be mistaken for love but I suspect it's nothing beyond lust. The world has no _time _for love it seems. I know you would have hated that, but who am I to change it? It's a shame I'll admit but nothing is to come of love anymore. Love cannot win you honour, love cannot grant you control, love cannot…" In his heart Murtagh knew that his mother would have adored nothing more than to see him marry and have the same love that she had tried so desperately hard to show to him in the brief time she managed to snatch a moment for them to share together. Somehow this did nothing but make him feel a little shiver of guilt in the knowledge that he had little interest in love and romance.

He gestured vaguely with his hands before laughing apologetically, the words momentarily failing him to dance in the cold morning air, and then looked up and sighed in mock frustration. "Yes I _do _remember that I promised to give your ring to my wife when I found her. But I've told you, Galbatorix won't allow for it, and besides…" his nose crinkled "None of the ladies of the king's court is interested in much beyond money and wealth. I don't think you would approve of them very highly. And yes I will bring her here when I find her." he glanced briefly away from the stone, muttering under his breath "_If _I find her." Murtagh was still wholly uncertain as to whether he particularly _wanted _the fuss of having a woman in his life.

He still wore the ring she had given him - her final farewell gift - along with the accompanying promise he had made to use it when he found somebody close to his heart. It was rather too small and had been forced into solitude on the little finger of his right hand but the emotion it symbolised still possessed one of the most important places in his heart. It had been her wedding ring. No matter how brutal and uncaring his father had been - towards the world around him that he had constantly believed in a wild paranoia was all turning against him - Murtagh could remember how things had been different with his mother. There really had been something special of love between them, even his childish eyes had perceived that. Of course, things had changed as soon as his need for alcohol had become overwhelming. Instead of spending time together in love, the time had been spent with Selena caring for a wildly unstable Morzan as he slipped always darker into addiction.

This had meant, of course, that there had been little time for her son. For Murtagh. But to his mind this had only made the few moments they had shared more precious, all the more cherished. He started to smile sadly again as he turned back to her grave, eyes barely seeing the words engraved there anymore but knowing that they were engraved into his heart all the same.

"I still miss you. I still remember you every day, I still remember ever single thing about you that I have left to remember. I remember how my name sounded so much nicer when it was you who said it. It sounds terrible when Galbatorix says it, really it does. But when you whispered it to me it used to sound like a wonderful name. Better than I deserved. I was always glad you hadn't called me Eragon when I heard you say my name. I know you wanted that name for me but it would never have suited. It is far too pricey a name to place on my head." The willow branches whispered in heavy agreement amongst themselves. Murtagh thought in the privacy of his own mind that it would have been an awful fate to have had such a blatantly pompous and repulsive name, but did not share it with his mother for fear that it might upset her, and instead touched her ring absently.

"I remember it felt safer when you were here… even now I still think the world might have felt less dangerous with you." his fingers closed absently around the soil he had been occupied with sifting between them. "I never told you how much I loved having you to look after me. And then I suppose it became too late for you." he laughed softly, a sad little sound of painful reminiscence. "I remember how I used to say that you had gone, you'd gone a long way away, because the angels…" he laughed again quietly, shook his head at the childish naivety of it all, and looked up at the gravestone with a mournful shadow to his eyes. "The angels wanted you because you were so beautiful… but I always knew that, really, I wanted you more."

He sighed softly, a little dull flicker of pain coming over his expression. "I would have given anything to get you back for me, if only I'd had anything much to give." There was a short little sonata of silence that filled the air, a whispering hushing charm of branches and water as a natural symphony was conducted through Murtagh's wandering thoughts.

"I have a new trainer. I think you would have liked to meet him if you were still here. His name is Tornac…" Murtagh smiled to himself, sitting up straighter. "He really is the most talented sparring master you would ever have seen. He comes from another place, somewhere different. Sometimes, in a way, he reminds me of you…"

A smile appeared over his face. "You want me to describe him to you?" He pondered for a brief minute on how best to describe his new trainer, on whether to dwell more on the physical appearance of the man or on the emotions that he himself felt. Eventually he decided that aesthetics were considerably easier to describe.

"He has black hair." he began stolidly, unsure of how best to approach the subject. "And silver grey eyes. He has an accent from somewhere different, you would have loved it…"

Murtagh began to lose track of the time as it slipped, too sinuous for him to catch, through his fingers, whilst he attempted to passionately describe his trainer to his mother. Soon, he was painfully aware of the sun becoming visible on the horizon. Inside stone walls a short walk away, the castle servants would be cleaning the tables for breakfast and the smell of food would start to tinge the air. Tornac, murderously beautiful Tornac, would no doubt be waking up to pacify his sparring obsession.

"I think I'll have to leave you now or I will never make it back before somebody notices." he whispered quietly to the air. "But I promise that I will visit next year… Who knows, perhaps I will have at last found somebody by then." He laughed at the idea of it. "Though I suspect not. I cannot imagine a pretty palace girl being enthralled by the idea of marrying the son of Morzan. Lesser a man who locks himself into his own room to live his life in recluse from the world…"

"And I can imagine even less the picture of Galbatorix permitting me to marry her." He frowned in something of amusement. "I always wished that you had managed to control my guardianship a little better. I know that father and he were very… close… but that by no means makes him a responsible guardian. Or a kind one either…" His hands clenched subconsciously, as his mind created images of what their next meeting could result in.

He sighed, a pained little smile coming back to his face; "I know that I should not complain. But I have half of your blood inside me. You created the person I am, and you were always firm about not allowing others to control you, so I suppose something of that is in me too…"

Touching his fingers gently to his mouth and then pressing them against her gravestone, Murtagh got to his feet and pulled himself away with a burning pang of regret. Never turning back, he started to scramble the damp way back to the place where he knew life would be beginning in yet another repetition circle of the day.

Murtagh smiled as his fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword. This morning Tornac would not be sparring alone.

* * *

Tornac whirled in his concentrated little self-found heaven, sparring with nothing but the silence and the wind, perfectly wound up in the blissful rhythm of the metal flashing through the air. The wind was building up, whipping him from side to side, which did nothing but increase his joy with the adrenaline rush. His mind ran in a haze, his senses muted save for a roaring in his ears. There was something oddly akin to drowning in the experience. The buffeting of the wind began to make his dance an altogether more twirling, beautiful display, his hair whipping in his eyes but somehow not bothering him. He was too enwrapped in the energy and happiness of the violence that woke him up every blissful morning.

The silence made the most beautiful music to his ears. There was the vague howling, roaring screams of the wind circling higher and higher, the screeching cries of kestrels as they rode the vicious seas of air, tails streaming out behind them, the slight whistling as his thin sword sliced through the air fast. It was all the perfect accompaniment to his explosive energy. Heart racing, he spun, and finished with a satisfied smile, privately denouncing an invisible opponent 'dead'. The word had been used so regularly on Murtagh that he was starting to find it almost amusing to say, so that it lost all real horrible meaning and became just another twist in his game.

He remained for a second, panting, eyes fixed on the end point of his thin sword, his breathing coming in short excited gasps. This giddy morning ritual was his perfect dream. Once he would have wished with his whole heart that he could have woken in the morning and instantly dash into a glorious courtyard to spar away his waking time. Now it seemed he had been granted it in wonderful reality. Once he would have desired so dreamily to be able to earn money enough to live on from teaching sparring. He thought with a little smile of pride that he had that, along with some beautiful lodgings, and-

"Dead."

Tornac jerked back to consciousness in shock, jumping involuntarily. Quickly, he looked around, to see Murtagh, smiling darkly, the tip of his own blade resting gently between his trainer's shoulder-blades, its point ever so slightly icy through his jacket. Murtagh looked somewhat messy, a roughened appearance which the trainer found himself strangely attracted to. His hair fell in dark strands, disorderly, around his eyes, which were burning with a happy glee that Tornac could not recall seeing before, a devilish provocative glee which he found he adored. It was so wonderfully enlivening. His dark shirt had come undone a little at the neck, the collar folding imprecisely in stark contrast to the way that Tornac's highly tailored clothes remained seemingly pristine even after such energetic activity.

It felt to him that he could have stared in infatuated hungry appreciation for many long hours if he had not quickly regained his usual murderously calm attitude. Tornac always had possessed the skill of finding his same casual appearance even in the most desperate of situations, and he readily put it to use now. Subconsciously, his hand came up to tuck strands of hair behind his ear neatly.

"Now now Murtagh, come, don't cheat. Tornac frowned, secretly unable to hide the glowing sense of amusement. "Play by the rules if you will."

"Rules are merely restrictions." Murtagh shrugged, a smile coming livening his eyes with a shimmering light of happy exhilaration, a joy that was equalled by his trainer's own proud smile of entertainment. The courtyard filled with a light trilling combination of innocent childish laughing and piping haunting symphonies of wind.

* * *

"You're learning fast." Tornac beamed, a fatally pretty lupine delight filling his childish face as Murtagh lowered his sword and shielded it gently with his hand, a smile still on his face. Tornac looked so very beautiful when he smiled as he did now, in a deadly sort of a sense of the word. Especially when his murderous silver grey eyes were illuminated so beautifully, so wonderfully in the cold light of the early morning, and his long black hair flew freely around his face in the wind. "But I fear I simply have to challenge you to a proper somewhat rule abiding sparring match now." His eyes met Murtagh's again in confident expectation.

"It would be my pleasure." Murtagh grinned, raising his hand-and-a-half up to fight, eyes shining with life, as with a metallic clang Tornac's sword whipped up to find his own. The force of the impact sent a heavy shock of pleasurable pain shooting down his arm. Tornac flew away, concentrated but smiling.

It was just the two of them. A perfect little shared moment of exhilarated bliss. They fought, like a pair of flames against the chill of the day. Together, they blazed with a new life from the loss of the peace that had filled the rest of the day. Violence supplied them with a fuel to burn with, bursting with energy. There was something oddly graceful about the fighting, a distorted beauty in the violence as the swords continued to dance with one another. Blazing swords met, exchanged a brief touch, before flying apart again, sighing a metallic clash as a romance was blown away, never to be, leaving nothing but embers flittering away on the morning wind.

Murtagh's heart started to pound heavily in his ears as swords brought him closer to Tornac, only to throw them apart again, a smile glimmering in his trainer's devastating silver eyes. There was a perfect rhythm created by the screech of steel against steel, of love against death as they were brought violently together. Finally, inevitably, Tornac found an advantage and proudly declared his victory, the childish look returning to his face as he sheathed his delicate sword.

"Very good Murtagh." Murtagh made a small mutter of acknowledgement, secretly particularly thrilled by even the slightest praise. "But you are, ah, I fear you are still terribly predictable." Tornac told his pupil, chewing his nails thoughtfully, his accent wonderfully intoxicating. "It's not altogether as hard as it should be to parry because you make it perfectly clear where you are going. What you need, Murtagh is some good solid unpredictability." He looked up, smiling as though this were frankly the most exciting concept in the world, hands folded neatly.

Somewhat less enthusiastically, Murtagh nodded, a little unsure of the whole principle, and even more unsure of how somebody's eyes could manage to be so stunning and so dangerous all at once. Tornac walked up to him and stared at him pensively for a moment, starting to chew at his nails innocently. Murtagh just stared back, loving this image of something so angelically fatal. Tornac's eyes actually seemed to shine in the morning, a beautiful radiant little teasing glimmer of silver. Here was something so very, very beautiful. Childishly perfect and at the same time this sort of beauty could only come from something that had seen the world in a way that a child simply would not, could not, do.

All of these thoughts disappeared into a thrilling spiralling ecstasy of confusion. Murtagh froze in complete pleasurable shock as Tornac pulled him into his arms and gently kissed his neck.

Murtagh shivered in contained delight, mind a violent blur of confusion and horror but knowing that, privately, this was wonderful, this was beautiful, that this was pleasurable. He froze in pure surprise, internally shouting in delight that Tornac, beautiful Tornac, was kissing him. His whole body exploded with a thrill of adrenaline, heart racing powerfully in his ears. There was something fatally sensual about this contact, something special. The wind wasn't even audible anymore. It was just the perfect beauty in the sensation of Tornac's lips against his neck, whisper-soft and yet managing to feel right to the very deepest parts of his mind, his body, his soul. The moment could have frozen, fragile like the most delicate strand of ice. His senses were lost as though he was being held under the surface of a sea he willingly allowed himself to drown in. If this was drowning then Murtagh did not ever want to breathe. Emotions were running too fast too be comprehensible but he knew that this was wonderful and that he loved it. It was deadening and enlivening all at once, a perfect beautiful contradiction and powerful intoxication. Tornac kissing his neck…

He was brought back to conscious thinking when he felt the cold kiss of a metal blade against the back of his neck, and let out a frustrated sigh of irritation as he heard his trainer's soft innocently dark laughter into his shoulder. Tornac had set up the situation simply to gain some little advantage. Murtagh pulled away feeling somewhat deceived.

"Dead." Tornac stepped back, eyes sparkling wonderfully dangerously as though this was frankly the most entertaining game he had ever played. Murtagh eyed him in pained confused luxuria. A slight quick glimmer ran through his trainer's eyes but then was disappeared so fast that he began to wonder if it had even been there in the first instance. Something dark and wonderfully unreadable and yet at the same time it made perfect sense, because he knew that the same look had probably passed into his own eyes for a moment.

"Unpredictability." He heard Tornac laugh. "The power of gaining an advantage through doing something that your opponent will not expect. Even if that is shown in employing somewhat…" he gestured towards his pupil, unable to hide a smile of amusement, "somewhat _unorthodox _methods! I would not suggest that you attempt that particular little… ah, idea, in a serious sparring match." he added, a smiled of amusement taking over his disturbingly perfect face. "Unless that is that you are particularly willing to lose rather horrifically and lose quite some amount of dignity at the same time. That was, understand, Murtagh, merely to demonstrate the principle."

Murtagh nodded hurriedly, smiling along with his trainer, pressing any final hint of evident pleasure away for a darker, calmer expression. Regretfully he could feel himself start to tinge slightly with painful embarrassment in the knowledge that he had actually enjoyed being kissed. Even if it did seem to have only been part of a plan, he wanted it again. Wanted it hungrily in a way he expected Tornac would find nothing short of hideously amusing.

"Consider it, if you will Murtagh. I will expect to see you demonstrate something of it in our lesson."

He watched Tornac leave, feeling a little pang of excitement still remaining, flittering in his stomach.

Unaware that, behind a closed door, his trainer was feeling the same sensation of exhilaration.

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**So that was a relatively long chapter by my standards… I finished it after the most bizarre breakfast consisting of whatever was in my fridge. Which turned out to be dried bacon, cold sausage and lemon tart. Haha.**

**I quite enjoyed writing that chapter actually… :) I hope you enjoyed reading it.**

**Let me know what you thought of it, I'm eager to know. Comments on pacing, remaining in character (as opposed to going too OOC), etc. much appreciated. As you may have guessed I'm frightfully obsessed about the fear of wrong pacing and ooc-ness. **

**Please take a minute just to press the purple button and send me a review. ;)**


	9. In Black And White

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed!!**

**  
Shaeldryn - your review made me an amazingly happy person, thank you! I hope that you continue to enjoy it. And thank you for the add to your favourites!**

Hot4Garrett - thank you for your review! I'm glad that there seems to be a general consensus that the pacing is alright.

Siren Of The Rose - Thank you once again! It was an absolute pleasure to receive your review, I only hope that I can continue to convert you to a Murtagh/Tornac fan ;)

Bananasquash - Thank you for the review.  


**I'm so sorry it's taken such a long time, I'm going to aim at writing one chapter a week in future and posting on the Friday or Saturday evening. UK time**

**I had one of, if not THE best night of my life just the other month. I saw Sonata Arctica! (21st) I actually went to see Sonata Arctica, THE Sonata Arctica! The inspirations for so much of my writing, and I got to see them live! And Tony Kakko, I saw Tony Kakko! He was so much more amazing on stage than on recording! And he's just gorgeous too!! (3 3 3 in case you didn't know I'm somewhat of a Tony Kakko fan girl. Also Elias is damn hot and talented, and Marko is nice too, "the amazing invisible Marko" got a great view of him and he played just brilliantly, I could feel it because of how good the bass was at the venue … Henkka is too cool, that guy can seriously rock a keyboard, and Tommy was just great!) If you've never been I really suggest you jump at every chance you see to get to see these guys live. It's an incomparable experience!! Can't wait till they visit the UK again already… **

**The title of this chapter is, coincidentally, the very first song they played of the set and it was just amazing. I still have wonderful memories of it and I know I will for some time!**

**It's such a lovely day today that I thought my laptop might like to see the sunlight for the first time and I've taken it for a little daytrip to see the big wild outdoors, so this is written from a camping chair with my computer on my lap. Nothing nicer than a to sit listening to metal doing a bit of writing outside!**

**I've also discovered a night wish obsession that was, frankly, just waiting to happen. The song "Beauty and The Beast" - this one makes me smile the most, not only because it is so beautiful - not to mention dark romantic - but because there was an occasion where, for a live concert, the male part was sung by the one and only Tony Kakko! What can I say, I'm a total Kakko addict…**

Once again I go to show my utter disrespect for Paolini -mutters apology- by discarding his ever-popular scrolls for my preferred _books_. Apologies.

**VERY LASTLY (a long forenote today, I know…) A very happy birthday to dear Tony Kakko who was 33 on the 16th! I've said it through the radio, I've said it through the website, and finally through my fan fiction. ;)**

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Chapter 8: In Black And White

Murtagh stood by the window watching the stars travel across the sky, their light reflecting as bright glimmers in his dark hazel brown eyes. From the next room, the haunting sound of Tornac's violin was soaring on the air, an odd tune that made the hair stand up along the back of his neck, chilling the blood coursing cold through his veins, beating from a heart that was beginning to devote itself. The song was almost as beautiful as Tornac's image in his mind, a perfect picture of deadly dark lustre, of something so fatally wonderful, the black perfection of the most lovely romanticide, a black swan crying wanted misfortune. Death and love in the most beautiful contradiction he had ever experienced, and it was there before him, captured as flashing images in his mind, images of silver eyes and a pretty smile and a twirling mist of somebody who laughed so wonderfully even in the violence of swords. There was something unfathomable about the entrancing melody that reached his ears, about the person it fitted so absolutely, about the way the notes carried his soul away, how it touched his mind beyond what he had ever before considered to be possibility.

His eyes moved to fix on the moon, a sharp scythe crescent riding the ocean of sky gracefully, a swan swimming on dark waters. Tornac's violin continued, the rhythm mirrored in the quiet feel of his own heart beat in his ears, touching something inside of Murtagh that he had not even been aware existed, as he leaned on the window sill, looking out into the dark world in front of him, mind idly painting images of the most beautiful man he had ever known, an absent happy smile on his face. A shadowy silhouette of a bird swooped down onto the darkened landscape, and he watched it, still smiling even as the violin ceased to play and the night was opened into emptiness. The memory of Tornac's kiss on his neck still burned beautifully in memory, a warm wonderful feeling that made a small shiver tickle at his spine. A lie perhaps; but the most beautiful lie and the most perfect notion of love to pretend for. Just one moment to capture false in memories to feed a longing for something just the slightest bit more real.

Turning away from the window, Murtagh began to loosen his shirt, brushing his dark hair back tiredly. Sparring with Tornac was undoubtedly turning to an experience he enjoyed, but it was more vigorous than any training regime he had known to take part in and it was starting to take its toll. His body ached from being constantly caught with the fire of Tornac's thin sword, and although he could not find it in him to hate such a person, there was a little smoking twinge of irritation building towards Tornac's relentless beating. There was a cruel fate in the way he was beginning to find himself aching to see his trainer more often: to talk to him and say something of interest or eloquence that he knew he did not really possess; to do something that would make Tornac laugh or smile in the mesmerising way he conducted so beautifully; to long for Tornac just to find him interesting as company; and yet at the same time every meeting resulted in a blaze of fire that streaked through him for hours into the night.

Tiredly, he collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling and tracing the patterns with his eyes. There was a small, tickling sensation along his spine that, in normal circumstance, he would have attentively taken as meaning something was not quite right. With images of Tornac fixed beautifully in his mind, Murtagh chose instead to lie awake absently dreaming of a man who was so beautiful as to be an angel, and so dangerous as to be his perfect undoing. Dreaming things that he knew that he shouldn't but that were simply too wonderful to resist the powerful ensnaring temptation of.

So enraptured was he with his thoughts of Tornac, that he went unaware of the sound of his trainer's door opening and the soft sound of footsteps down the stairs.

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Tornac cautiously pressed his hands against the cooled wood of the library door, allowing the hinges to creak a small way apart so that he could see inside. He never had liked to spend so much of his time sleeping, and it seemed that the oldest habits were the most determined to remain; along with old fascinations, of a man too long obsessed with the idea of reading. A curious night wolf, Tornac knew, he would forever be. As he carefully stepped out into the cold, fire-less comforts of the room, his silver grey eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness, a smile lit up his face.

The library was a large ageing room, that possessed a reassuring musty smell that Tornac thought was simply wonderful, as he stared around it, childish immaturity starting to take over any natural attempt at behavioural restraint, his heart beating a little faster in his chest with happy elation. In the cold moonlight streaming through the shutter-less window, this room was something magical to his eyes. His perfect wonderful dream captured before him. What he had spent hours whiled away imagining when he was younger, and here it was in front of him.

He had carefully taken a watch around the palace for any sign of a library; and it had not been in vain. Persistence, a gift Tornac had always possessed almost beyond his fair due, had in his case often been his key to unlocking the world ahead of him, with enough time, and so had been the case in this instance. One hand absently moved to tangle in his hair, the other moving to his mouth so that he could chew at his nails in childish amazement at the room surrounding him, grey eyes on fire with delight, a shy smile beginning to creep onto his face as he looked around him, a little shiver of complete wonderful joy running through him.

He was overwhelmed by the sheer size of it, of the sheer wonderful quantity of beautiful books lining the walls. With shy amazement, he reached out to brush the tips of his fingers across the spines, peering at the words on the spines in a hopeless attempt at comprehension. As hard as he had struggled as a child to learn to read, with the single dirtied page of scrawled text that he had found stuffed into a nook in the wall of a tavern by a previous occupant, it never had been a particularly successful venture, and had soon enough been pushed aside to allow more time for his sparring.

His body starting to tingle with excitement, Tornac methodically chose an old fat book that to him seemed amiable, and hugged it close to his chest to carry it over to the window, where the light could pour out onto the pages and illuminate his heaven in streaming pools of silver. Pressing his back into the edge of the window, he stood cradling the object he was so utterly fascinated with in his arms as though it were his child. Respectfully, he turned the page with complete care, staring at the words that were meaningless to him and yet said so many things to his mind. Instead of reading, which was some large stretch beyond his capability, he simply stared at the words with the same inner pride that he would have felt had he understood.

Subconsciously, he began to hum quietly to himself, an absent act to break the silence he had not even noticed was so thick until he attempted to crack into it. It was akin to the way that he had never really been conscious of how lonely he could find himself to be until he had experienced the emotions of love and how wonderfully sweet it had felt to be wrapped so comfortably into somebody's arms, how wonderfully beautiful. Sometimes the absence of something could not ever truly be felt until its presence had been appreciated fully, a notion that Tornac had come to fully understand with patience and time. Sometimes it needed black to be shown to a person for it to be proven that white did indeed exist.

The words meant absolutely nothing to his mind, but still he loved them, making up so many different stories in his mind that he could imagine they might have told to a more literate reader. Some were beautiful romances, others almost painfully tragic to his heart, some simply explorations into the mind of a scholar who was expressing his view on something wonderfully complicated, some the worn out tales of dragons long since faded from the memories of those who might have held their legend burning. He always had been interested in the idea of dragons -though not from the notion of warfare but simply to discuss the world with a powerfully sentient being that had existed so much longer than he, had seen so many more things, had seen how the world changed. Perhaps to see if they saw love the way that he did, a way that nobody he had ever met seemed to share, to see if they considered the love of another man as beautiful as he did or whether it was merely a hope that was to be shattered.

Turning the page, he ghosted his fingers over the scripted letters, longing to know what they meant whilst simultaneously filled with a small pleasure at the secrets he could imagine for them, secrets that were, he knew sadly, probably by far more exciting than the reality. There was a cruelty in the way life always played out that way. Things had a tendency not to be quite as exciting as an individual wandering of all the wonderful things it might have been.

Tornac frowned as clouds veiled the moon and dimmed his life, pressing closer to the empty window to see better. The sound of humming continued, a tune he remembered as his favourite to play with his violin. It was a beautiful, lamenting tune, a sorrowful song, a lachrymosa for a life he had never known could have been so-

Tornac froze with a sickening realisation. His senses flared with painful over awareness. The book was suddenly weightless in his arms, but everything else about him felt heavy. He was not humming. And yet the sound was still there. Someone - no, _something_. Something else was humming. Something that he couldn't see. Something large, and powerful, from the depth of the growling hum. Tornac slowly closed the book, barely daring to make a sound. Carefully he placed it onto the window ledge and stepped into the shadows of bookshelves, alert, searching for the source of the sound.

He stopped as he reached the far wall of the library. There the sound seemed loudest somehow, echoing through his thoughts in a song that was somehow attracting him to it so powerfully that he could barely resist its charm. He pressed against the wall to hear better, to see if that truly was where this wonderful tune was coming from.

Tornac jumped back with a startled yelp, holding his hand to the side of his face and the out to the wall in frightened amazement. The wall was stone, and yet despite the cold of the night it was alarmingly warm. More than warm, a deep loud heat that blazed from it, a rumbling fire that crashed into the brickwork, streaming through it.

He peered back to the door, mind calculating. The library was hidden right in the very roots of the palace, a thick wooden door set into moss battled stones in the quietened north wing of the place. The heat of the warmth was most certainly coming from one particular wall, one that seemed to imply that the source was hidden away in the corner of a west wing. Curiosity aroused, Tornac reached out to the wall again, stroking lightly against it with his fingertips, withdrawing them as the heat became too much.

A determined expression of fascination took over his normally childishly innocent face as he made for the door, excitement building inside of his chest. As he closed it, he no longer even heard the sound as it creaked back to rest, mind too fascinated with the prospect of discovering what lay behind the wall, books almost forgotten in light of this new discovery. He reached out to trace the wall, mind frantically trying to work out where about the source was in relation to the library.

He needn't have worried. There was only a single other door. Tornac frowned slightly. Whatever the room was it was certainly bigger than he had ever imagined it possible for a room to be. The frown was soon replaced by a smile as he noticed that the sound was clearer, louder, more beautiful. He pressed against the door hopefully, and sighed as it refused to budge. The contents had been firmly locked out of his reach. Far from turning him to sorry defeat, this merely made him more determined, as he stared at the lock with interest. Slowly, he pressed his fingers to it, trying to feel it better in the dim light, to feel the shape, the mechanism, any slight hint to granting him access to his newfound curiosity.

He looked around for anything to employ to help him. There was nothing in the surrounding corridor save for a tall metal torch long gone out that from its appearance had not been lit in some time. He tangled his fingers into his hair pensively, glancing around for inspiration, now desperate to see whatever was making such a beautiful humming tune into the night. He tried to hum back himself, an echo to a twisting song he was already in love with. The sound paused for a second, a vague surprised pause, before slowly resuming the song. Tornac smiled as he hummed to it again, and listened whilst there was again a moment of confusion. He tried to continue the song on his own, shyly at first, but with the fascination of a parent awaiting their baby to respond, or of somebody awaiting for the return of a kind word of conversation from a lover. There was a vague, foreign emotion of delight that did not come from his own mind but from something larger, a presence that he felt but could neither place nor describe, as it hummed along with him.

Tornac started to laugh, happy at its happiness, happy at the wonder of it all. Carefully, he pulled a tiny knife from his pocket and began to twist at the lock, still humming. To himself? To whatever lay beyond the door? He no longer cared, such was his enrapture with the mystifying attraction of this song and what lay waiting for him behind the door. The lock strained but refused to break, and he tried a little harder.

The mechanism popped out of place with a sound that might have been audible had he not been so very hypnotised by the singing sound. Clenching his hands once in anticipation, he slowly turned to door open and stepped in cautiously.

Nothing could ever have prepared him for what wonders lay there waiting. He felt his breath hitch up in his throat as his eyes took in the shining lustre of black scales, of mournful green eyes, of something bigger than he could ever have imagined. Tornac stared, mind unable to cope with the comprehension of such a thing.

It was beautiful; there simply lay no other words to describe it. Innocent and lovely, and yet so very sad at the same time. A mournful bleak ancient loneliness in its eyes that was disturbing because he recalled seeing it in somebody else's eyes too, though the dragon could not hide it as the person had done. A loneliness that he knew was the product of long years of solitude, of long years without the love its heart needed so very desperately, in both the dragon and the person. A loneliness that was quickly shrouded by an arrogant ignorance as the huge black dragon turned its head to blink at him slowly, never once allowing him to move from its sight.

The humming stopped, and Tornac stood in silence. With the music gone, the loneliness did not look so very innocent any longer. It was a feral beauty, something too long pushed beyond pain into a bitter resenting creature that destroyed anything it could simply to ease the hurt inside its own heart. The dragon got to its feet, never once letting its gaze leave the man who stood in blank shocked amazement staring at it. Slowly, he moved out to touch its snout, amazed and at the same time wanting to offer comfort. Looking so close into its eyes he realised where he had seen such a look of loneliness before. In a man, a man who was so wonderful to his heart. Somebody he only wished he could comfort just as he tried to the dragon. Somebody he only wished he could hold and steal every shard of loneliness away.

The dragon quivered softly under his fingers, as an image came into his mind, strong and clear. An image tied to such a rush of emotion, emotion that felt somehow foreign and not his own. He glanced down to the emerald glimmers of eyes, and began to comprehend, as the dragon's trails of thoughts melded into his own, a flowing run of steady comprehension between the two, Tornac's imagination opening up to the beast next to him as it tried to feed a hungry emptiness. The image was beautiful, and of one person alone. A person who was wonderful and who smiled in a way that made him smile himself, a person who Tornac thought was all he would ever need.

The dragon lifted its eyes, staring into his, a little pang of contentment touching into the back of Tornac's mind. An acceptance, a thankfulness, a gratitude for the image it had received, as if slunk back into shadows, eyes still sparkling brightly. Mirroring the sparkling excitement of his own silver grey eyes that stared back.

Slowly, he backed away, out into the corridor, heart beating in excitement. Not from the sight of the black dragon that began again to hum in solitude. But of the wonderful shivering pleasure of the person that, for just one moment, was powerfully clear in memories. Someone that, Tornac knew, the dragon had not considered it a sin to love.

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**I'm so sorry this took so long. I edited it time and time again, and only now am I satisfied with it. So thankyou if you're still reading. **

**x**


	10. Silver Tongue

**So****…**** as promised! Earlier posting... Er… 'hem.**

**I know, I know, I'm late, I'm a terrible person. hangs head in shame this is late. Again. Sorry!!**

Actually I just posted the last one when I started work on this, (don't even ask why it took so long x ) and I just got a review (very quick, I'm amazed) from the lovely Hot4Garrett; thank you very much! I'll try and sneak more happiness in for you, also just because I'm dying to get them together and get it really happy… soon enough, soon enough… This won't be so happy I'm afraid, but soon I promise!! :D I know what happens for a few chapters now, and I can assure you there's a very fluffy chapter due in just a short while… ;)

And just an hour or so later, from Sirenoftherose; thank you so much for sticking with me! There were actually my usual of just over 3000 words of story (not including forenote) in that chapter, so it's not as short as it seemed. It's shortened by lack of dialogue, which spaces it out a bit. ;)

**  
Bananasquash - thank you for reading.  
**

**Thank you for not giving up on me and for continuing to read despite my appalling time gaps in between chapters! It means so much to me… Also sometime during chapter 7 I passed 1000 hits, so thank you very much for that! My only thing now is the mystery as to why I managed to get over 50 hits on chapter 8 but only three reviews? ;) Stop hiding and R n R for me.**

**Here comes Galby! I've been dying to write him for so long it's unreal. I've wanted to have a go at writing him ever since I discovered the realms of fan fiction, because like Tornac, he's not described all that much in books so far, so I more or less have freedom over him. Oh, and by the way, for the record? Galbatorix in the film - yuk - was nothing like MY Galbatorix. Mine was evil, yes… but more broken than evil at heart, he WASN'T bald, and he was…hmm, the word… "tormented" rather than utterly psychotic, and he was something more emotionally deep down than the film version…**

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Chapter 9. Silver Tongue

Galbatorix sat turning a slender dagger through his fingers idly, dark blue eyes flashing murderously, an alarming sight of discontentment as they captured the scopes of cloud drifting icily across the oceanic mass of cold blue-black sky. No stars were out this night. The blade continued to dance unfathomably between his fingers, an absent gesture of a man long tired of the tedium of life's stresses. Wordlessly a flicker of a frown appeared, a single spoiling crease in features that would otherwise have held an icy eleven glorified perfection to them.

A perfection that showed nothing of the tangled web of memory that still remained painfully engraved into the privacy of his mind.

Slowly, tiredly, one hand brushed a strand of raven ebony hair from his eyes, a gesture whose motion reflected perfectly the way that his life trickled past unhastened, a constant waiting and patience to each and every decision that he cared little for because, to his mind, he had as much time as he could ever want. Time he had, and time was his perfect weapon. An unexploited means of attack that it was doubtless to say that the Varden could not hope to better.

Or, as he realised with a deeper scowl, the Varden could not hope to better until painfully recently.

He had always possessed a deep seething hate for the people who had denied him his most wanted love, a hate that ran so deep in his veins it had _become _him, a hate that had slowly contorted his mind beyond all human recognition into something much more broken, something much more dangerous. There had been one thing in his world that had been beautiful, that had been loving… and they had refused it of him. Oh, he had finally achieved what he had wanted of course. That was a doubtless entirety of its own. But the means of getting it had only served to make weaker an already born crack in his mind.

He sat in the silence and solitude of his study, his sanctuary, his perfect escape. A room where any worldly judgement on his state of mind was at once forgotten. Letting the metal of the dagger free of his hand with a silver clatter, his glance fell to the wooden chest that he had since kept firmly under his guard relentlessly, stroking the hinge and flicking open the catch of the lid to reveal two beautifully rounded stones. One a viridian green, deep like an ocean with so many spiralling patterns flowing through its surface. The other a vermillion blood red, promising something equally as beautiful. Two he should have held dearly and to his greatest contentment. But no matter how much the sparkling veneer of the pair of eggs attracted his eyes, there was an incompleteness to the portrait, something foreboding that whispered of something that was missing.

His pretty sapphire blue treasure.

Lost.

_Stolen_.

It had, undoubtedly, been his least prized of the three. The red spoke wordlessly of power and control, and somebody… somebody gone nearly beyond memory… the man he had always felt a certain ally in, the one always somehow the more romantic without even exerting effort, the one who had stood by his side whilst others lost faith or became too broken with the power of corruption; or else simply died - the one always managing to attract the admirations and attentions of others whilst carefully retaining a powerful balance of calmed controlled fear. The one he had managed to close to his will, the one who had followed without ever having the slightest notion of the truth; that really there was nothing to follow anymore. A trusted ally and a friend in a way that was far from amiable and filled instead with cold formality.

Yes, the red would be born something powerful.

The green whispered to him of something altogether more feminine. An emotion that he had almost forgotten in the turning of the world so that any faint flicker of the unspoken feelings he might once have found in it was almost disappeared altogether, set ablaze in his heart with a wisp of dragon's flame so that all that remained were the ashes of a lost love to be scattered in remembrance. And yet this light whispering brush of beauty was enlivening, awakening, _reminding_. And it was there, in the perfectly formed shell, simply waiting for the right moment to hatch out into the world, his memory contained in the form of an emerald green artwork that he prized in a covetous, possessive manner.

In a flash of sheer, quick impulsiveness he reached out for the it and brought it to his chest protectively, a glinting contentment entering into his gaze. A hard, warm feeling arose from the firm comfort of it against him, and he sat rocking it gently, as though it were his child, stroking his slender fingers over it lovingly. His most beautiful wonder, his little pretty fatality.

The blue had now merely become a pretty trinket, something to view alongside his other treasures with the caring pride of a collector, but nothing else. Nothing of the personal labyrinth that the others entwined him in. Yet he still bitterly missed the sight of it sitting nestled between its companions in its wooden cradle. The mar of emptiness was mirroring painfully the growing emptiness and lack of control in his mind, and it bred an anger, a hatred for the people who had stolen his precious love. A hatred that only served to burn brighter the violent fire of loathing that already marked his mind and his soul.

He winced suddenly in a small expression of discomfort.

A growling, burning headache crackling hot at the edges of his thoughts was getting to be more and more of an irritation, the sharp smoky tongue of flame that licked at the edges of his ideas in search of attention, stealing trails of consideration to drag into a sea of dulled pain. The same constant shadow of an ache had been lingering for more than a week. No amount of shade magic had helped to heal the growing problem, until it had grown into a full irritation that was slowly taking over his entire trail of conscious thoughts through the simple torture of an unbearable repetition of crackling pain just behind his eyes.

"Shruikan…" he muttered through his teeth, a growl of warning to the black dragon that lay several floors beneath him. The ache immediately dulled, with a mental awareness of a slight wavering fear. The king returned his attention to the egg resting against his chest, stroking the back of his hand along it, feeling a tiny warm shiver as, inside the containment of it's shell, something stirred.

"Where is your friend?" he whispered to it, his voice a soft silky lullaby to the thing in his arms. His love to take the place in his heart where nothing else dared to exist anymore. The patch of barren soil in his mind in which only one flower would manage to grow. With an almost paternal care he cradled it into his arms, feeling the wonderful soft hum that came vibrating through its surface.

"Where is your friend my beautiful treasure…" A small smile of contentment glinted in the king's eyes as he continued to caress the green, a smile that was shattered with a curse of pain as his headache flared white hot. There was a brief moment of sustained calm as he replaced his egg into it's wooden cradling, closing the lid with barely a sound, before the chair was flung back violently in a desperate act of externalising anger and a yell of frustration ripped into the air, mirrored by the enormous dragon as it let back it's head and roared, the headache exploding into a blinding pain.

The new pain sent his mind into a rage of anger and confusion, and without a further thought he was hurrying down the stairway, cursing the dragon that was, with each cry, cutting deeper into his thoughts. Shruikan had always been somewhat lacking in the love that his first dragon had had; like an adopted chld never truly accepted into a family, Shruikan had continued to grow more and more despondent towards him.

Magic had soon sorted that out. Shruikan no longer moped in his own quiet tired thoughts, no longer lay long nights in such silence that Galbatorix had more than once sent a shade down to verify that the dragon was indeed still alive. Shruikan was a fighter; even when torn apart from his rider, he had survived, and continued to survive, in his own quiet persevering sense, forever managing to win despite the hideous odds, forever managing to find some luck on the dice of a gambling game long gone past anything remotely related to anything as noble as skill and descended into realms of foul play. Shruikan never had been particularly dedicated to anything as trivial as abiding by rules; and after all, what was the point behind it? Rules had only given him grief in the past. Why abide by them now, when it seemed all was lost before the game was even begun? Now came the simple brutality of fighting to survive.

The king irritably moved the door aside with a mere idea of it in his mind. Some of Shruikan's power had managed to manifest itself into his mind, something which it would have been something of a lie to say that he did not enjoy whole heartedly. As he stared furiously at the shimmering black mass that stared back in doleful resentment, there was a waning in the violence of the pain in his head. No words were said; for no words were needed, and none would have sufficed even if they had managed to cut sleek into the silence.

For a moment, the man and the dragon stared at each other, each in a mixture of despise and fear at the other. In two pairs of eyes shone a fury that could only but wish to mask a much more disturbed air of terror, glistened over with a firm pride that tried desperately to prevent any hint of weakness from showing. Shruikan let out a small rumbling feral snarl, and turned his eyes away in irritation, laying his large head onto glimmering claws in a veneer of ignorance. For a long while it had been quietly debateable which was the master; the king or his ebony black dragon.

With a bestial growl of frustration Galbatorix turned to leave, only to have white hot pain slice angrily at his thoughts, a stabbing frustration buzzing like a wasp at his most secret parts of his mind, a roaring unstoppable pain that firmly refused to be ignored, like a screaming child wanting comfort. Seething, he closed his hands tightly around themselves, blinked to clear his head somewhat, took a moment to intake air through gritted teeth, and turned to face a snarling dragon, tugging at binding chains to get just a little closer to him, its whole body heaving with the effort of trying to pull further on. The idea of mere metallic links holding back such a powerful creature would almost have been laughable, Galbatorix mused, save for the knowledge that shade magic enforced every ring - so that no matter how hard their victim struggled, never once would there be concern of the restraint breaking.

Shruikan emitted a low roar from the back of his throat, eyes glinting, tugging and tugging desperately to reach the king, wings beating in vain against the cold air of the cell, claws scraping a hideous melody through the harsh stone of the floor, tail whipping vehemently in pursuit of the man who stood glaring back, fists tightly clenched, teeth gritted down hard, fire in the furious blue of his eyes. Galbatorix shook back his dark hair, squeezing his hands tighter to resist the urge to snap from the pressures and fill the cell with destruction that ached to fly free from his fingers; violence that fly around his ears on the tiniest most wonderful frail wings, settled onto his shoulder, and whispered in his ear of such temptations of blood; anger that burned so passionately and was simply waiting until it peaked and was slammed into the world around him. Shruikan started to bellow, a loud alarming symphony of pain and anger and fear that shuddered through the night, each note sending the king into new fury, new unrestrained wrath. As his eyes met with his dragon's, something finally snapped sickeningly inside his already too-fragile labyrinth of a mind.

"Letta!"

The bark cracked through the air, leaving the cell shivering with fear. Shruikan hung suspended, frozen like a beautiful shard of the most perfectly crafted black glass. Galbatorix screamed as the magic left a gap of unprotection in his mind, pain and confusion from their shared thoughts exploded into a rush of hideous whitened clarity, a whirling dance of seething pain that only began to die as he finally refound control over his own restrictions and hurried to close off something of the point of Shruikan's consciousness bordering onto his own. Panting, anger now risen beyond a point of his control, the king eyed his prone dragon warily.

He looked to meet the eyes of his victim, and Shruikan quickly turned away, teeth still bared in a snarl of fearful horrified discomfort.

"Look at me." Galbatorix commanded, voice almost so quiet as to be a whisper, threatening and thickly controlled.

Shruikan reluctantly moved his large emerald eyes to fix upon the man who stood staring back at him, whole body still held tightly under the restrictions of bonds that could never be seen or fought. For a moment the pair regarded each other, and then Galbatorix slowly extended his fingers to shiver down the dragon's still snarling muzzle. Shruikan's eyes lost their wildness, the fire in them slowly calming to a tired mournful subsistence, the emerald calming slowly, until when the king finally flickered his fingers and the bonds disappeared unhurriedly, leaving his dragon slowly settling down to the ground , all trace of malignance was nothing but a far off memory or a dream.

"What is it that you want?" the king settled beside the tired form of the dragon, its eyes fixed on the floor in weary defeat.

"What is it, Shruikan?"

An image flickered into their shared consciousness, an emotion of something that the dragon had found so very beautiful, so very wonderful. Something it had not imagined could be found in such intoxicating degrees in this broken world. Something it wanted, and wanted desperately. Something it pined for and was jealous for. Something so soft and gentle yet bindingly powerful almost beyond comprehension. Something that glimmered in a far off mirror as pain and blood, but that once looked at more closely was the most perfect beautiful thing that ever there was. Something the dragon remembered, albeit in an ancient flickering remnant of memories of a time he could no longer grasp. A time before Galbatorix, a time of happiness and joy and-

"Love?" Galbatorix whispered softly, with a slight distaste, the word sounding so foreign on his lips like the most pretty fickle venom. Shruikan lifted his eyes, a glimmer of hopeful askance silently confirming the king's surprise.

Galbatorix could vaguely remember the word, but it only had brought pain, and at his own hand. A death he had executed like an actor reciting a play, with his own sword and his own passion. A death for love and a death of love, simultaneously, a death that ran with loss of a child that had never been intended for the world, a child burned on the wind the same night as his once lover. A death he had wrought upon a woman just to save her from pain, pain that later destroyed his own mind. Death that now symbolised the only thing that such a foolish thing as love could bring. So fickle as to only bring despair. The most beautiful lie to believe until; the truth was revealed and all fell apart. His eyes hardened with sadness he had all but forbidden himself to feel, tightly controlled. Emotion was nothing. Love was nothing. She had been nothing. Let it pass…

With a huffing sound as he pressed memories back to the dusted shadows they existed to dwell only in like old fables collecting the confusions of time until they were all but forgotten, he turned to his dragon, probing gently to find where the source of such a ridiculous want had come from. A flickering of a familiar person ran into his mind, and instead of disguised sadness, a frown of anger started to breach his face.

"Durza." he stood up, straightening his figure to the extent of its height, as he looked up to see crimson eyes eagerly staring back into his own, so ready to obey his every command for the mere honour that shades sought so unfathomably desperately. Pride glimmered back from the serpentine flicker of a smile that greeted him. Black robes swirled like half formed shadows, catching slightly in an eery glow of a light that was not there.

"Bring me Murtagh." The dark smile that appeared on the shade's face only served to feed his internal anger, a quiet dangerous anger even more deeply menacing than his explosive bursts of violence. Now, this quiet was more austere, more alarming, in a way that Shruikan could feel all too well.

"Of course." With a bow, the pale figure had erupted into a flutter of dark wisps, batlike for a screeching second before all was disappeared to quiet again in the breaking morning. Without once turning to see his dragon watch him in lamenting unsettlement, the king quickly paced out of the door, mind murderously calm. His protégée was about to be a taught a lesson, such as no tutor could ever hope to teach. A lesson Galbatorix fully intended to fix firmly in the man's mind before the next night came.

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**So it wasn't happy, I apologise for that. Not even so much as a fluffy Murtagh moment, I'm sorry!**

**But as you had to wait so long, and because you've been such wonderful readers up till now, I'll share a little secret with you… Fluff comes really soon in the near future. The near future specifically meaning Tornac's approximate age, minus Murtagh's approximate age, multiplied by two. Do the math. ;P (I've always wanted to say that phrase…)**

**Please R n R!! Even just a single line, please! I know that lots of people are reading, so stop hiding and review for me. Please? :D**


	11. Don't Say A Word

**Ah, it's been too long since I updated, I'm so sorry! I can only blame lack of inspiration, though sitting here now on this lovely summer evening with beautiful love songs playing, looking at the big picture of Murtagh and Tornac on my wall makes me wonder how I could ever be uninspired. I suppose it happens to everyone right?**

**Wow… I feel pretty content right now. Your reviews have made me smile so much. Also I know there is a happier moment coming in the next chapter and Nightwish and Negative mix is playing on the computer so I'm happy. ; Ah… the summer of (written) romance, art and good Finnish music. I'm happy.**

**Siren - thank you so much for your review, it means so much to me! And of course, I like to try and be a little unpredictable ;)**

**Vamp proxy - thank you very much for reviewing! It's so lovely to know who's reading and what they think, so a huge thank you to you! I hope you continue to enjoy it. **

**Hot4Garrett - Thanks for the review, and don't worry about it taking a while - I can't exactly claim to being the fastest person myself! ;)**

**Shaeldryn - wow. Just… wow! Thank you so very very much!**

For all who didn't get my little riddle, I'll explain it out now. ;)

**Tornac's age minus Murtagh's age, approximately, (28-23) give you an answer of 5. Which, multiplied by two, should give you an answer of chapter ten. And look which chapter we seem to be on… ;) Hope you enjoy.**

**This chapter is named after a kickass song. Oh how I love this song! I was sort of saving it for a later chapter, but then when titling this one it just sort of fitted, you know?  
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Chapter 10. Don't Say A Word

The spring was coming fast; melting the remnants of winter's icy grip along with Murtagh's heart. Tornac seemed to become more painfully beautiful every time he was caught in Murtagh's eyes; and at the same time so much more wonderfully fatal. To Murtagh's mind, Tornac was the most beautiful angel sent with the intention of granting death, the most shining silver star of a blade to end a life, the coldest romanticide of an eternal love in death, the sharpest ray of sunlight on the coldest day that sent a maze of tiny cracks running across the ice. Murtagh stood helplessly caught in the labyrinthine contradiction of Tornac, slowly becoming to be more and more longing for him, slowly becoming more amazed by the way somebody could be just so very beautiful.

So beautiful.

He was growing to be obsessed by him, obsessed by his beautiful looks or his somehow mournful little smile, obsessed by the way his accent sounded to his ears, obsessed by the fleeting music of his laugh. There was something undeniably attractive about him, something that made Murtagh desperately shy of him in a way that forced him to try his hardest to not make his blatant attraction obvious and at the very same time hoping with all his heart that Tornac _would _notice. There was a pining for some attention and at the same time a pressing, urgent fear of it. Idle dreaming was fast becoming a desperate longing in a chain that slipped too fast through his fingers for Murtagh to have a hope of grasping in order to make logic of his situation and simply watched as his desire unravelled before him in such a perfectly deadly contradiction.

There were occasions when in a fit of desperation for Tornac he would fancy catching a little glimmer of the same want in his trainer's eyes; when the violence of sparring would bring their bodies powerfully close against each other and there was a perfect little glint of want, of longing, in such a beautiful tiny moment of such perfect proximity to united intimacy before it was thrown apart again to ashes. There was the smallest spark that Murtagh almost thought that he could comprehend in his companion's glance when it caught his own. A little lonely wanting flicker that passed into the perfect silver grey before disappearing in a single blink and a pretty little feline smile that would find Murtagh smiling back though he never could know why. Somehow, around Tornac, smiling and happiness felt so peacefully natural and right for him.

There was something perfect in Tornac that Murtagh could find in nobody else, something that he could not see in any man or any woman but his trainer. Something kind and loving and so very wonderful. Love and lust entwined together.

"Dead."

Tornac stepped back from Murtagh with a blissful lupine smile illuminating his pretty face, brushing his dark hair back as he extended a hand to help his pupil to his feet, looking down to him. Murtagh thought privately that with the cold morning sunlight rays illuminating the sky behind him, Tornac looked like a dark angel of sorts, so beautiful in the most dangerous way, almost too fatal - but then one single glance to his eyes and how genuinely happy and beautiful they were stole anything else away. Tornac managed to capture happiness in an almost inhumanly simple way, to make it seem so very real. For one small moment, Murtagh's eyes met with his trainer's.

There was a perfect moment that ran electrifyingly through Murtagh's mind, his body, his entire being. Tornac's eyes were so perfectly silver-grey, so beautiful beyond any words that might have been used to describe them. For just that one moment, everything was peaceful and happy, the sun lighting Tornac's face in just the right way, the quiet in the courtyard so wonderful, the air not so cold and unwelcoming as it had been, everything just as he wanted it to be. Perfection born from ashes of a shattered world. For just that one moment, his trainer's eyes flickered with something, a little hint more compassion than Murtagh had seen before. Something that seemed just ever so slightly lonely and perhaps a little jealous of something he couldn't quite place. Something that looked so beautiful on him. Could anything not look beautiful on his trainer? Could he ever not be perfect?

Tornac looked away.

The moment broke like a thousand shards of shattered glass, gone long beyond memory. Murtagh quickly accepted his hand to hurriedly get up to his feet, looking away with a slight tinge of embarrassment. Regretfully, he let his hand free of his trainer's, and suddenly it was as if the moment had been a dream, so far from his remembrance. Any sadness that there might have been at this realisation however, was stolen away by fresh adrenaline of more fighting. Tornac was seemingly tireless when it came to sparring - and Murtagh knew that, very slowly, his own persistent energy was beginning to come to more of an echo of his trainer's. Somehow with Tornac he didn't even know he had been sparring long enough to know to feel tired - until after it had finished, when he would come to realise that his back hurt and that his body was utterly exhausted and would just fall asleep in his room into blissful dreams.

Sparring swords captured bursts of sunlight like sparks of flame in the courtyard, the sound filling the air with metallic music. Overhead, birds streaked over cloud powdered skies, black shadows on the most chaste canvas, a higher world that knew nothing of violence, or pain, or treachery… but neither did it know of love and passion, a regretfully empty mirror of the world below, where two people, temporarily blissfully ignorant of the strain that life placed onto them, whirled about in an explosive conflict of violence and love.

There were never any words spoken. That had halted and after that had been thrown aside as unnecessary. Words always seemed to break the mood, to break the perfection of enrapture with one another. Words seemed too harsh for such a graceful powerfully poignant union of swords in such tension of emotion. Words were abandoned for the precise feel of every different blow as it resounded through the sword into his body, of every little shock and touch that seemed as though they were running to his whole being. The little complexities of body language became more and more relied upon, which led to a deeper understanding of one another. There were no words.

Murtagh hit out, mind exploding into a rush of sharp elation and adrenaline, senses roaring into perfect clarity, stepping backwards to hold his balance, forced into backing against the wall, Tornac smiling as he saw his now clear advantage, mind quickly calculating and evaluating as adrenaline sparked just in time for him to instinctively return his weapon to his trainer's just above his head. Tornac's eyes caught his, and for one moment his concentration wavered, one silver grey moment of beautiful danger. His image reflected in a slight glimmer of want to mirror his own. One moment that made him dizzy, made the world so far away and irrelevant.

One moment of distraction.

It took long seconds to realise that neither of them had moved, and that they were both standing, each staring at the other, swords still poised for an attack. Panting softly, Tornac watched his pupil in silent frozen containment, as he lowered his sword arm to his side, silver eyes fixed on him in wary, mournfully desperate confusion. Murtagh stood, paralysed by enrapture with his trainer. His ears filled vaguely with the sound of his own heartbeat racing, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His fingers still clutched at his sword in agitated determination, alert and ready to fight; but it seemed heavy in his hand, seemed so foreign, so unnatural.

Tornac looked so powerfully beautiful, and it made all of his senses blur into graceful confusion. There was something almost vaguely angelic about him, in a darkened mysterious sense. He was more beautiful than anybody Murtagh had ever met, and yet he couldn't have said exactly what it was about him that made him so fatally wonderfully attractive. He was perfection incarnated into the most dangerous piece of elegance. So wonderfully tauntingly dangerous and beautiful all at once.

Slowly, Tornac's sword fell free of his fingers, and Murtagh's eyes glanced to it as it span to the floor. The movement seemed so slowed, graceful, each moment of it captured in his memory as the silver glimmered in a mirror to its owner's eyes. Eyes that never once left Murtagh.

A clatter echoed around the courtyard.

And yet neither moved, each transfixed by the other, each unwilling to break the silence. A bird shot through the clouds above them, shrieking across the sky, but neither one noticed, locked in a dark glimmer of harmonious fatal want. Murtagh's breathing started to calm in his ears. His heart continued to race, exhilarated by shivers of dangerous expectancy. Tornac's silver eyes had an unreadable expression in them, a flicker of fear crossing into their colour only to disappear to show something softer. The wind tickled through his dark hair, brushing it softly around his face, only serving to make him more beautiful to Murtagh's eyes. He didn't know whether there was silence or whether he was simply trying not to hear, but he knew that the moment was beautiful. If he had had any way of keeping it, of catching it like a butterfly and treasuring it forever he would willingly have given anything for it.

Tornac's eyes mirrored to him every time he had ever been happy, every smile he had ever had, every time he had felt so alive. In his companion's eyes, as the moment pressured into its climax, he could see everything that he was, everything that he would never be, everything about himself as he had never even paused for thought on before. Then he lost his focus, and visions of anything higher dissipated into the air around them.

"Murtagh?"

He didn't even recognise his name at first. It sounded so different, so beautifully detached from what he usually heard in it. For once it sounded something that he liked, something that he was proud to associate with himself, something romantic like his mother would have wanted for him. In one second every motive for his name seemed so perfectly clear; he could hear once again how it had sounded when his mother had said it, so quietly, so beautifully, when everything had been perfect and somebody had actually cared so much that they would have given anything for him. And suddenly everything was a mirror, and echo, a remembrance just beyond clarity.

"Murtagh?"

Tornac's eyes were still riveted on him, two perfect glimmers of silver, as he slowly stroked down the side of his pupil's face, his fingers trembling slightly. His eyes were so murderously beautifully calm, reassuring him, but frightened in such a simple instinctive fear at the same time. There was a comfort in the feel of such chaste contact, in something so pure and well meaning that he did not think he could possibly have done anything but be lulled into security by it, almost like a child would find such a peaceful contentment in the arms of a parent. He did not realise how very tense his body had been until he felt it start to relax, to put down every guard and surrender to anything. A small smile flickered onto his trainer's face, any fear in his eyes leaving as if by consoling Murtagh's apprehension he had destroyed his own.

Murtagh shivered, dizzily enchanted, eyes still refusing to leave his trainer's, tingling with the immensity of having contact, of seeing into his trainer's eyes so very intoxicatingly close and being able to see just a little deeper something he had thought was a dream. Tornac stared back, guardedly pensive and hesitant for a brief moment, calculating slowly, his fingers trailing to the side of Murtagh's neck and remaining there thoughtfully, his other hand resting innocently on his pupil's waist.

Gently, cautiously, Tornac nuzzled into the side of his neck teasingly. Murtagh mewled, and quickly bit his tongue to stop himself. His trainer moved back, and his eyes flickered to Murtagh's own, innocently, playfully amused. Two deadly little flashes of silver, fatally perfect, shining. Glancing to him for a last time, Murtagh finally broke their eye contact, too shy and too excited. Inside his chest he could feel his heart was pounding, his mind suddenly more awake than he had ever known it to be, woken by the warmth of Tornac's body so close to his own, of Tornac's heart beating in the same rhythm as his.

Very softly, Tornac caught back his pupil's attention.

Murtagh's eyes flickered closed as his trainer carefully, sensually kissed his neck.

If the world had frozen and nothing else had ever come to pass, Murtagh knew that he would die content, die so impeccably unbreakably content. Die happy. A prospect he had never even thought to contemplate on before, but now it seemed so close. Close enough to reach out and take, close enough to make it possibility. It was so chaste, so beautifully sweetly gentle and soft, and yet it made his entire consciousness explode into pleasure and fickle adrenaline and lust. It was just a whisper, a secretive tender little whisper. A tiny delicate shudder in his heartbeat that threw everything into confusion and all at once made everything perfect. An acute spark of fatalistic adrenaline that shot through his veins, a sharp violent rush of pure untainted bliss.

How could such a gentle single display of affection resound through his entire body so strongly? How could Tornac possess this much intoxicating venomous power over his senses, that drove every natural instinct away? How could such a dreamlike reality exist and not shatter him with its fatal perfection? Little did he know or care, only cared about Tornac and the elation of their two heartbeats, soaring higher.

He was burning and drowning all at once. He could barely breathe but he didn't want to if it would mean losing Tornac. This lust was too much for his heart, it was breaking him but he wanted to be broken, he wanted this feeling of being so alive. Tornac made him powerless to him, made it impossible for him to protect himself from his deadly beautiful charm, made it impossible for him to step back into pure sensibility in the light of exhilaration.

Somehow beside the overpowering numbing pleasure he felt so very calm and contented. Felt so safe, like he had never remembered feeling with anybody before, save for when he had been so small he could not possibly have appreciated the feeling for the value it had. To feel safe… the greatest most powerful emotion in the world. To be next to somebody and see into their eyes and know that they would never harm you because they felt so much pure love for you, love that would last until the end of the dimmed horizon and beyond that into the stars and into forever.

Forever.

Such a simple word to say, but so complex a concept. To love somebody through life and past death and to never stop the love that you felt for them because they gave your heart so much happiness just to see them happy. Their smile was your smile too, because for them to be satisfied was all that you ever wanted or needed. And they in turn loved you, and gave their everything for you because to them you were truly something of such great value, you were something unique, you were the brightest most beautiful star that could never be replaced. No matter what your scars or flaws or the very deepest imperfections, to each others eyes you would be perfect just for being who you were.

The only time he had felt the same true beautiful unrequited love had been wrapped up in his mother's arms. He had only ever known her to do that with one other person, his mirror, his echo, his father. She had held them in the same way, because she felt the same love. She had cared for them both…

"Murtagh…" Tornac pulled back and touched his forehead to Murtagh's, so that his fatally pretty silver eyes were so powerfully linked to the brown of his pupil's own. Murtagh shivered in anticipation, feeling himself trembling slightly from excited fear. Tornac's hand stroked his neck very softly, calming him, waiting for his heart to stop racing. Murtagh shyly surrendered to his trainer, to his face close to his own, to -

Thunder rolled loudly overhead, smashing the silence. Tornac jumped, startled, recoiling away from his pupil in shock, looking like a confused stunned child with his pretty silver eyes staring up at the sky in bemusement. Murtagh reached out to touch his arm gently, instinctively, to reassure him. Their eyes met again.

"Forgive me." Tornac's voice was quiet, rougher than normal, but still wonderfully laced with gloriously foreign accent.

Tornac broke away. For a moment, his eyes met Murtagh's own in a blazing smouldering look of confusion and lust and contentment. Love and lust were entwined. Murtagh's mind burned hot with a need for something just a little further, with a need for Tornac's warmth, with a need for the simple contradiction of Tornac. With a revelation that this was what made him come alive.

He watched his trainer gracefully reclaim his sword from the ground, never once daring to meet his eyes, and then as he turned to leave the courtyard.

"Murtagh?" Tornac's eyes caught his own again for a soft unbreakable moment. Any traces of sadness disappeared from his trainer's face in a slight shy smile. "Don't say a word of this… it's…" Murtagh smiled, and his trainer trailed off, reassured and relieved. It was understood. There were no more words. As the sound of the door closing echoed in the courtyard, Murtagh looked up to sky, letting his body calm from its exhilaration. Wondering what might have followed had there been the moment for it.

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Murtagh lay listening to the sound of rain going on and on into the dark of the night outside the window, mind in a feverish blur of turbulent lust. If he closed his eyes he could see only Tornac, could see how beautiful he was, could see how kind and how purely innocently loving he was. He could see so much of the love his mother had given to him mirrored in Tornac, a twisted reflection that gave was to lust and love in such a contradiction.

Murtagh was not even aware he had fallen into turbulent sleep. And even less aware of how his trainer sat in his room, stared up at the stars, and felt contented, as he remembered how for one perfect moment nothing had even mattered. How for one perfect moment, they had been united and it had felt so right for him. Tornac slipped into dreams as a happy man.

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_Murtagh woke up only knowing that the warmth that had been there when he fell asleep had gone. He wriggled slightly, listening to the sound of rain outside, remembering how happy he had been when he had slipped into dreams in his mother's arms. How content he had been, how simply purely joyful. For that one night nothing could have been more perfect. He listened to the pattering of water on the shutters, remembering love. He had been sleeping in his mother's bed, the one that she usually shared with his father, but when he was gone with his dragon Murtagh liked to creep in and be cuddled and warmed until he fell asleep. Selena would hold Murtagh and whisper to him as he fell asleep, seeing so much of the man she loved echoed in her son._

_There was another sound through the rain. A soft little sound, which he curiously turned his attention to. Starting to wake up further and become more aware of himself, Murtagh slipped out of bed and instantly shivered at the cold that assaulted him, but braced himself and padded to the open door towards the source of the sound. Putting his hand out against the wall to steady himself, he stumbled down the stairs until he reached the corridor._

_Murtagh watched, silent from the stairway as his mother stood holding the sobbing mass of cold damp shivers that was his father, quieting him, kissing him, rocking him softly, easing away fear of something that wasn't even there. Morzan was slowly slowly breaking to himself, tearing himself up from the inside. Selena stroked along his neck tenderly, and his green eyes flickered to meet hers, each trying to rid themselves of their own fear by calming the fears of the other. Murtagh had always known that in Morzan's heart, he loved Selena more desperately than anything else, that part of his undoing had been in breaking to love and to needing somebody so very very much. His father had not been drinking tonight, Murtagh could tell. When he came back from drinking he just collapsed and cried. This was a different crying. This was so true and so emotional and so scared like Murtagh could never have imagined it possible for the man to feel so powerfully. _

_The crying slowly subsided to soft little sounds, and then was gone altogether. Murtagh watched as Morzan straightened up, shakily brushed Selena's hair from her eyes caringly and kissed her softly. Murtagh watched, too young to comprehend, but slowly slowly starting to realise the power and control of something so strong men broke for it, so beautiful that people left their ambitions and dreams to turn to rust for it, something so wonderful that it made everything else unimportant. _

_Not honour._

_But love. _

_And he _understood_._

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**Hmmmn. I finished this one off this morning, sincerest apologies for making it so late! **

**Somebody just introduced me to the manga "FAKE" - why did nobody tell me of this wonder years ago? It's just great. So I've been reading that and getting a few little ideas for my pair. Don't worry, they will start to have some sort of a romance, I like to do things slowly… I really wanted them to go further in this chapter but when I wrote it it seemed… wrong somehow. But I've got some nice romantic little plans for them hehe…**

**FLUFF! I gave you a little bit of fluff, finally it seems! Not fluffy enough? Probably. I struggle to write real stuff fast enough, so their relationship is getting off to a slow start. Slow and steady though, slow and steady. **

**So, please please R n R! Every review will be very very much appreciated.**


	12. Last Drop Falls

**Once again I've left Murtagh and Tornac alone for far too long. I'm so sorry about this; perhaps the only explanation is the fact I work on two other fictions away from this site, am currently still studying for exams, and like to do a good bit of artwork alongside all of this. As well as that I do try my best to have something of a life, so that's why I always take a long time over each chapter. Also I'm deviously perfectionist about things, and toy with chapters a lot before I decide they're ready for posting.**

**However, here I am, ready to present to you the next chapter. And along with it, good news (well, perhaps…)**

**I'm finishing for the Summer in just one day's time now. Which means I'm going to have time to write. Now, I do have two other very important works to be doing - one band fiction and one main work, not to mention art commitments I have if I'm going to have a hope of getting the grades I want - but I promise I'll find some time for Murtagh and Tornac too. ;)**

**Firstly to introduce my new reader Dianayelli, thank you sincerely for all of your reviews! They were all much appreciated, it means such a lot to me that you read and enjoyed it, and I hope I can continue to produce chapters you like. And, of course, to keep you addicted to Tornac bless him. I have a really long review reply to send you hun, I promise I'll finish typing and send it off to you very very soon!!**

**Siren - Thank you very much for your review once again! It's lovely to get reviews, it really is! I hope you continue to enjoy it, and that you're now enjoying the summer. **

**Hot4Garrett - I'm glad you're enjoying it! Thank you so much for leaving me a review!**

**Bananasquash - I hope I've cleared you up on your question now. Thanks for reading.**

**So, new chapter new day. I hope you enjoy it, please R n R!**

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Chapter 11. Last Drop Falls

Tornac opened his eyes blearily, stretched out softly in a sleepy feline display and let out a soft little mewl of happy contentment. He had slept well, his dreams a happy whirl of innocent hopelessly childish romance, the kind of fairy-tale blur of love where the hero always managed to conquer the heart of his love, and the ending was always happy, happy forever. The birds outside his window sang a harmonious serenade to another day, a fresh page of his own personal story winding on and on. Another sparring session with Murtagh. He smiled to himself at the thought, listening absently to the sound of the world still sleeping drowsily around him, warmed by the sunrise glow that enlaced his sleepy body gently, appealing to him to wake up like a lover might. The breeze that lifted the birds and made the trees whisper found its way inside of his shutter-less window and came to tickle teasingly through his hair, playing childishly with strands of it, whistling in delight. What a beautiful morning.

Would Murtagh still be sleeping? With only the briefest of snatched pensive moments, Tornac decided firmly that he certainly would still be asleep, then quickly went on to wonder how anybody could miss such a wonderfully enchanting time of the day with something is futile and worthless as sleeping. Sleeping was strictly a night-time prohibited activity, to Tornac's mind at least. The warm beautiful day was to be spent doing things, not sleeping like some sort of a languid horse that did nothing but to swipe at the flies with its tail vaguely from time to time in a drowsy bleary day full of nothing in particular. Morning hours were supposed to be spent with lovers, just entwined so beautifully innocently intimately around each other, just to feel happy and safe in the company of the other, and not times intended for bleak solitude and pointless aimless thoughts. With one more tiny little feline stretch that sent a small shudder of pleasure streaking down his spine, and a small growling mewling sound in the back of his throat as his senses struggled to come to a comprehensible focus beyond the fickle glaze of sleep, Tornac rubbed his eyes got to his feet, and peered out of the window.

At last, the spring had arrived, the comforting season of beauty and nature and blissful content. Tornac always had loved the spring; such a romantic time of year, the time to ask a lover to dance or to sit watching the sun as it set in the evening. Of course, the summer was arguably wonderful as well, but the heat could be unbearable. The summer days made sparring an exhausting task, the sun beating down on the opponents backs and making everything too drowsy and slow. Spring still retained the grace and cool of the winter with all of the bloom of life that the summer had to show to the world.

As he splashed water onto his face, thoughts of his pupil… his _friend_… warmed his heart even more strongly than the sleek gleam of sunlight through the window. He had never for a single snatched moment intended to make such a rash - some might have gone as far as to call it entirely foolish - gesture, but the innocent purely beautiful passion of the moment had held him in such intoxicating enrapture that he had simply lost himself in all of the emotion and the perfection. Such a move could have cost his profession, his dignity, even his life. But it had felt so natural, nothing out of place, all making such clarified sense. He smiled to himself, reaching up to brush a wayward strand of dark hair from his eyes softly. He smiled, because he knew that no matter how utterly dangerous his little display of emotion had been, one fact struck clear and golden.

He had not been refused.

Murtagh had not even attempted the vaguest of efforts to push him away, to deny him, although he was certainly capable of such a thing. He was capable of showing disgust or shock if he had wanted to, but there had been no trace of any such thing. Which indicated only on possibility. As if to clarify matters even further, to turn them from proposed certainty into definite unquestionable truth, he had responded, though not in horror. Murtagh had shown enjoyment, shown pleasure. Tornac felt a vague warm feeling inside of him tickle at his stomach and rise up to his chest. Everything seemed to point to a single beautiful dream of a fact. Only a blind man would have been able to ignore such seemingly simple information.

Murtagh felt a similar way.

Murtagh felt something for him further than a strictly controlled and dignified tutor pupil relationship.

Had it not been that - despite possessing an almost completely childish confident persona - Tornac silently prided himself on preserving sincere gentlemanly ethics wherever humanly possible, he might have jumped up in celebration, for the pure sheer happiness of it all. As it was, he satisfied the blissful emotions with a gleefully delighted smile on his childishly gentle face, and trying to imagine what might happened further had he not been returned to his senses so harshly suddenly by the thunder. It was something beautiful, something he could only dream about. Something he fully intended on doing, if he was not denied it, at the next opportunity that rose from the horizon.

Snapping out of his daydream haze, Tornac told himself severely to grasp some sort of control on himself as his mind desperately smouldered over imagining Murtagh. He had always strived for total and complete self-control, long hard hours in the learning and seemingly only a single moment of tortuous, intimate, teasing lust to destroy all over again in a vivid passion of unruly needs and desires.

But the dream refused to leave.

Tornac, the hopeless romanticist that he was, was - even against his better judgments and regimental self-control - very much desperately in love. Some might have called it infatuation, but of course it was so much deeper than the simplicity of obsession. It was something inside of his veins that made him giddy just to be with Murtagh, happy and calm just to exchange even a few words, content with him as his best, or indeed, only, company - though it must be said that Tornac had more than might strictly be considered fair in terms of the degree of companionship he managed to attract from others in the palace. This was deeper than lust, this was deeper than attraction; and though the word could never, in all it's crude lack of emotion, describe how he felt, it came to be that the ailment he suffered so willingly from was love. How could he be expected to feel otherwise? Murtagh was just different enough to be beautifully attractive, and yet similar enough to feel a confidence in, similar enough to understand and to trust and to place trust in. Somebody who he could put at ease and at the same time be calmed down and comforted with his presence in return. Even the happiness of sparring was starting to ebb to an unimportance in the face of what now was his greatest delight.

To see Murtagh smile.

He didn't even know why the sea of his dreams had begun to calm to a single simple want and need; to make his pupil smile, because that smile was all he needed for his own happiness. When Murtagh smiled, it was the most warming thing he had ever experienced. To just for one moment take away hurt and bitterness and to have a snatched ash of bliss, so brief and fragile like the first summer butterfly, only there for a moment, but a moment nevertheless. It was such a simple thing he wanted, and yet it was coming to be his greatest pleasure. He always had liked to comfort people, to heal not physical hurt so much as deeper scars. They ran far deeper and took such a longer time to even begin to ease away, but when you could see someone smile again it was the greatest emotion of all. Although as a healer he had never excelled, on a more personal level, he had always possessed some degree of what others might have regretfully muttered to be talent. Tornac had always been uncannily perceptive of other people, despite having pathetically little mere grasp at social relationship for a very long while. To comfort had been his gift, although it had always been veiled away for the passion of sparring. And through comfort he had learned how it could feel just to make somebody else smile.

As he tugged his silk coat on roughly, glancing at himself in the mirror to satisfy his vanity briefly, he told himself to be under as much regimental control as he could possibly restrain himself with. Murtagh was not simply some pretty girl from a street corner who could be stolen away and taken into his own private little world of secrets and romance, Murtagh was his pupil, his profession, his duty; albeit a lovely duty. Allowing this love and lust intoxication to cloud his senses was leading him deeper and deeper into trouble he knew he was best avoiding. Tornac took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. There was no other word for it. This was torture. Pleasurable torture, yes.

But torture nevertheless.

His mind wanted one thing, his body desperately another. His mind scolded and reprimanded, telling him that such a thing was forbidden in these parts of the world, that to do it might destroy all involved, but as much as he tried to convince himself with the best arguments he could place down, still a trick card appeared in the pack and lost his gamble. No matter how hard he fought not to, he knew that his body was desperate to wrap around Murtagh, and to hold him in his arms, to a shameful degree. He wanted to have something sensual, even if it was only to be brief and short, because it was only in tactile sensualities, he thought, that his true feelings could be properly expressed. Was it wrong to want something so passionately? Could love ever be something wrong, if it was pure and not wishing of anything bad. Was it wrong to love and lust for somebody so wholly that all you wanted was them, for their happiness, for their safety? Was it wrong to feel this burning need for intimacy, this burning intimacy to hold and to kiss and to go beyond that to-

Of course, it wasn't all sensualities and lust that he wanted. A more than heartily substantial part of his desire for Murtagh was chaste love and adoration; hopeless addiction to the presence and company of somebody else, to his voice, to his actions, to just his being near to him. But love was patient, love was content to wait for an eternity just for perfection. Love could wait and withhold and restrain. Lust just wanted hungrily, and showed itself more than was strictly proper of it to do so. Love was pure and innocent; lust was a sin, a crime. Lust had none of the grace of love.

But no matter how hard he tried to tell himself, he knew more plainly than ever that he was desperate for some little scrap of affection from Murtagh. Somebody so charming and confident and at the same time cautious and withdrawn; somebody so much of a contradiction could not hope to be anything other than fatally attractive. Attraction that would be the death of him if he didn't learn to control it. Something deep inside of him had begun to stir, something that he knew would certainly never be content until it was granted peace in the arms of somebody else.

Tornac turned away from the mirror, deciding to see if the object of his desires was still asleep. Today was a day for lessons of a different kind to sparring. Today was a day for learning about the world. Today was a day for comfort and smiling. Today was a beautiful day.

As he slipped, with lupine graceful elegance, inside Murtagh's room, he couldn't help but smile. The shutters were drawn, disallowing anything save for simple strands of golden sun to streak over the walls; the sky, always the most proud of artists, painting the days canvas with pristine care and making everything perfect. Murtagh was asleep, curled up, mumbling softly as he dreamed. Silently, cautious of waking his pupil, Tornac settled himself onto the bed beside him, tucking his legs underneath him neatly to watch his fascination sleep.

A look of surprise and sadness came into his face as he realised that Murtagh was unhappy in his dreams, a vague pained streak glimmering in his expression even as he lay dreaming, his eyes closed. Perhaps to others it might not have been noticeable, but to Tornac, even the slightest trace of sadness was evident, in an acute desire to be able to understand something he was coming more and more to love. It was interesting, Tornac mused to himself, that although he was so attracted to the power in Murtagh's eyes, to see them closed was just as satisfying, just as deeply undeniably attractive, enticing him and trapping him in snares that were a cruel vice, and yet graceful at the same time.

At a total lack of caution, slowly he uncurled his own body alongside Murtagh's, lying next to him to better attempt to soothe away whatever dream was haunting the thing he was so fond of. Without thinking, Tornac reached out to stroke Murtagh's face, to brush his hair back softly, affectionate but gentle, a simple whisper, barely noticeable to the world as it turned by, but conveying such a rush of raw passions and emotions that it was beyond itself in meaning. The feel of Murtagh's skin against his own made him tingle, made his body respond in a little tickle of pleasure. Inside the confines of his mind, he tried to imagine saying three blissful little words he pined to say, and indeed only refrained from for fear of hurting the thing he loved so much. He caressed his companion's face softly, a face that had held so much tragic emotion that he pined to erase, to demolish in the face of passions more comforting.

To say three words… Three words that were desperately striving to be set free, to be shown to the world in all of their shapen beauty. How could such simple utterances become such a complexity that it was pain simply in contemplating whether or not to pronounce them. Just to say them seemed to condemn him to the most beautiful agony, pain that he wanted to bear, seemed as though it might rip him apart and at the same time make him more complete than he could ever hope to be.

"Tornac?"

He quickly pulled his hand away from Murtagh's face in alarm, sitting up abruptly, starting to feel himself colour at such an undignified way to be caught dreaming, realising a little too late that, whilst he had been so caught in the spider web maze of his own thought trails, the world had progressed without him, and, inevitably, his pupil had opened his eyes and woken up, whilst he continued to stroke down his face, trying to comfort him without disturbing his sleep, wrapped up in a tangle of blissful ignorance. Murtagh was staring at him in innocent surprise and bemusement. The plain innocence on his face was so attractive, so out of place and yet so naturally created, so perfectly painted, a perfectly saccharine little confusion.

"Forgive me...you looked sad, in your sleep." The words came out so softly, barely a whisper of an excuse, so fragile and breakable because inside every emotion had rushed into clear turmoil, a battle of confusion and fright and fighting against his own love for Murtagh. He couldn't move, couldn't force his body to make any action because he was so enchanted and yet afraid of it. Slowly, like a bemused startled animal, Tornac blinked, his silver eyes unwilling to leave Murtagh even for a heartbeat. His mind screamed for him to move, to apologise, to flee and to not admit to what he felt. His body, his stubborn lover's heart, refused.

The moment became drawn out, just about the tension of them, side by side, each afraid, painfully tense, agitated, Murtagh lying looking up at his trainer with darkly innocent eyes that only spoke in whispered glimmers of what his mind truly felt. Every single beat in the rhythm of Tornac's heart seemed so painfully agonisingly clear in his ears, each syllable to a poem of such emotion he was begging to be allowed to express, each and every single note in a song that the world had seen so many times before and yet never quite in the same way. It felt so heavy in his chest, such a burden to bear this much want for somebody else. Such a crushing weight pressing down by three such short words, almost too crude to even possess any significance.

Murtagh looked so attractively innocent, so perfect in how he was delicately breakable yet so quietly confidant and assured. His brown eyes were riveted on Tornac's own, making his heart beat faster, a silent language of heartbeats.

In one moment, Tornac gave in to lust, to love, to wants and needs, threw away every caution, just for one moment. One moment of beautiful bliss, one moment when nothing else mattered at all. He surrendered to emotions, gave in to everything he knew he had that could bring him what he truly wanted.

He gave in to Murtagh, as he leaned down and, perfectly softly, kissed him.

* * *

Murtagh felt his breath hitch in his throat as his companion kissed him, very gently at first, softer than memories of the touch of his fingers caressing his face. Simply a butterfly whisper touch, the lightest soaring little breeze, a simple gentle little feeling, almost soft enough to be nothing. Tornac was so very gentle, so unbelievably cautious and lacking in haste. In his control, with him so careful, there was all the time in the world. There was a diminutive sound of surprise as his body tensed in perplexity at such an inexplicable feeling, at first completely shy of it and trying to plead that it was wrong, trying not to admit how much he wanted it. Trying to find it in himself to push Tornac away. But everything was lost into blissful serenity as Murtagh relaxed into the moment, closing his eyes, overwhelmed, senses filled wonderfully, intoxicatingly, with Tornac, satisfied desires clouding over every sense but feeling so beautiful, patiently coaxing him into coming alive.

Emotion streaked white hot through his veins, a deadly mixture of love, lust and Tornac. Not paralysed but so very struck down by enrapture and amazement.

It was incomparable.

It was _captivating_.

Tornac was so blissfully gentle, so careful with his treatment of Murtagh; and it only served to make the moment more intensely impassioned. So many emotions expressed through such a soft gesture made them all the more emotive, all the more empowering, and it ran warmly to his mind like a rich drug stealing away seemingly all feeling, leaving him empty of all troubles and confusion and plunged into a new world where nothing mattered but to be loved. He felt numbed by the new sensations exploding through his veins, and all at once every sense seemed to have a clarity it had never possessed before. His body was suddenly so acutely aware of even the very slightest touch, of Tornac's fingers finding his neck and stroking so very, very, teasingly slowly, making his pulse race and speed in dreamlike ecstasy to meet the frantic rhythm of his trainer's own. Everything about it was a beautiful sensual rush of pleasure that Murtagh found himself quickly drunk on. The pleasure, the delight, made his body shiver, and at the same time there was such warmth rushing through him the like of which he had never even so much as touched before, so much of him responding to such a small tender sigh of a gesture. Everything about the raw sensations exploding through his body was new, unexplored, and that served to make it all the more pleasurable, until Murtagh was desperate for it to go further, eager for more.

He reached out slowly to tangle his fingers into Tornac's long black hair; nervous but cherishing the feeling, pulling him a little closer gently. Everything was graceful, nothing ever rough or careless, everything so amazingly tender and caring that it warmed him even more, burned away at his every reservation and dragged him into new happiness, into new fatalistically devoted pleasure. It should have felt wrong. But through his mind ran one stark realisation.

It felt exquisitely right.

Tornac touched along his bottom lip gently with his tongue, asking soundlessly for something, silently offering something a little further but not forcing it, always careful. Trying very slowly and modestly so as not to make anything feel unnatural. Slowly, intensely cautious and very shy of such a contact, he gave in and allowed his companion's tongue to delicately meet his own, something so foreign that at first it was intimidating. But with Tornac stroking his neck reassuringly, soon he learned that this new feeling was pleasant, not uncomfortable. Far from it.

Murtagh mewled quietly, enjoying the pleasurable shock that ran hot through his veins as Tornac pressed very lightly against him, his body wonderfully warm, his companion occupying himself with stroking his fingers across Murtagh's neck, running them up to touch along his ear teasingly, making him shiver in delight. The tenderness of desperation that was such a perfect contradiction that it made him giddy. Murtagh moaned softly, and he could feel Tornac become a little more fervent, still so protectively gentle but just a little bit more passionate, careful not to push too far but relishing everything they were sharing.

He was on fire, burning with the thrill of being treated with such sensual tenderness.

If everything was lost after this moment, well then it was lost, because for this little snatch of happiness everything was drowning and he loved it. Tornac was extending his hand to catch him and pull him further down into an ocean he couldn't breathe in, but that was so divinely gentle that it was heaven. He wanted to keep this moment for an eternity, to never break it, because the clashing confusion of different sensations and lusts on his body was just too wonderful. Was this finally what it felt like, to love? To feel so awoken that the past seemed as though you had been sleeping just to wait for this moment. That this was finally to live and to breathe and to feel happy and to feel warm and contented and so dizzy, none of it mattering and at the same time everything vitally important.

He felt so dizzy with how beautifully innocent Tornac was with him, how reserved he was, holding back so that there was no embarrassment, no intimidation. Every move was innocent and yet accented with such an ecstasy blur of deep emotions that they threatened to throw his mind into blank numb emptiness.

Finally, Tornac pulled away from their kiss, a sorry little smile on his face, a smile that was still so breathtakingly beautiful that it might as well have been their first meeting. Murtagh opened his eyes to look at his companion, feeling his heart racing from what he had just had. From what they had just shared. Tornac looked back at him, silver eyes shining with an icy little edge of mournful loneliness and at the same time so deeply simply contentedly happy.

Murtagh felt a smile start to form on his own face, and Tornac laughed softly, kindly. For a little glimmering time they simply lay contented with each other's company, happy to look and to smile, in the knowledge of what they had just partaken in, which bridge they had burned to acknowledge their companionship.

"I think, Murtagh, that you had better get more appropriately dressed for training." Tornac laughed softly, sitting up neatly, brushing a strand of black hair back behind his ear. "And I will wait for you…" he cut short, smiling, lupine prettiness shining in his silver eyes.

As he watched his trainer get to his feet and pad sleekly from his room with a smile on his face, Murtagh finally allowed himself to breathe deeply and to acknowledge his situation. It was with inextinguishable happiness that he got up to open the shutters.

Unaware of how, in other parts of the palace, things were stirring.

And two people sat in restless wait for Murtagh to join them. With two very different motives.

* * *

**FINALLY I've finished the chapter. That one took me a very long time to write, I redrafted over and over.**

**I hope you enjoyed that, I have to say I did like writing it!**

**Please R n R, especially if you're one of those people lurking out there reading yet never reviewing for me. ;) You know who you are.**


	13. The Cage

**So I log on the other day, ho hum humdrum… and see that the lovely people at fan have given us a summer gift, this funny new reader traffic survey thing. After a little bit of struggling to work out how I use it, I have realised what a useful nifty little thing it is! Also, to people reading but not reviewing, you are now exposed and I can see that you are out there! Ha! XD Please review, you don't need an account, it's simple, and it makes me so happy, it really does! Many thanks. **

**So here I am, enjoying my summer as my first week of holiday draws to a close. It's a pretty scary thought that I've already had so much of my holiday! Isn't time such a scary thing? Here in the UK the weather is absolutely glorious, very very hot but lovely in the evenings. A proper summer for a change.**

**A small point for anybody who works in beta-ing. A very picky point indeed, but I'm having a bit of bother over the apostrophe in making the name Galbatorix into a posessive. Should it be Galbatorix' or Galbatorix's? I've opted for the first as it sounds more natural to me, in the same way that James is often put into James', but if anybody wants to suggest an alternative or shed some light onto matters it would be much appreciated. :P**

Chapter 12. The Cage

He awoke with a cold shudder.

Murtagh opened his eyes groggily, only aware of the oppressive leering dark engulfing him in its blackness. His mind ran cold, struggling to understand the basic concept of who he was and why he had woken in such a foreign environment, every thought and conclusion sickeningly empty.

Slowly, he came to comprehend himself, to realise the thick gritty taste still remaining in his mouth and a pounding pain threatening to crack his skull open even as he lay with the side of his face against brutally cold stone. The poignant reek of urine and blood, a smell that burned as it caught in his throat and made him cough, nauseating his senses and stinging his eyes. His entire body felt heavy, detached, so foreign, filled with a muzzy nauseous ache that he could neither understand nor fight. He was splayed across a hard expanse of cruel, frigid stone, shivering. His thoughts were languid, toiling, each one slippery and fickle and powerfully hard to grasp, and even when he finally did succeed in securing a hold about one, the devious comprehension of coherent thought was beyond him. Every single notion required painful effort, needed more energy than his exhausted body had within it.

Very gradually, he sat up, his head churning nauseously, instinctively putting his hand out to steady himself from the dizzying torment he was trapped inside of. He was at an utter loss for logical thought, detached from usual human thoughts by a clouded haze of something that it was past his every desperate desire to shake off. Everything was thickly drowsy and painstakingly lethargic, struggling to some to waking comprehension in muzzy refusal, every thought a heavy struggle through glutinous webs of volubly profuse, sticky misunderstandings. His body was refusing to come to proper consciousness, dithering tiredly on the brink of sleep, vulnerable and utterly exhausted, everything clumsily graceless and so utterly incompetent of anything at all. He forced himself to blink, trying to impose consciousness onto his reluctant mind, and looked about to try and take in something, anything, of his surroundings.

The room was tall; that much he could tell, but how tall was an unsolvable mystery to him, especially given his current state. Stone walls ran solidly around him, entrapping him within their hold; a harsh, cruel vice of a false embrace. Murtagh looked around, eyes glinting in the dark, as tiny rays of light through a crooked window pierced their hazel brown. There was silence; as far as he could tell, he was alone. A feeling he was long used to, even one he had come to know and even enjoy; but now it only served to add to the confusion and growing spark of fear. Silently, he glanced up to the window, towering far above him far out of reach, a small frail gleam of light managing to come past the rust-roughened slender bars. It must have been early evening, the sun starting to die, bleeding down crimson red into the horizon and surrendering to the darkness silently. Cautious, and heavily confused, he stumbled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall behind him. Absently, his fingers darted over the surface, taking in every minute detail. The chink that was missing from a rough brick, like an ancient scar of war that refused to heal. The places where the damp had won the battle for the wall despite the proud defences of the building.

A prison?

How did he even manage to find himself waking up here in the first place? He sat turning thoughts through and through, scrabbling for one that made sense, for one that gave him any source of answer. Nothing remained in his thoughts long enough to be of useful aid, every trail of memory slipping into wispy smouldering ashes around him; names, places, people, all so disconnected from one another, nothing comprehensible, simply vague ideas that he did not possess a hope of making logical sense with.

Tornac.

Suddenly, he caught a whisper of something that was more complete, a thought that made more sense finally. Blackest hair and the most beautiful, intoxicating silver grey eyes. Here was something that was finally comprehensible. Tornac was his trainer, Tornac who was so undeniably beautiful, yes, this made sense to his mind. As if it were an anchor, this one small realisation hauled him into stark consciousness.

Murtagh collapsed down onto his knees in bleak comprehension as things started to become less dreamlike about his predicament and more akin to a waking nightmare.

His mind ran amok with a sickeningly wanton indulgence in worries; his usual audience with Galbatorix, if such a thing could ever be termed as such, was long overdue, each night bringing a shiver of fear that the next day might hold a meeting with a man who was not known for his powers of empathy or lesser his kindness. It seemed that finally, his year of passing blissfully ignored by the man his father had adored to a sickening degree had come to its conclusion. The king always had been fond of nauseating overdramatics; a touch of shade magic to add vivacity to summoning somebody to him. Murtagh rubbed his hands over his face to force himself awake, only to find that fear had long before managed to achieve such a thing.

It all rushed back. For a prolonged, blissfully paralysed moment, he had simply stood at the window staring. He had looked without seeing, trapped up in his own whirl of excited elated thought patterns, tangled irredeemably into a web of obsessive desire, his heart still beating too powerfully fast. Uru'baen stretched out in front of him, such a painfully important society, such a tightly regimented ruling of destiny already written centuries before and dictatorship holding the place in a secretive vice whilst those in any control of power continued to speak such deceptions of having a fair and just society. A place that his father had fought and struggled so hard to come to be of some importance in, a place where people had died in countless fights and wars and rebel attempts by the Varden, a place where he knew he would most likely while away his entire life, simply a time-keeper for some other, newer generation. There was a place where he had been born into fortune that had fast decayed into a curse, there was a place with so much importance that he could not even begin to describe how deeply power ran through its great stone veins. His father had strived for power and honour and for respect there.

Yet the strangest thing was that that morning, it had meant nothing.

One kiss had destroyed every natural sense and instinct, had thrown everything into beautiful disarray, the most blissfully pleasurable disarray, one that had forsaken every single impulse for the sake of one happy moment to share with somebody else. He had never been aware of just how alive he could feel with somebody else, of how somebody else could make him feel suddenly complete and satisfied, of how he could feel so much lust and love for somebody that it grew to be an obsession of dreams - and that when those dreams were finally fulfilled it could feel so perfect, even though all logical sense screamed that it was wrong, it was against every law, it was going against everything that he had been taught and breaking so many rules of society.

There had still been the vague, faint taste of Tornac that remained as a memory in his mouth, which he had cautiously savoured with almost guilty pleasure, a whisper remembrance of a short little moment of lust that was soon too far away to recall. But with the bliss fading away to mere embers, embarrassment and guilt started to tinge at the surface of his mind, and no matter how hard he tried to push them away they remained stubbornly, ugly little whines of a notion that perhaps to refuse and push away would have been the right choice, to resist temptation and not give in to such a fickle thing as love. How could he still hope to have even a shard of honour in the knowledge that he had given in to lusts, and above all, lusts not for a woman of respectable birth and of good finance, but lusts for another _man_. Could there be any greater shame than such a relationship, could there be any greater taint than to feel satisfied in such a contact and to take full pleasure in it? Was there any greater damnation than to know, deep in his heart, that it had felt so incomparably perfect?

Murtagh remembered collapsed back to sitting on his bed, hands tangling into his hair in bleak desperation. How could he be so certain that something was all that he needed and wanted and simultaneously feel that it was wrong, that it was repulsive and unnatural to feel such a way? He knew it was what he wanted and all at once knew so painfully that it was wrong. He knew it made him feel alive, that it had felt so very right for him, that more than words could possibly explain, he had enjoyed their moment of unity. For the first time in living memory, his mother's and his father's blood inside his veins fought viciously for advantage, neither willing to submit, snapping violently at each other's morals and priorities, love fighting honour in a cruel vice that held him powerless.

He wanted Tornac and his friendship, that was utterly undeniable. What was questionable was whether it was proper to do so. How could he love something that should have felt repulsive?

It was then that he had noticed the hazy wisp of smoke licking at the air, with no apparent source. It was then that he had got to his feet, to investigate, filled with innocent curiosity. It was then that the simple whisper of smoke had flared into an empowering embrace all around him. It was then that, startled, he had unthinkingly inhaled, and then choked on the poignant burn of something all too powerfully overwhelmingly saccharine, intoxicatingly sickly and just too strong in his throat. Instinctively he had coughed, but it only served to flood his lungs with more of whatever was fast lacing his mind with its overly sweet snares. He barely even remembered passing out, with one small call for help, far away from his own thoughts. He had blearily recognised his own voice trying to call out faintly for help from the only person his mind could think to call for, pleading that he might hear, that he might do something, anything at all to help him, but the sound was so fragile and weak, so very easy to break and so close to being inaudible that it was barely the softest whisper. The last thing he had known before he had passed out into blissful dreamy darkness was of saying one name.

"Tornac…"

Tornac sat dejectedly, chewing at his nails dully in a childlike attempt at comforting himself, his head resting on his hand, uncharacteristically drained eyes wearily taking in the complex clatter and evening bustle of people dining, a frown of upset breaking the softness of his usually childishly gentle face. He never had been a man who wept, never one keen to submit to tears no matter how tragic the situation, but present events were coming to seriously challenge all preconceptions of how he thought he felt emotions. To be heartbroken was an agonisingly poignant feeling he had believed that he was long since accustomed to, and yet sitting here now was a new form of emptiness, one that gnawed away at him so much as to become a physical ache. This was a more powerfully physical experience than he could comprehend, and it crushed him into a sorry little misery of unwanted rejection.

He hurt. He hurt desperately, though he contained it with as much restraint as he was able to muster. Hurt with rejection and feeling an object of ridicule.

He was huddled over a wooden bar trying desperately hard not to attract attention and to become to some degree inconspicuous, silver grey eyes staring blankly into his drink. Unfortunately, his rather unorthodox selection of attire made this a somewhat impossible task, the velvet and lace apparently only adding to his mystique. He tapped his fingers over the wooden handle of his mug idly. Most of the drink was long since gone, but the repulsive gritty taste still lingered in his mouth. The female attention was already fast developing into something of a waking nightmare. As far as he could remember there had been tremendous female attention, quite a lot of it very much unwanted, all of it to the horrendous jealousy of those who would have willingly killed to have that same attention. How had he ended up in this ridiculous indulgence as way of comfort?

The morning had been so beautiful, everything scripted to utmost perfection, a play of passion and desires and dreams made real, a happy elated morning. If he had died that morning, if he had closed his eyes and never once breathed again, he knew he would have died that happiest man alive. To kiss Murtagh had been the most beautiful rush of sensations, had been so intoxicating that he was instantly addicted by the powerful whirl of elation it sent his mind giddily into, had been a moment of heavenly divine perfect in a tragically mortal world. It had been as a very happy man that Tornac had excitedly left from his pupil's room to rush to the courtyard and wait in giddy anticipation, so inebriated on lust and love and content that for a moment there was not a single care in his mind. Impatiently he had waited for Murtagh, waited for the man he was so obsessively infatuated with, with the man he loved. With the man he thought loved him back.

At first he had waited, long enduring minutes of innocent expectation. The minutes had grown steadily longer and longer, whiling out in painstaking anticipation that had threatened to drive him past the treacherous brink of sanity and into madness, but madness he would willingly have slipped into just to have love in a world too long deprived of such emotions. He had started to grow impatient, to spar by himself as a means of passing the time, every shadow seeming so much lighter and the sun seeming so much more beautiful in his clouded view on the world, tinged over by love to be a somehow altogether restored place. He had been so very caught up in his own landscape of love that he became carried away, twirling more expressively than strictly necessary because akin to the way a boy of 15 could fall so desperately in love with somebody in infatuation that threatened his every sanity, so Tornac was caught up in blissful dreamy romance, in love with Murtagh.

Murtagh.

He never had come to join his trainer at sparring, a fact that only as he watched the sky change to a painting of vermillion did Tornac start to realise with a sinking feeling of disappointment was going to remain very much true. Murtagh had not only rejected him in joining him for their usual happy whirling intimacy of sparring, an intimacy that would now hold much more beyond sparring conduct for an utterly infatuated Tornac, but had seemingly simply disappeared, avoided him in every sense of the word. He had sat on Murtagh's bed waiting for near on an hour before conceding and sorely going back to his own quarters to try and nurse the aching feeling of disappointed rejection inside of him. The violin had been fickle, promising to help and to relax his mind only to crush him with its pretty little romantic melodies that only made him think of the person he desired above all else.

So fate had it that he had been brought here, sitting restlessly at a wooden bar coated in sticky remnants of other people's troubles, other's attempts to forget things on their mind, in the corner of the dining hall feeling beyond all of the private hurting that he had made something of a complete fool of himself in trying to make any advance on Murtagh. It was a fool only who would even consider the possibility that a man of good birth and high importance to the king could share his somewhat eclectic taste in lovers, could share the passion he could feel for other men. In his homeplace of small, rural expectations, of religion and respects but of simple lifestyle nevertheless, it had been and utterly forbidden notion even to think of such a relationship, and here he was in high society where in all reality it was most likely punishable to share any form of intimacy with anybody outside of one's class, let alone with somebody considerably superior by birth and destiny who was of the same gender. This was all a mistake. Tornac had found himself to be an utter fool and broken his heart in the bargain.

He was surrounded by people, and a good proportion with interests in him, but still he felt desperately pining for company, horrifically lonely. Desperately lonely, so lonely that it was physically unbearably painful inside, that it was an undeniable physical need for somebody else's presence, but there were far beyond plenty of people to give him companionship and all he wanted was to be left in some of his own peace to drown his miserable feelings in his own time. He had beautiful women surrounding him, trying to make him smile and cheer him up, yet he barely even noticed. He had always been one for solitary pursuits, so it might have been to the surprise of those who knew him somewhat better that he was now desperate for company, but Tornac's hopelessly romantic soul believed in full conviction that once he found the one person who was intended for him, being with them would be akin to being alone, in a sense that together they would experience the same freedom and peace of mind and space that came more usually with solitude. Being with them would make him happier than anything else.

At present there was only one person who even came within distance of being able to fulfil such a want and lust and need. Someone who it would seem to appear was all but ignoring him, no, worse, deliberately and purposefully evading him. Tornac glanced tiredly into the gritty, lurid remnants of his drink and downed it wearily before slipping away to his room, to nurse his sadness with the violin by himself, in the privacy of his own comforts and dreams. The haunting sound of violin music drifted through the cold night, melodies of sadness and love abandoned and of a man who only wished that it should have been that he would not have been love's fool.

Murtagh sat on the floor, skin prickling uncomfortably with horrific anticipation as slowly, things became more comprehensible. Being summoned in such an unorthodox fashion could only lead to one implication, to one horrific name. A name he had come to fear and to respect and to detest simultaneously in such a disgusting confusion.

_Galbatorix_.

As a much younger person, as just a small boy who logic concluded should not have been able to properly understand much of the world, he could remember having a deep notion of uncomfortable emotions when he would find his father talking with the king. One particular incident still stuck firmly in his mind, a memory of being too young to know truly the difference between good and evil and yet knowing more poignantly than ever before that Galbatorix was certainly not a man of good intent, one who's smile was rather a way of exploiting fear than of displaying happiness. He never had been able to comprehend why his father so devotedly worked for a man who, beyond all of his unnatural good looks and elven perfection, was broken and twisted beyond any recognition of human morals.

However, one bleak and rainy morning: when the torrents from the sky had unchained in a lamenting harmony more emotional than the world had ever been laid bare to before, a day when the heavens broke and flooded the world with tragedy; a morning when Morzan had been lying splayed over his bed, studying pointlessly, only vaguely aware in irritation of the rhythm of water, lost and inebriated inside the reading of something of little importance that no longer made sense in a heavenly cloud of fickle beautiful alcohol; a morning when Murtagh had been lying wrapped up in soft, white blankets, shivering desperately with hot chills, his body flushed with fever that had no source, waiting bleary and terrified for the merciless vice of pain mapping out his father's instability on his own back to stop burning or else for sleepy death to come as means of release; a messenger had arrived, soaked and chilled from the rain. Morzan had been summoned, a wreck but nevertheless present, and news had started to spread in hushed whispers that Selena had, after so long, returned. He could only very vaguely remember the feel of her weak form wrapping so carefully around him, holding him so gently for fear of disturbing wounds that were refusing to heal at any pace, only faintly recall the way she had told him that everything would be all right, that Morzan would never in his life lay so much as a finger onto him again, that he was safe.

Although it was true that his father was never again to hurt him, things were never again all right inside the turbulent world of a boy born out of a scandalous relationship that went against the laws set down by a man his father served so agonisingly blindly.

It could not have been anticipated by any that the tortuous truth was indeed that his mother returned only to be buried in her own homeland, buried by a husband who was too unstable without her care to be concerned with matters outside of his own grief, and a son who quietly cried alone for the loss of the only person he wanted to comfort him, for the beautiful woman who the angels had stolen away from him all too soon. Driven blindly by grief and anger tearing apart what little left he possessed of a comprehensible soul, Morzan had soared the skies recklessly on a mission that was futile suicide from the very first hinting notion of it. Some whispered that it was set about by Galbatorix to dispose of a tool that was no longer worthy of service, too broken to be employable any longer. Others were firm in the conviction that Morzan himself had known clearly what a blatantly hopeless cause he was sent in pursuit of, and that it had been nothing short of an honour veneer to disguise the weakness of a suicide. To Murtagh the exact cause had been of little importance. Losing both of his parents within a mere space of three short weeks had left him alone and very much lost and confused in a world that moved too fast for him to comprehend. It was then that Galbatorix had so slyly victoriously produced a hand to a game Murtagh was already destined to be a part of whether it was to be the victor or the loser of.

It was then that things had started to change.

Galbatorix was not a man of simple games, and neither was he stupid. It was with saccharine altruistic nature that he had willingly accepted Morzan's somewhat dubiously expressed wishes for his son to be left in the care of the king should his own demise come before Murtagh was of suitable age to be left in his own care of affairs. It was almost sickening how very deliberately generous he had been in presenting to his newly acquired young protégée the palace room and further estate that had once belonged to his father and was in turn to pass to him. He had paid every sum of money demanded of an education, paid for Murtagh to be taught in regime of physical and mental agility. Murtagh always had been an unusually perceptive child and had with seemingly little effort begun to learn, only serving to further feed the underlying motives behind Galbatorix' actions.

It was really when his sixteenth birthday had arrived that the hideous premise of just why the king had invested so much into his future had been made shockingly painfully obvious. Murtagh was, in every sense of the words, formed to be his father's heir, moulded by Galbatorix' doctrines into being another powerful tool for the king's use as rebel attacks became frighteningly more frequent. Year by year passed by, and with each audience came further ensnaring words of power and honour spoken so silkily and temptingly that Murtagh would long since have given in to it all, had it not been that Selena's blood still flowed in his veins…

The soft sound of unnaturally silky light footsteps dragged him from his reminiscences into painfully alert awareness, adrenaline suddenly flooding his veins, screaming warning to stay alert. Cautiously, he listened, trying to deduce what was happening. Somebody else was in the room. His breathing started to quicken, as he stared blankly ahead of him, listening, not daring to turn around. Footsteps, shuffle shuffle shuffle, so very teasingly velvety, almost too gentle to be audible, like water lapping at the calmest shore, licking at it so very torturously slowly, corroding every sense of sanity. So gentle, coming closer but in such an unhurried way, deliberating, testing him.

Then an audible crack, like a whip, and with a swelling of thick, foul smelling smoke, and slender boot-clad feet materialized in front of him. A sharp laughing sound was heard in the air, echoing in acute shattering melody around the room, spinning giddily off the walls in a hellish nightmare of tune.

"Durza." He looked up tetchily. The pounding in his head was making him infuriatingly irritable with its persistence. "I would have thought you might have tired of playing your dramatic tricks by now."

The man in front of him blinked with wide dilated crimson eyes, an almost feral smile coming over his face, lips coming back to reveal deviously sharpened dagger-like teeth. In the darkened cell, the lucid ivory white of his skin appeared to glimmer unnaturally, to emit sickly pale light. Slowly, with an inane grin resting on his pale face, the shade brought elongated talons, the same striking red as his eyes, up to his mouth and rested with one lightly touching his vicious teeth, pensive glee in his expression. Murtagh sat back against the wall wearily.

Shades possessed such little degree of power in the status hierarchy that their only existences lay in working for dubious causes. Durza himself, the king's most prized and accomplished tool, though a master of dramatic chicanery and a magician of darkest intent, was barely above the lowest of the kitchen slaves. Their magic was neither particularly strong nor useful; better designed for trickery than for any actual purpose. They were weak, shadowed beings, crippled in soul and poor of mind. Intelligent they were without a shard of doubt, but it was intelligence that found little place in society. What made shades so very prominent was their ability to charm and deceive so very naturally, and of course, perhaps why Galbatorix was so fond of employing them; shades were, above all, exploiters of fear. The fear they worked to create might as well have been the blood in their veins, such was its necessity and importance to the life of such a being.

It was questionable whether it was through action, word, or mere appearance that they so effortlessly stuck fear into their adversaries, but the method was of little importance. The resulting terror was always desperate and panicked, spreading out through groups of civilians within moments as hysteria rose and fear reined. It was not only terror that they were efficient in; control came of ease to such beings as Durza, the power to strike such fear into the hearts of others that domination became an almost hideously childishly simple game to play. Effective in their employment, to the king shades had developed not only into something of a novelty but as useful tools to his control on the empire also.

It was something of an advantage, therefore, that Murtagh was well accustomed to Durza's presence and artifices. Hovering like a dog waiting expectantly for some small scrap from a master's plate, Durza would stand at Galbatorix side often, proud and utterly willing to serve - indeed, it had been remarked by more than a few in whispered undertones that the ivory skinned man with flaming crimson hair and his devilish teeth was, for all of his luciferian appearance, nothing more than Galbatorix' favoured pet. It was not uncommon for him to catch a glimpse of the shade slipping into the darkness of the shadow of a pillar, only to disappear abruptly from sight with a faint smell of sulphur and a shuddering quiver through the air. The smile, for all its malice, no longer sent a shivering anticipation tingling at his spine, nor did his show magic do anything to disturb Murtagh.

"Galbatorix wishes to apologise for his delay in your audience with him." Durza hissed, a jubilant expression still residing hauntingly on his face. There was something oddly disturbing about the proud, happy smile that seemed to permanently reside chillingly upon his stark, bone-white face. A nightmarish clown with blood red hair and blood red eyes, Murtagh had grown used to the mannerisms and tricks that would usually send people scuttling away in fright, but Durza's appearance was one thing he knew he could never come to totally feel prepared for.

"It's a miracle he still keeps you, aren't you starting to lose your use with age?" Murtagh asked dryly. "I would have thought he would have disposed of you by now. Your tricks are old, Durza."

"My master thinks not." A crease of a glare came into his otherwise perfectly flawless face, a glower that was directed venomously at Murtagh. "He finds use in me. I am his most prized servant." he stood a little straighter, expressing vivacious pride.

"Prized perhaps. I would think lap dog more appropriate a title than servant. It's almost charming how far you are willing to go for affection." Murtagh closed his eyes, trying to ignore the growing ache at his temples and the screamed warnings of anticipation in his head. By Galbatorix orders, Durza could cause no harm of any severity to Morzan's son, but the king himself held no such reservations with his own treatment. He began to fidget, uncharacteristically nervous. Murtagh never had been so afraid of men after his father was buried, until he had been acquainted with the man who his father served under. Now the fear was as undeniable as a physical pain. Each minute spent in feeble insult of Durza was another moment edging painfully closer to the familiar notion of being brought before the king.

He opened his eyes, blinking furiously, trying to keep his mind alert, and looked up to Durza. It might have been bleakly humorous had it not been for his forthcoming predicament, that the shade was seething with anger that brightened his crimson eyes to an entirety of different hatred. As it was all he could do was to become more uncomfortably aware of the trickle of sweat down his neck.

There was a clatter at the doorway as two burly guards appeared, each eying Durza with cautious reservation. The shade hissed at them maliciously, sending their expressions from mere curiosity to shocked horror. Turning back to a somewhat less affected Murtagh, he glared viciously.

"My master requests for you to be dressed in suitable manner." baring pointed teeth in animal hate of Murtagh, with a vivid move of his arm he had thrown from air a better tailored attire than Murtagh could ever recall wanting or having to wear. He frowned to himself as Durza went about muttering profanity under his breath, all attempt at restraining dignity being severely tried. Formality was something that was to be expected of meeting with the king, but never before had such measures been forced upon him. Durza's red eyes gleamed with contained abhorrence as he watched from the dark corner of the room whilst Murtagh investigated the clothes uncertainly. "He asks that you be accompanied to the high quarters and prepared for his audience."

Murtagh clenched his hands privately and forced himself to remain under strict, disciplined calm as he was led from the room into altogether more respectable quarters, well furnished with expensive luxurious tapestries lining the walls. As he began making himself more presentable for what was to come, Murtagh couldn't help but feel a shiver of horrible anticipation run down his spine. Bravery was utterly worthless in the face of the king; to show it was as futile as it would have been to try and behave in an amiable fashion in the hope of befriending the man who had an entire empire coming to fear him.

Staring at his reflection in a mirror, Murtagh clenched his hands and told himself severly to keep control. To keep up an illusion of bravery and courage that not even the strongest of men would have been able to uphold in such a situation; and he was far from being such a person. It was all a game, a game where cheating was the only way to win, where pretence was the only thing that could allow you to survive.

As he was lead out to the king's private hall, he couldn't help but wish that one person was there to tell him that there was no need to feel such worries, to tell him softly that all would be fine. But wishing was all that it ever sumounted to. The truth was horrifically clear.

He was very much alone.

Galbatorix stood patiently, watching as a man with deep brown cautious eyes was brought before him. As their eyes met, the younger turned away nervously, and then looked back with the same determination that his father had possessed such a long time ago. The king could not help but feel a small smile of amusement form on his face. The boy was growing up to be more and more like Morzan with every day that passed. He was almost a mirror of how his father had looked now; with the same slightly unkempt long dark hair and the same fear yet audacious bold willpower in those eyes that could almost have been one and the same person as the man with the crimson dragon who had for so long been his most devoted and most faithful of servants.

Wordlessly, he indicated to the chair at the centre of the room, and the man slunk down into it, discomfort and a nervous anticipation flickering over his face. He started to fidget, hands tangling and untangling from one another incessantly in pained anxiety. Glancing to the two guards standing on either side of his protégé, Galbatorix dismissed them with a mere flick of his hand.

For a long moment the king watched with sadistic interest as his company rocked himself slightly backwards and forwards nervously, pressed as tightly into the safety of the chair as he could manage, his hands tightly clasped together on his lap in a futile little grasp at some security, glancing around uncomfortably to avoid looking at him. The obvious inheritance of the thing that sat away from him in the turmoil of it's own thoughts was beautiful, but somehow watching this nervous waiting provided entertainment in its most twisted form.

The sound of the door closing loudly brought his young companion from his thoughts, sitting up nervously. Galbatorix smiled darkly as their eyes met. The younger man, surprisingly, managed to hold his stare with the aged practice of one long accustomed to such meetings, but he could not hide the flicker of anxiety that continually passed in and out of his eyes. Silence reined for long tedious moments before he finally straightened up, and with a smile, addressed his company.

"Hello Murtagh…"

**Quite long by my standards, although I don't feel it's one of my best chapters by a long shot. I'm a bit annoyed at how it turned out actually... -.-**

**Please R nR. It really is hugely appreciated and I'm interested to know what people thought of this chapter. Perhaps it was a bit of a gamble, I don't know. Only your reviews can let me know if this is a chapter I need to rewrite or not! Please do take the time to let me know. **


	14. The Vice

**I'm sorry this took so long, it took such a long time for me to sort this story out in my mind. I've written and rewritten this particular chapter over and over to get it how I wanted it. My apologies for the HUGE delay! I really struggled with this. -.- But good music and anti-block exercises helped. (Also a key factor was mass consumption of those funny little sultana cakes that someone hopefully left ontop of the freezer… don't even ask how many I managed to consume during writing this chapter, it's shameful.)**

**But anyway, now it's here, so I hope you enjoy it, and that you take a moment to review, it's lovely to get them, really it is. It's how I try to improve,**

**After feedback from Anonymous Lovely, I've decided that my writing style has to change. I was shocked when I read this whole thing back over and realised just how bogged down in pointless prose my work has become. I'm going to try and "simplify" things somewhat - get rid of the pointless drone of the dreaded purple prose (eek!) This is, obviously, going to be a learning process, so any help would be very much appreciated! I think I'm going to do it slowly and gradually, for two reasons - one, because I know it's going to take me time to adjust, and two so that the fic "flows" with itself better, so that the earlier chapters fit properly. Let me know what you think, as I really do need feedback on this. **

**Over the past 9 months (such a long time, I know!!) or so that this story has been going, I've had some wonderful readers and reviewers, so I'd like to thank you all for that, and for my half-century of reviews that just passed! Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.**

**One or two crude words in this, if it offends you I apologise. You have been warned. ;)**

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**Chapter 13 : The Vice

For a moment, nothing was said. Silence held its eery reign. Blue eyes stared maliciously with gleefully bleak humour into softer brown eyes, almost daring them to make any challenge, threatening them into submission. Hands clenched expectantly. Murtagh sat stiffly in the high-backed chair, fidgeting, tapping his fingers up and down the length of the wooden arm with a tense excitement that was unfortunately recognisable as a cautious, nervous fear. He stared at the king in front of him, into the elven perfection of deep blue eyes that despite beauty held such dark insanity. For a moment, the king and his protégée remained staring at one another, a moment so tense that Murtagh began to wonder if his heart might have stopped, and time paused; the relentless spinning of its hourglass ceased momentarily for it.

It was the stronger of the two that finally breached the barricades of consuming quiet, shattering the illusion of peace.

"Happy birthday." Galbatorix derided pensively, with a smile that widened to become a feral smug grin, one which echoed through his whole face into his eyes, just as the sound of his voice resounded around the room. Murtagh made a muttered sound of acknowledgment, and their eyes moved from one another, a gesture of disgust from the king as much as nervous anxiety from his prisoner. The words drifted, echoing, like feathers to the floor, before coming to rest in chaotic quiet.

Murtagh sat tense and attentive, a prisoner to the king's unsettling love of fear, watching Galbatorix prowl the room restlessly, a time-worn animal walking broodingly from wall to wall. There were no words, merely the rhythm of footsteps and heartbeats, anger and fear entwined into one desperate song. Finally, the king's footsteps stopped at some point outside of Murtagh's peripheral vision. A sharp cold shiver ran down his back, and Murtagh shifted his position nervously, straining to hear something that might betray his senior's position. Galbatorix paused, for a moment seeming to simply enjoying the nervous silence that power brought as its advocate.

"I suppose you think you are terribly clever, Murtagh." Galbatorix murmured, a small hint of resentful bitterness in his voice, something that was so out of place that it would have seemed a disguise, had it not been for the genuine emotion that lingered behind it. "Your father thought the same thing when he ran off with that precious little whore of his."

For a moment silence returned, the constant uninvited guest that slithered from the shadows to wrap around the meeting and constrict it into forced quiet. Wordlessly, the younger man stared at his hands, musing and playing with the words in his mind, trying to deduce quite what was being asked of him, if a question had even been posed at all. Galbatorix let out a long breath, almost a sigh, and waited. Murtagh frowned softly, still not managing to deduce the meaning behind such an ambiguous statement.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean."

Galbatorix let out a tired dry laugh, an impatient laugh that held no humour, a laugh that echoed emptily around the room. "Come come Murtagh, I believe you are twenty-three now. No longer a child. You should be old enough to know to co-operate." Galbatorix was behind his chair now, hands resting on Murtagh's shoulders, his voice a silky serpentine whisper. "Certainly you seem to think yourself old enough to take a lover…"

Murtagh cautiously opened his mouth to speak, but his words were cut short with a sharp yelp as Galbatorix hand struck across his face viciously. With barely a whisper from the older man, chains flicked and snaked around the younger, binding him down into the chair. His eyes flickering down to try and comprehend the notion that he was very much bound to the chair, Murtagh swallowed thickly. Galbatorix always had been a man for hideous theatrics. He shivered as willowy fingers tightened on his shoulder, into a claw-like vice that twisted the scar tissue that streaked through it.

"Would you like to play this game differently Murtagh?" The king asked softly, vehemence in his voice destroying any hint of an amiable tone. "Imagine your mother and father, if you will… Morzan loved that little whore so very much. I believe he loved her just as much as he loved you…" Murtagh shivered as, with an almost inaudible whisper of a laugh, Galbatorix traced the beginning of the line that mapped eternally the feelings that Morzan seemed to have possessed for his son.

"What are you asking of me?" Murtagh tightened his hands on the arms of the chair, trying to press away the tickling sensation of fear at the base of his neck. Galbatorix merely made a small sound of amusement, touching his fingers to his prisoner's neck as if he had read Murtagh's thoughts, stroking up and down tauntingly. "Stop playing with me!" He yelled finally, grown impatient with sitting in fearful quiet.

"Murtagh, Murtagh. Let us not make this an unpleasant experience for either of us shall we?"

Galbatorix muttered a single word into the dark. Murtagh let out an involuntary gasp that he had not intended to let out, his eyes widening. Pain like fire streaked white hot up from his stomach and into his chest, a wrenching burning assault of burning sharp knives cutting him apart from inside. Instinctively his body screamed, unable to contain the shock of it. Instinctively his mind begged to double up, a primitive convulsing impulsive need to hug his body tightly to ease the sting, but the chains around him kept him firmly upright in the wooden chair. It would almost have been ironic, Murtagh thought vaguely through trying to force his body into a ball despite the chains, that such a small word could do so very much. Vainly, he tugged at the metal restraining him, short sharp gasps of pain punctuating his breathing. The worst thought was not the pain, but rather the knowledge that this was merely a beginning to it.

"Come come Murtagh, please don't be a spoilsport, I've barely begun." Galbatorix let out a short whisper of a laugh. "You used to be so loyal, so obedient. What has become of you? This really needn't have been so complicated you know…" Galbatorix stroked a single icy finger down the side of his face tauntingly. Murtagh shuddered and fixed his eyes emptily on the wall ahead of him, still fighting to curl his body up as the king's voice grew louder.

"Shall I make things very clear to you, Murtagh?" Galbatorix voice had risen now, something angrier, less silky and enticing and more a fear-mongering army that assaulted Murtagh's senses and rationales and told him to run, run, _run_! "Shall I tell you just what it is on my mind?" Murtagh focused his eyes firmly on the wall ahead of him. The word that slipped from Galbatorix lips in disdain was the very last thing he could have envisioned such a meeting to be based upon, and simultaneously it all made hideous sense.

"Love."

The word sent images flooding into his mind, a dizzy bleary rush of guilty, wrongful emotion that was conveyed in the most primitive way. Not pictures or words or symbols but memory of feeling, of warmth, of happiness, of content even in something repulsive and shameful All were wrenched away from his thoughts as Galbatorix idly tightened his vice of pain. The fire screeched up from inside of his body, snarling and howling as it flooded his senses, biting and sharpening, threatening to bite deeper if he protested. Murtagh gritted his teeth tightly, panting, staring at the face of a man who began once again to pace the room, seemingly oblivious to pain, to torture, with no emotion to even begin to tell him that this infliction was wrong.

"A pitiful waste of time. Love is the stealer of senses, the enemy of every warrior no matter which side he fights for, the plague that kills and bites, and burns. Love is foolish and pointless. Love is weak. And yet so many ignorant fools blindly sacrifice honour for it. Your father included. It would be a terrible shame for me to have to count you among that number, Murtagh."

He let out an acute sound, a mixture of pain and fear as everything suddenly grew sickeningly clear. What this pain was for, what this is _all _was for. For one little moment, for one person, for a foolish infatuation. For the disgust of loving another man. For the sin, the crime, the treachery of feeling such things for his trainer. The pain was still clawing at his chest from inside, but for a moment it seemed less important.

"Did you spend this morning together? Was it _beautiful_, Murtagh? Did you show your lover that striking little piece that your father gave you?" Galbatorix purred, a satisfied look passing through his face at Murtagh's all too obvious anxiety. Murtagh gritted his teeth and tried to forget about the feeling of the older man's words seeping into his mind slowly, tried to forget about the pain mounting in his chest, tried to stay focussed on the end of this confrontation.

"What is her name, Murtagh?" There was a sneer marring the otherwise perfect beauty to the king's face. "Who is she?"

"She?" He gave a small start, and then gasped as the feral pressure growling up inside of his chest increased. Galbatorix eyed him tiredly. There was no anger in his eyes, more simple bored irritation; as though Murtagh were merely a fly that continued to bother his concentration. His fingers flicked almost lazily.

Everything happened at once. The chains constricted around his body. There was a sudden flare of intolerable pain that exploded from the base of his spine through his whole body. He screamed. Murtagh closed his eyes, pressing his head back into the chair, his thoughts reeling sickeningly, breathing coming in pained, ragged gasps, only praying that his body could withstand this as long as it needed to.

"No need to unnecessarily complicate things, Murtagh. Cooperation would fully be to your advantage."

"I don't know what you're asking!" Murtagh yelled frantically, distracted by the combination of chains tightly restricting him and the pain burning away in his chest. Galbatorix let out a long breath between his teeth, as though frustrated with the way Murtagh was acting.

"You lover, Murtagh? Would you care to recall her name to me? You do remember, I hope - it would be terribly sad if the extent of emotions between you ran so strongly that you could not even bring yourself to commit her name to memory…"

"Why are you doing this to me?" Murtagh whined, a sorry pathetic sound that even as it escaped him made him embarrassed. It was almost begging, the lowest thing he could ever imagine turning himself to. Even at the worst moments of inevitable failure or defeat, Murtagh secretly held enough pride in his blood to not agree to the idea of begging and pleading. It was simply something he disagreed with lowering himself to. Beggars on the streets, those penniless and homeless with no dignity left of them; they were the ones to beg and plead and ask. Not himself. It disgusted him that he was weakening to the point where he was desperate enough to be acting in such a way.

The expression that came across Galbatorix face was one of tired irritation with the situation, as though he were utterly bored of the slowness Murtagh was seemingly displaying in not doing what was being asked of him. His voice was sharp, knife-like, and yet so very soft and silky. An odd, intoxicating combination. Serpentine.

"There is a price to pay for your disloyalty, Murtagh. There is a price to pay for these foolish emotions…"

* * *

Galbatorix simply watched in sadistic amusement as his prisoner struggled against pain that was not within his power to fight, watched as his eyes flickered dully open and closed, watched him try to form words that merely disappeared as fractured whispers, watched him grit his teeth and finally stare back at him, breathing heavily. Murtagh, like Morzan before him, possessed an indefectible determination that might easily have been mistaken for pure foolish audacity. As Galbatorix blue eyes scrutinised Murtagh's own, a smile came into them at the recognition of the expression. Morzan had looked almost the same when he was trying to fight pain. Confused, tired, angry, lost. So very, very helpless, but desperate to fight bitterly nevertheless.

If it hadn't been for the lacklustre quality of his mother's blood, one might even have said that Murtagh was of good breeding, a pedigree of sorts. Born with rider blood in his veins and determination in his heart. Such things were, Galbatorix mused absently, a rarity. It was a pity that he had managed to inherit the lust and eye for beauty as well. It spoilt the effect rather; which was a shame, for Galbatorix was, for the most part, pleased with the way Morzan's son had grown.

He bent down to see at Murtagh's eye level, and spoke, his voice slow and patronising, like a parent talking to a particularly slow and disobedient child. "This can be simple, Murtagh, or it can be very, _very _hard. Do you understand me?" His captive remained wordless, each exhalation of air coming with a small whimper, his body struggling against the chains to curl up, to rock himself into oblivion, to do anything to stop this torment.

Sharply, the back of Galbatorix' hand impacted across his face with an abrupt crack. There was a yelp of startled surprise and pain, a stifled mutter of profanity. The waning candlelight caught upon the trickle of blood that started to flow from Murtagh's nose.

"Now now, Murtagh. Be a good boy and perhaps I'll play nicely. Answer when you're spoken to. I ask again. Do you understand?"

"Yes." Murtagh responded quietly, lowering his eyes in defeat.

"Who is she, Murtagh? Which woman is it? One of the servant girls? Your chambermaid? Perhaps even committing adultery with one of my men's wives?" Galbatorix allowed himself to muse upon this last one. The idea of Murtagh playing games with one of the women of his court was, to speak the very least of it, an amusing concept. It was not the small matter of the fact that most of them had seen enough winters to deem them old enough to have mothered Murtagh, nor the trifling idea that there were so few of them at court of late anyway; more the idea of the possible fight which would inevitably have occurred when the adultery was discovered. Why, it would almost be like old times again, watching the forsworn sparring, giving one or the other an advantage as he saw fit.

He glanced to a sullen, silent Murtagh. Although Galbatorix did entirely enjoy this prolonging of torment, the whole affair was already beginning to bore him somewhat. Murtagh did not scream quite as much as would have been polite of him to do so, nor did he particularly give any decently scandalous stories for him to punish or taunt him over. No, Galbatorix mused, with a faint trace of a sulky child. The whole thing was rather unfair indeed.

"Are you intending on revealing anything to me soon, Murtagh, or would it be quicker for me to find what I want myself?" He asked dryly. Murtagh looked up at him in tired disgust and evident weariness of being toyed with as Galbatorix uncooperative plaything. Sighing, Galbatorix took this as an invitation to commit mental violation, and set about finding out about Murtagh's romantic life of his own accord, sordidly hoping that there would at least be some ounce of something desperately dirty to it to make this all worth the while.

He mused lightly as he broke into Murtagh's mind as ungracefully as he could find himself able to do that Morzan had used to hate this almost as much as his son did. Their screams were almost echoes of one another. Sadly Selena's blood had diluted things somewhat; Morzan had used to plead most satisfactorily for it to stop, whereas Murtagh simply screamed. A pity, but one he could overlook…

* * *

Murtagh sat panting, rocking himself backwards and forwards in the chair gently as the pain began to ebb away, whining softly with every breath of air that he managed to force into his battered lungs. His body _ached_. His mind was throbbing from the violation of having been forced to be examined, to be scrutinised and searched, laid bare. Memories that he did not want to have to remember insisted on making themselves prominent at such times. He was shivering, but his body felt unnaturally warm, sweating with the horrific exertion of trying desperately to keep a hold on his own mind. Some things he had come to learn to protect so well that even Galbatorix would struggle to find them, through sheer force of practice. His mind was his sanctuary when there was nowhere else to run and hide; he was not going to surrender it without putting up a vicious fight.

The chains, the torturous magic, the splintering feeling of having his thoughts laid bare had ended, but the horrific memory remained, a shadow of pain. Galbatorix was frowning with an expression that might almost have been disappointment, musing over whatever he had found of interest in Murtagh's thoughts. The last image that he had devoured hungrily had been of a time that seemed so long ago now. Watching Annette smile at the flattery of his trainer. _Tornac_. Murtagh broke into mental apologies to his trainer for allowing such a thing to have been discovered. He wondered at the lack of utter repulse on the king's face, at why there was such a tired boredom instead of a gleeful accusation. Murtagh looked away and continued to try and force his body to stop _hurting_.

"A kitchen girl?" Galbatorix asked slowly, as though the mere idea bemused him. "Hardly daring, Murtagh…"

For a moment, Murtagh simply stared blankly, struggling to comprehend. When things finally began to make feasible sense, he was unsure of what reaction presented itself to his mind. A combination somewhere between a twinge of guilt at hiding the truth, joy that his lust for his trainer had seemingly remained undiscovered, and amusement at the idea that he had managed to better the king. If it were not for the fact that his chest was aching desperately he might almost have found it within him to utterly enjoy this moment.

"What should I do with you, Murtagh? Shall I punish you for such an inappropriate affair with one of the servants?" Murtagh stared back tiredly. The tiredness in Galbatorix eyes gave him a glimmer of hope that perhaps the king too was too weary of this situation to want to punish him any further. Silence returned, but less as a malicious force as a weary defeat. The king exhaled slowly.

"There is a war coming, Murtagh. It's on the horizon. Oh it's too early for you to feel it yet, but it is coming. Things are moving. Greater forces than you can imagine are clashing and rising and in the middle of it, I am stuck with somewhat of a dilemma… you. What should I do with this ridiculous son of a rider?" There was an almost vaguely feral look of disgust and resent starting to mar the noble elven beauty of his otherwise terrifyingly crafted features. "Shall I perhaps test whether he is as naturally talented at flying as his father was?"

Murtagh's eyes widened in surprise. Galbatorix was watching him wearily in almost childlike fiendish amusement as his protégée was sent up into the air with barely a whispered word of the ancient language. Murtagh was simply a toy to him, and seemingly one with which he was finding a gleefully pleasant amusement in. The yelp of stark, animal terror that filled the room betrayed the idea that Murtagh was enjoying things rather less than the older man was. Galbatorix murmured another fluent string of language and watched with a mildly approving look as Murtagh ceased moving through the air and simply hung there, a dark scarecrow frozen in fall. The king eyed his younger, helpless companion with something of a scientific interest, before continuing.

"I see you don't quite possess Morzan's talent in that field… A pity."

There was a terrified bemusement over the forced calm of Murtagh's face. He was suspended almost his own height above the cold, cruel expanse of stone floor, and was all too aware that a man who didn't hold any particularly notable affection for him held the power to drop him down to meet this screaming gleam of grey as easily as he might lift a finger. It could not have been described by any means as one of the more cruel methods Galbatorix employed for extracting what information he desired to hear, and nor was it one of the more painful - nevertheless, his body was already tired of torture, and the image of slamming into that sea of harsh merciless stone was enough to turn his mind to desperation.

"It seems we are forced to make promises, Murtagh. I do hope that that is not beyond your capabilities?" Murtagh shook his head slowly. "Good. Good." Galbatorix repeated slowly. "You are going to promise that you will not let the love of a woman stand between yourself and honour. You are going to promise never to have intimate relations with a woman. You are going to promise that you will never give your love to a woman. Is that clear?"

Murtagh was silent whilst his mind frantically calculated. The wording would, it seemed, permit him to still give love to a man. Even if it was wrong, his plight was desperate. And yet, the idea of never loving a woman destroyed the promises he had given to his mother. He was torn. To obey Galbatorix was necessary, but it meant disobeying the one person he wanted to stay true to even in her death. She had loved Morzan through everything, through pain and fear and threat of death, yet he was too weak to be able to do so. He would rather live his pathetic life than give it for what she desired. The idea of betraying her meant more than the physical pain. This promise was going against his love for her as much as if he had destroyed the place where she lay asleep under the earth.

She had held him in what he could not have known were to be the last moments they shared. He thought now that, perhaps if he had known, he would have said something more worth saying, would have let her know just how much her love had meant, but he had been to young, too naïve to even contemplate such an idea. They had laid next to each other, side by side. Selena had smelt vaguely of lavender, which he recalled finding comforting, and told him stories of what he should be when he was old enough to take a love of his own. He remembered how she had taken off the ring that she had always worn, placed it in his hand, and closed his fingers tightly around it. How she had explained what it was for, how he had promised to give it to his lover when he found her. How she had kissed him. How the warmth of her body next to him had left, and he had fallen asleep, not knowing that when he woke again he would not ever know the feeling of having her beside him again. He had promised. He had given her his word that the ring was to be given to his wife, to the woman he loved. And Galbatorix was asking him to break that promise, to tear apart something that had been his only wish to fulfill for her. The dream of marriage had never seemed likely to come to reality, but making it certain in such a promise was too much to take.

"Quickly if you will, Murtagh." Galbatorix muttered tiredly, and he fell. It was too abrupt to give him any time to scream or be afraid, only aware of the ground rushing towards him. He jerked awkwardly a mere arm's length from the stone floor, and remained there. "You do remember how to do it? If not I am sure I can help you remember…" the sheer malice itself was enough to hurry his decision. The three words were so disgusting when they came from his mouth that he tried to imagine that they were not his own, just to hide from the shame of them.

"I will promise."

"Good boy Murtagh. That wasn't so hard now, was it?" Murtagh was numb as Galbatorix instructed him through the intricacies of exactly which words it was necessary to say, and it was with shame that he heard them repeated on his own lips, words that sealed his future from ever taking a wife. One promise severed his life from any possibility of the love his mother wanted. She had always taught of a life where there should be love despite all else. Where love could heal things that time could not. Where he was expected to marry, to take a lover and to spend his life with that same lover. It destroyed everything she had taught him, and because it was her, it cut deeper than he could possibly have imagined. He focused steadfastly on the image of Selena's beautiful eyes as he swore to the king, in his mind asking for her forgiveness, eyes closed, not daring to see the look of smug satisfaction on his captor's face.

And then it was done.

He was barely able to comprehend being led back to his quarters, the sound of the door closing, being left alone. Only the way that he collapsed back onto the bed, curled up around himself and lay in silence. Slowly, he took the small ring from his hand and placed it on the bed beside him. Selena had intended it as an engagement ring, as a sign of love that he would never again be allowed to feel. He looked at it for a long time, an image of a broken promise and a broken heart. It seemed to taunt him, to scream _look what you've done. _

"Forgive me." Murtagh sighed, as he slipped it underneath the pillow next to him, out of sight. He turned over emptily, trying to ease away a growing aching feeling inside of him. The physical pain would heal. The mental idea of having betrayed Selena was something he could never find it in him to forgive himself for.

Murtagh turned over and fell into uneasy sleep.

* * *

**I finally did it!! I finished the dreaded chapter 13! ((unlucky for some… certainly for Murtagh, methinks.))**

**Please leave a review. This was weirdly hard to write - odd, since I'm usually a sadistic lover of torture scenes, that I somehow couldn't throw myself into this one with the appropriate zeal. -.- I'm kind of pleased with how this one turned out, but perhaps that's because I've been so desperate just to get it done with - only you can tell me if I'm right or not! **

**Comments on styling are particularly desired, no matter how nitpicky. (though a nice review is always an absolute thrill to receive and can really make my day, a constructive one is always appreciated too!)**


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