Inheritance Cycle 1. Chapter 1

**Hi guys! Well . . . this is not my first story, but this is my first Eragon story that i've attempted. So far, i've only read the first two books, and this is my attempt at the third, staring my favourite characters rather than the ever present Eragon even though he's the main character. For some reason, I just can't stand him, so i'll be keeping his appearance to a bare minimum.**

**So . . . hope you guys like this! Oh wait, disclaimer . . .**

**These characters belong to the creative geniuses known as JRR Tolkien and George Lucas. They do not belong to me. sobs**

Prologue

It was quiet and cloudy; the only light radiating from a small part of the moon peering from behind the clouds. The city was deserted; most sensible people would be snoring in their beds by now. The sky was almost as deserted, save for a small figure in the air.

At that moment, the clouds shifted slightly, so that at least half the moon could now be seen. This new light fell on the figure in the air. Luckily, no one was paying attention; otherwise they would have noticed two figures, one atop the other, flying in a southern direction. The first figure was revealed to be as big as a barge, with a long neck, a rudder-like tail, and four stout legs. Huge wings sprouted from where the neck met body. It was far too dark to tell what colour the creature was. It was obviously a dragon, and a rather large one at that.

As the dragon flew, its wings blocked out a figure perched on its back. This figure was much smaller in comparison to the dragon. He was tall and thin, and rather tanned. His dark hair was barely long enough to be pulled back and tied with a ribbon. His fringe was quite long, just barely covering his eyelashes. He was certainly quite good-looking, if anyone could actually see past his cloak, which kept half his face in shadow. This young man kept glancing back from time to time to check that they were not being pursued. When he saw that they were safe, he would turn back with a sigh of relief, only to glance behind him after another few minutes. The dragon gave a low growl and swung its head back to glare at him, and he subsided, squirming slightly under its gaze. He knew that his dragon was easily irritable, and knew not to aggravate its temper. He gave a low sigh and held his cloak tighter around him to block out the cold.

Every few seconds, he would glance down to check that his load was safe. It had been hard work, sneaking down to the palace dungeons, making sure that nobody had noticed him, using magic to knock the guards unconscious if they did so despite his precautions, sneak the keys from one of the guards, open a dungeon door, unchain the prisoner, and get him the hell out of there, all done as quietly as possible.

Once again, he glanced down at the prisoner, making sure that he was safe. To hold him in place, he had the prisoner's legs strapped down to the saddle and held him upright with one hand clamped down his middle. At the same time, he was holding himself in place because if his dragon had to do a sharp dive, he would be the first person to fall to his death.

For perhaps the hundredth time throughout the whole journey, he wondered why he was doing this in the first place. It would be so easy to turn back at the moment, bring the prisoner back to his dungeon, and pretend that nothing had happened. It would save him so much trouble. He shuddered involuntarily as he remembered the last time he had gotten into Galbatorix's bad books. He had been locked in a dungeon and tortured almost non-stop for weeks on end. The same thing would happen to him again if Galbatorix found out about his role in this prisoner's escape. Torture was inevitable. It would be so easy, to give the word to his dragon to turn back, and he'd be safe once again. Sure, the prisoner would probably die from the torture, but at least he himself would be safe. He trembled slightly, itching to say the word . . .

Only to clench his fists in anger, leaving the word unsaid. He simply couldn't turn back. Not now, since he was already so near his goal. Also, he could not stand the thought of being forced to torture said prisoner, especially since the prisoner had stubbornly refused to say utter a single coherent word. Galbatorix had told him, in no uncertain terms, to oversee the whole thing as he had far more important things to do than watch him scream. And, he had better not screw up this mission like he did to the last; otherwise . . . Galbatorix had purposely left this unsaid. He had not needed to say anything more. The meaning was clear enough.

If there was one thing he could not do, it was to purposely torment another living being. He could kill on command, slew leaders in seconds with a word of a flick of his wrist, but he could not, would not inflict pain on others with the sole purpose of torment. He would much rather be tortured himself than do such a thing to another person. Even for one such as him, who had little or no moral consciousness left, this was too much. This was the one thing which stopped him from turning back, and it was far stronger than his fears.

At that moment, he saw lights. As they flew nearer, they saw that the lights were from campfires and shining watchtowers scattered around a huge city. He leaned forward and told his dragon to land out of sight from both campfires and watch towers. They landed behind a huge boulder, and the rider quietly jumped down. He undid the straps around the prisoner's ankles and set him lying against the boulder, placing another cloak around him to keep out the cold. Then, from the saddle bags, he drew out a green shape, a very tiny version of his dragon and set it on the ground, where it lay unmoving. He fashioned a leash from a strip of leather he had the foresight to bring along, and tied it around the neck of the small creature, before tying it around the wrist of the comatose prisoner. Finally, he picked up the creature and whispered some words over it, before setting it down. Then, he and his dragon went to hide behind the boulder.

It happened right on time. The small creature raised its tiny little head and squeaked as loudly as if could. Sure enough, a few seconds later, they head a steady tramp resounding on the ground. Quickly, he got onto the dragon and the dragon hunched up, then launched itself into the sky, veering in the direction of Uru'baen. The rider allowed himself a grim smile. Now, he had to get back to the city and prepare for what was to happen next.

A few seconds later, a group of people appeared. At the head ran a woman, followed by two other men. A breeze flew by, blowing their hair from their faces, revealing sharp, pointed ears. The woman glanced around sharply, then rushed towards the prisoner. She pulled back his hood and gasped, before lifting him and hugging him to her bosom. It was all her fault. She shouldn't have let him go, and now look at the state of him. She bent her head, desperately trying not to cry.

At that moment, one of the men bent down and placed a hand gently on the woman's shoulder, then reached for the prisoner's wrist and felt his pulse. He concentrated for a few seconds, and everybody present held their breath, hardly daring to hope. Then, he sighed in relief. The woman's shoulders slumped slightly and she held the prisoner still closer. "We should take him to Angela," she said finally, voice slightly quavering with the emotions that she was desperately trying to hold back. "She would know what to do."

The two men moved forward and each supported the prisoner's weight as they made their way to the well-known herbalist.

**So what do you guys think? Good? Bad? In-between? Please review! Thanks so much!!!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hi guys! A new chapter! Yay! Hope you guys like this one!**

**About the disclaimer thing, i wrote it this way because let's face it, Eragon is Star Wars in Lord Of The Rings. And probably many more as well. I'm just trying to give credit to where credit is due, that kind of thing. That being said, i also have issues with the characters, way it is written and so on, but i won't let this get in the way of my creative juices. You know, when you read something and an idea comes up, and you just HAVE to write it down.**

**Well, hope you like this chapter! Please read and reply, okay? Thanks!**

Chapter 1

There had been a storm the night before. It had been a terrible one, with lightning flashing and thunder rumbling every few seconds, while rain as large as hailstones spattered the stone battlements of the city. Trees lashed about in a tremendous frenzy, while the wind howled as loudly as a pack of wolves. All in all, it was a terrible night, and not many people were able to sleep.

The aftermath of the storm was a sudden calm. The sky was surprisingly clear; the sun high in the sky, bathing the city below with its warm glow. The sky was bright blue in colour, and many felt that it would be a calm and peaceful day. However, for some people, there was no such comfort in the weather. In particular, the maidservants and the mistress of Morzan's castle.

Her name was Selena, and she was quite young, barely out of her teens. She was lying weakly in bed, struggling against the covers, despite the gasp of three nursemaids desperately trying to hold her down, one of whom was barely older than herself. Every few seconds, she would shudder, uttering a piercing scream, which rang throughout the castle. One of the handmaidens dipped a cloth into a pail of cold water and mopped Selena's brow with it. Selena gave another shudder, and screamed again.

One of the other handmaidens bent down to look under the covers. "I can see the head, Madam," she gasped, her voice shaking with excitement. "What a beautiful little child! Keep pushing, it's coming out!" Selena closed her eyes and pushed again, her piercing scream giving vent once more. It won't be long now; Selena told herself. She glanced out of her window. Her labour had started while it was still dawn, now the sun was halfway across the sky. How much longer would it take, she asked herself. This was the last time; never would she do this again.

Desperate to end it all, she gave one last push, and something hurled into the arms of the third handmaiden. Quickly, she cut the umbilical cord and rushed away. Selena sighed and leaned back against her pillows, relaxing. The remaining handmaidens cooed over her, gently laying her down on the pillows and wiping her face once more with the damp cloth. She barely had the strength to move. It was all over. Never again would she do this.

At that moment, they heard a high pitched, wailing cry. Selena pushed herself upright and stared unblinkingly at the door, her body stiff with anxiety. A second later, the handmaiden appeared, eyes brimming, the smile on her face reaching all the way to her eyes. Selena visibly sank back against her bed and reached for the child, her own smile forming. "How," she began, unable to finish the sentence, since her voice was trembling so much.

A boy, ma'am," replied the handmaiden. "And perfectly healthy. What would you like to call him?"

Selena did not answer at first. Then, she reached out and pulled the child to her bosom, her own smile growing wider as the child snuggled against her, tiny fists grasping her nightgown. She looked down at the child. He looked so much like his father, the same shade of brown hair, the same tanned skin. Only his eyes were different. Her own eyes were light brown, and the child had inherited those, instead of his father's dark brown irises. She knew that, the moment she laid her eyes on him, that he was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her entire life and all the pain that she had endured conceiving him was all worth it.

Her eyes never left his face as she answered, "Perhaps I should discuss this with Morzan."

"Madam," her handmaiden answered rather gently, "I believe that he wants you to choose a name."

Selena looked up at the tone of her voice, and nodded. She knew well enough that Morzan's words had been far harsher and she knew that her handmaiden had purposely said it this way to lessen the blow. "Very well, then," she sighed. "She closed her eyes and thought. For a while, about a hundred names ran through her mind, but she discarded then all. She wanted a name that would mean something to her, and all those around her. Suddenly, she knew what she wanted to name her boy. "Murtagh," she declared.

"Very well," her handmaidens chorused. "May I ask why, madam," the youngest asked. The other two gave her horrified looks and immediately shushed her.

Selena smiled. She knew that the women were scared of the exact same thing she was scared off. "It's alright," she said to the three of them. "I will tell you why. In the small village I came from, we have stories about a warrior, one of the greatest heroes of Carvahall. I named him after the warrior because I want him to prevail against all odds, no matter how impossible they seem, and he will be the hope of all the people who come in contact with him."

At that moment, the door was flung open and a man strode in. He had short, dark hair, and he seemed to have a permanent scowl on his face. Selena stiffened involuntarily, and glanced warily up at his face to gauge his mood. To her surprise, his eyes were bloodshot and his legs trembled slightly, as if he had been standing for hours on end. He stared at Selena, who quickly dropped her gaze down to her son. Morzan followed her gaze, and subconsciously took a step forward. He quickly snapped back to control and turned to the handmaidens. "Leave us," he commanded in a low, controlled voice.

In a flash, the handmaidens disappeared from the room, one of them having the foresight, as well as a reckless bravery, to remember to close the door.

Morzan strode to the bed and gazed down at Selena. There was an awkward silence between them. At that moment, baby Murtagh squirmed, grabbing his mother's nightgown in his tiny fists. He blinked up at Morzan, who, as if in a trance, reached out to stroke a soft cheek. She glanced up at him and was pleasantly surprised to see that there was a tender, slight smile on his face. When was the last time she had seen that expression on Morzan's face? Ah yes, it was when he was courting her in her father's hut back at Carvahall. Ever since she had left with him, she had never seen that expression on his face ever again. Until now.

Abruptly, Morzan retracted his hand and spun around, clenching his fists. The child was far too sweet; he would make sure that he did not fall under his - its spell again. "I have decided what to do with it." He said this as coldly as possible, but he knew . . . it was to hide what was he truly felt.

Selena's eyes widened in shock. "But . . ." she stammered.

Morzan gave her one of his fierce glares and she subsided, eyes staring down at her bedspread, not even daring to look at the child she now carried. "The child will remain here, in this castle, where none but the king is to know of its existence. I will provide for it."

"And what about me," she asked.

"I believe that the king has need of you," he replied, not looking into her eyes. "You will go back to the palace once you have recovered."

"But why must I go back?" she cried. Morzan glared at her again but this time, she paid no heed. "He is my son, and I must take care of him! Even if you do not love him, I still do! At least let me raise him for a while!"

"Quiet, woman," Morzan roared, and Selena subsided again. She had to be stopped, otherwise she would go into once of her hysterical outbursts again, and none may convince her to even listen to them. "You know of my position with the other forsworn! You know that at the slightest provocation, they are more than willing to thrust a sword through my heart! They will not stop at anything, and they will certainly use my weaknesses against me." His voice softened, and he looked young, and helpless. Selena was stunned; she had never seen him look so helpless before. "I cannot afford to give them any footholds."

In spite of herself, Selena found herself sympathising with him. He looked so helpless and said, how could she not feel sorry for him? And yet . . . why couldn't she take care of the child? Nobody needed to know she was here. Morzan looked at her, and said quietly. "You would be safe with Galbatorix. None would dare to harm you, since you are under his protection."

"I understand," she said finally. "But please, at least grant me this one boon. At least let me visit the child from time to time. Even if I cannot raise him, at least let me visit him."

"Yes," Morzan agreed. "It is the least I can do," he murmured to himself.

Selena bowed her head. "I thank you." She said quietly. Morzan nodded, seemed on the verge of saying something but instead, turned and walked out of the room, leaving what he wanted to say unsaid.

Selena, tears streaming down her face, looked down at the child. She knew, deep in her heard, that she had to do this, that there was no other way. Ever since she had followed Morzan back from her comfortable, warm family, she had bowed to do his bidding. She had no other choice, she reflected bitterly. Morzan's towering rages were enough to make her do his bidding; because she had no idea what he would do to her if he was angry enough. True, he had never attempted to hit her, but who knew what would drive him do so? And yet . . . it was as if something was beneath him, hidden, the person she had fallen in love with in the first place. Had he always been like this, or had circumstances . . . changed him? She never even considered leaving him. She loved him too much, and she knew that despite himself, he too, loved her, though he did not dare to show it. He never told her so to her face, but it was the little, thoughtful gestures he showed from time to time that told her that she was loved.

She had no idea what had changed him so. All she could do now was to bow her head and obey him, like what she had always been doing ever since she made the fateful decision to follow him.

At that moment, Murtagh whimpered, and she bent her attention to fussing over him. Even if she couldn't mother to him for long, the least she could do now was to smother him with love until she had to leave him. At least he would know that she would still love him, even if she couldn't be with him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hi guys! Yay, a new chapter! Sorry this took such a long time to do, since i was so busy with homework. Oh well, at least this is done, so i hope you guys enjoy this! For all those who left reviews for my last few chapters, thanks so much! It really made my day receiving them, and i really would look foward to more, with both the good and bad points in this chapter, and previous ones as well! Once again, thanks!**

**Well . . . on with the story! Hope you guys like this!**

Chapter 2

The young elf curled up in the corner, gazing up at the one ray of light that penetrated into his cell. It came from a high window, bared with bamboo shoots. He gazed at the ray of light, finally turning away when his eyes started to hurt. He shivered slightly, wondering if it would be too kind of them to give him a blanket. He should have been used to it by now, but still . . . he shivered again, curling up into a ball on his side, staring at the dust on the ground. He had stopped crying since last year.

Why was he here in the first place? He couldn't even remember what he had done to deserve this. In fact, he couldn't even remember anything apart from the cell he was in. It was quite tiny, about 10 paces wide, both length and breath. It was completely plain, except for one wooden pole at the centre of the room, and two grass sacks. One of which was folded up so that he could rest his head, and the other, he would use to cover himself if it got too cold. Of course he was sure of this, he had paced back and forth so many times ever since he learnt how to walk, in order to be actually doing something. The bigger he grew, the more the paces would decrease. The walls were made of wood, the floor of dust and dirt.

He couldn't stomach living like this for the rest of his life.

He couldn't remember much. He couldn't remember what he had done these past few years. It was as if everything was a blank, replaced by four wooden walls and a dirt floor. He knew nothing, having been here ever since . . . ever since when? He had done nothing these past years other than stare at the walls, eat and sleep. It was a meaningless existence.

Everything he knew was contained in this room. He must have been locked in this room ever since birth, because he knew nothing of the outside world. He had never seen living creatures other than elves, he had never seen the sun before, and he had never seen trees or grass, or anything to do with nature. He certainly couldn't recollect being outside the room before.

However, a few years ago, struck by the sudden need to see the outside world, he had crouched in the corner, waiting. The moment the door opened, and his guards came in, he jumped to his feet and raced for the door. However, he wasn't quick enough – the guards, who were more experienced than him, grabbed him by his ankles and flung him to the floor. He had done his utmost best to struggle, he was so near to freedom, and he wanted so badly to be free for once, not stuck in this tiny room. However, he was too weak, and the guards in a few quick seconds, had managed to overpower him, holding his wrists and ankles so he could barely move. A sudden backhand left him so stunned that the fight left his body, and he went limp. He his head away from the door and instead, focused on the dirt floor. He did not want to think anymore, he could still feel the breeze from the outside world, but he tried to ignore it, for the sake of sanity.

The guards did not speak to him. This was not unusual; he could not even recall whether they had spoken to him before. He did not speak either, waiting quietly for them to punish him. One of the guards stood up and left the room, returning with something in his hands, a long, thin twine.

The elf stared, his eyes wide. He began to struggle again, trying as hard as he could to squirm away from his guards. His guards kept striking him, but even that did not stop him from his struggles. However, once again, the guards had proved too strong for him, before he knew it; they had wound the twine around his ankles, binding them together tightly. They flung him to the ground before leaving, taking the food with them.

At first, the elf did not notice. Instead, he was bent over, hands covering his face, thin frame shaking. His body ached all over, from both beatings and struggles, he could barely even think. Finally though, his sobs subsided, and he looked up to take stock of damage. The door was locked again, and they had taken away the food. He was fed once a day, and today, he would have no food. His stomach rumbled, but he pretended not to notice. Instead, he turned away from the sunlight and faced the wall, curling up once again, staring at the walls.

Ever since then, he had not though of escape. True, he had tried to bite through the twine, but it was fruitless, and he had been beaten when the guards discovered the bite marks. He had then tried to struggle out of the bindings, but he only succeeded in scrapping his ankles raw. Finally, he stopped trying. He stopped thinking of ways to untie himself, of ways to trick the guards. It was totally hopeless. He would be here for the rest of his life and he might as well get used to it now.

The only people who ever came to his cell were his guards. They barely made a sound. It was as if they skimmed over grass and water. They would not say anything to him. In fact, they would rather keep their distance, making sure that they were at least three meters from him. They would stand there, silent and unmoving, while he would creep to the food. He moved as unconstructively as he could, slowly inching towards them, before picking up the food with both hands. Normally, it would be vegetable stew, with a thin slice of bread to go with it. He would kneel there in front of them, pick up the bowl of stew, and sip it. It would be rather cold by that time, the vegetables slightly off, and the bread stale, but still, he ate greedily, since he knew that he would not receive anything else for that day. Once in a while, he would glance up at them to see that they did not move. If they did move, he would stiffen and bow his head, simply waiting for what came next. Luckily for him, this time round, he managed to finish eating without getting a single smack.

Sometimes, he was not so lucky. Once in a while, if the guards made a sudden move, he would be caught unawares, and would emit a sudden squeak. Those times, one of the guards would give him a hard smack across the face, twisting his head to the side and causing sudden tears to come to his eyes. Most of the time, he would spill his soup on his clothes, and he would get another slap for his pains.

He tried not to make a noise now, even resorting to sipping his food so as to make as little noise as possible. Finally, he would finish, placing the bowl of soup as near as possible to them without moving. They would pick up the bowl and leave abruptly, closing and locking the door behind them. The boy would crawl back to his corner and eat half the bread, then hide the other half under a pillow. It didn't matter that the bread was stale; at least it was something to keep the hunger pains away, just in case the guards decided not to feed him for that day.

Once in a while, his thoughts would turn to his mother. He could barely even remember her face, everything was a hazy blur. He could remember that she had jet black hair, and that she had a string of something shinny across her neck, and hanging from her ears. She was always clean and shiny. However, that was all he could remember of her. He could not remember what her voice sounded like, or her skin colour. He could not remember ever being touched by her. All he knew was that he had been placed in this room, and he had never seen her again.

Sometimes, he would hear the laughter of elfin children. When he was younger, he would wish with all his heart that he would be able to join them, that by some miracle, the guards would suddenly let him out. Of course, he never approached the guards about this. He was always silent around them, because he knew that if he made a single noise, no matter how tiny, he would regret it. It was as if those voices were mocking him, telling of what it was like outside and how he would never enjoy it. He could crouch on the floor, covering his ears to block out the sound, but to no avail.

Now though, he was used to it. He could listen to the outside sounds without even a though or longing. If ever he heard them, he just treated them as that, just noise that had held no meaning to him.

Once a month, Willow, the Elvin healer, would come to visit him. At first, he wondered whether it was because she was forced to, or because she wanted to come on her own accord. Willow seemed much older than his mother, almost ageless, in fact. Normally, when she came, it would be to check for any signs of illness, since elves of his status were rather prone to illnesses. In a way, these illnesses actually proved that he was different, that he deserved to be here. He would fall sick once every few months, and Willow came to ensure that those illnesses were not serious, and could be treated.

He used to look forward to her visits, because every time she came, she would bring something delicious with her. Sometimes, it would be fresh fruits, other times, biscuits, or bread. They were freshly made, and they tasted delicious. He would stuff himself on them, because these were the only times he ever ate something that actually tasted nice. He would eat until he was full – though for some reason there were always leftovers.

Willow would also talk to him. If it weren't for Willow, he would have lost his voice a long time ago. Willow would always answer his questions, no matter how many times they were asked before. Whenever he listened to her descriptions, he would always be able to imagine what it would be like outside. Then, she would have to leave, and his world would be dark, plain, and cold again.

However, there were some things that she never talked about, one of which was his mother. Every time he tried to ask her about his mother, what she was like and so on, she would always keep quiet, and if he still persisted, she would finally say that she would tell him when he grew older. So far, she hadn't, and finally, he gave up asking.

Every time she had to leave, she would place her hands on his shoulders, and bend to kiss his forehead. He would cling to her as hard as he could, until the guards stepped forward. Then, he would back away and crouch in his corner, eyes to the floor. Willow would then place a hand on his head, and then quietly leave. These actions were something he kept close to his heart, far more than the conversations or food. Every time he felt like crying, he would recall these actions, and feel much better, because at least, someone actually cared enough to touch him. The guards were not counted, their touches always brought pain, but Willow's brought only comfort and a certain amount of sadness as well.

Recently, however, the visits changed. Willow had not changed at all; she would still bring him snacks. True, he would still stuff himself on them, but whenever she tried to talk to him, he would remain silent, staring down at the floor. She still continued to mother him, but the only response she ever got was a slight shudder and a scurry backwards. He figured that since nobody cared for him, as the guards seemed to insinuate, she might as well stop showing up as well. And thus, he never responded.

Nevertheless, she still came.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi! My latest chapter! Well . . . sorry this took such a long time, was once again busy with schoolwork! Arg, A-levels is so stressful! Oh well, at least i was able to get this up, right?**

**Please review, i'm an author who trives on reviews, and it literally breaks my heart to pour all my heart and soul into this story, only to see that i get only like, one review every chapter. Please review, it would certainly encourage me to write more, and to let me know that at least people are reading my story . . .**

**For all those who reviewed my story, thanks for doing so! I'm always really encouraged to receive reviews, so thanks so much! Please continue to review, okay? Thanks in advance!**

**Oh well, on with the story! Preeee-zenting . . . Chapter 3 of Parallels! Hope you guys enjoy this!**

Chapter 3

Murtagh stared out of his window. He was crouched on his window ledge, hands grasping the iron railings that stretched from one end of the window to the other. The servants had put them there the moment they found out he was big enough to climb onto the ledge.

He was not big enough to climb onto the ledge on his own, he had to pull a stool to the ledge and climb onto it before he could climb onto the ledge. It was very tiring, but still, the boy insisted on doing so. From the window ledge, he could look out onto the city below. He had never been in the city before, but he knew almost every nook and cranny because he spent countless hours staring down onto the pavements below. He could recognise the people as well. He knew where they went to work, where they lived, how many family members they had. Most of all, he would watch the children about his age. Most of the time, they would be playing with little glass balls and wooden tops which spun if one set them off with a string. If anyone gave him one of those to play with, he would have been able to play with them without having to be taught how to.

However, what he enjoyed most of all was to pretend to be one of the people on the streets. He would be a nineteen year-old blacksmith's apprentice, working at sharpening swords and knifes and armour, breaking only for lunch and tea, before running out to play with the children. He would go around running errands for his master, and would be rewarded with a coin, which he would use to buy treats from the market a few streets away. Or he could be a butcher's apprentice, a horse dealer's apprentice, and so on. There was so much he wanted to experience, and if he could not do it in real life, he might as well imagine that he could. He was always big and strong, none dared attack him. Nineteen was a good age to be, nobody would attack him at 19.

Then, at the end of the day, he would run home to his family, who lived in a two-story bungalow. He would share with them the treats he had bought, and they would talk and laugh throughout the night, before going to sleep contentedly, and with sweet dreams.

He spent long hours on his daydream, because at least he could hide within it, not caring what went on around him. His real life, however, couldn't have been more different.

The streets outside were crowded with people. It was so different within the castle. Inside the castle, one could hear the winds howling, bashing against the battlements. On days especially bad, he would hide within the covers of his bed; eyes screwed shut, hands over his ears, until he finally fell asleep. Sometimes, when he was in this state, he would imagine that someone would come to comfort him, to hug him and tell him that everything was okay, but so far, no one came.

He spoke to no one, and no one spoke to him. If it was time for meals, a servant would bring up something hot straight from the kitchen, set it on a table, wait for a while, then stalk off. Sometimes, when the servant left, he would open the door, not daring to make a single noise, and stare outside. His room was almost at the top of the castle, and he could see the corridors and doors which led into rooms which were always locked. He would stare outside until his food was cold, and he would not even hear a sound, much less, see anybody.

Now though, he was smarter. His food was always cold by the time he returned to eat, so he stopped watching for people and ate the moment the servant appeared to place his food onto his table. The person who bought his food was always the same person, a thin woman in an apron and an expressionless face. Whenever he woke up, she would be there with a plate of oatmeal porridge and a glass of milk, and as he ate, he would watch as she bustled around the room, smothering the bed sheets, fluffing up his pillows and covering the sheets with a snug blanket. Once in a while, she would catch him staring at her, but she never smiled, never even blinked. If she noticed him, she gave no sign of it, and sometimes, he wondered whether she even knew he was there in the first place. He realised why she waited for him to start eating in the first place, she would use that time to neaten his room. No wonder she got so impatient when he used to not eat!

Yet, he knew that this woman couldn't be the only person living in the castle, aside from his father. The corridors were always dust free, the furniture polished, windows cleaned, and he knew that this couldn't have been done by one person. With a castle this size, there had to be more people. Once in a while, he would hear footsteps outside his door, and he would quietly sneak it open, but the corridor was always empty. There may not have been much people around, but there were certainly more than just his father and him living in the castle.

Murtagh preferred to stay in his room; he hardly went out at all. Yet, he found no comfort in his room. It was very plain, with four stone walls and a plain wooden door with a bronze doorknob. Inside, the stone floor felt cold and rough against his feet. He used to get sores from walking around his room, but now, his feet were hardened, and they neither bled nor hurt anymore. He spent most of his time at his window ledge, or sleeping in his bed, because they were the only way he could escape from this dreary existence.

There was a bed in the centre of the room. It was small, with wooden bedposts. They were unpolished, and had a musty smell to it. He hated the mattress, it felt as if he was sleeping on a wooden floor, and it felt rough against his back. His pillow felt hard, as if bits and pieces had been stuffed inside. Surprisingly, the sheets were white, and smelt of starch. Once a week, they would be taken, and would be replaced with new ones. He loved the smell of the starched sheets, when the servants left, he would bury his nose into his pillow to breathe in the scent.

Besides his bed, there was little else of interest. He had a cupboard and chest of drawers on the left of the bed; he stored his clothes in the cupboard. The chest of drawers was painfully empty, with an occasional spider playing in the dust. It smelt musty and wet, and he hated to open it. There was also a wooden table and chair in one corner, they were unpolished, and he would sometimes get splinters when he forgot himself and touched the table with an unprotected hand.

There was nothing else in the room. At first, the boy had felt bored. In fact, the main reason why he learnt how to walk on his own was because he wanted to be doing something. Nobody ever spoke to him, nobody ever gave him anything to read or play with. That was why he spent all his time at the window ledge; at least it was something to keep him occupied. However, he had his mother.

Sometimes, his mother would come to visit. He would be watching at the window ledge, when suddenly, he would hear the clattering of hooves and the spinning of a wheel on stone, and a carriage drawn by a white horse would drive through the gates. The horse's name was Dewdrop, his mother had told him that a year ago, and had been given to her as a dowry from her father. She loved to talk about her parents, siblings, cousins, friends, everything about her village, and he never tired of hearing about them.

The moment Dewdrop appeared at the gates, the boy would jump down from the window ledge, rush out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the open air. Then, he would fling himself into his mother's arms just as she got down from the carriage and hug her, until, laughingly; she told him that she wouldn't be able to breathe if he kept this up.

Then, he would bring her up to his room, and she would sit on the bed, and he would jump into her arms and just lie there contentedly, watching her.

However, whenever his mama looked around the room, her smile would fade and tears would come to her eyes, and she would kiss the boy on his forehead. Then, she would gently remove his shirt and check to see that that the old bruises were gone. However, though the last ones seemed to be recovering, he always ended up with newer ones, and this made the tears stream down her face. He cried too, sometimes, burying his face in her bosom, he always hated to see her sad, and he hated the fact that it was he himself that caused her to be in such a state, all because he was a weakling who couldn't defend himself.

However, she would calm herself down, then reach into her dress and place a wooden toy into his hands. She always brought one of those on every trip, and she always smiled every time she saw him beam when he received those gifts. He would jump up, rush to the floor, lift up his curtain and place the gift with the others he had received over the years. He knew that his father would not discover them there, because only the servants ever lifted the curtains, and, surprisingly, when he went there to check after the servants and dusted the curtains, the gifts would still be there. They would always be in a mess when he put them there, they would be neat when he went to check after the servants dusted the curtains.

His mother was beautiful, with wavy brown hair and a smooth, white complexion. She literally radiated light whenever she smiled. Yet, she barely smiled, preferring instead to hug him to her bosom as if she was afraid that he would disappear. He enjoyed those times he spent with her, and he always wished that she could stay with him.

Yet, after a while, she would have to leave. It would be his father who would come to fetch her. He always shuddered in fear whenever he made an appearance, but he knew that escaping would only make his father angrier with him, so he stayed where he was. His father did not need to say anything; his mother would automatically stand up, kiss him on the forehead, and leave without saying anything. What he did notice was that whenever she looked his father, she would always stiffen, and stay as still as possible, until his father spoke to her sharply, and she would jump to do his bidding.

Yet, his mother, whenever she came to the castle, she never left his side. From the time she stepped from her carriage to the time his father came to fetch her, she was always with him. He was happy with that of course; he wanted to spend as much time as possible with her because he had no idea when she would come again.

His father, on the other hand, was the one figure he feared the most. Besides the servants, the only other person who lived in the palace was his father. Murtagh always made sure to avoid him as much as possible, because something terrible always happened every time he came into contact with him, and he always had the bruises to show for it.

**Hope you guys liked this!**

**Well . . . you know the drill . . . review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hi! Yay, my latest chapter! Sorry this took such a long time to upload, i was really busy this past week. Oh well, at least I managed to get this up, for your viewing pleasure!**

**Guys, thanks for all your reviews! It really made my day receiving them, I always look forward to getting them because it means that people out there, like you guys, are reading my stories! Please review for this chapter, okay? Constructive criticism very much welcomed!**

**Well . . . here's chapter 4! Hope you enjoy this!**

Chapter 4

Murtagh always knew when his father came home, he would be staring out of his window when suddenly, he would hear the swoop of wings, and a red dragon would drop out of the sky and into the courtyard. The dragon always caught his full attention, with it's red scales gleaming, the fire in it's eyes, the sharp spines running from it's head all the way to it's tail, the way it swung it's huge head from side to side, flapping it's wings and creating huge gusts of wind and glaring at anything that moved. He would scramble off the ledge as fast has he could, yet, he could not force himself to look away, he would find himself crouched on the ground, hiding behind the ledge, staring at the dragon. It was the most beautiful, yet terrible thing he had ever seen in his entire life.

Then, the spell would be broken, for the man sitting on the dragon's back would jump down, place a hand gently on the head, before backing away, while the dragon crouched, then launched itself into the sky, it's wings catching the thermals as it soared upwards. The man would stand there unmoving for a few minutes, watching the dragon as it soared away, before spinning around and storming into the castle, slamming the door shut.

Whenever his father came home, the boy would leave the room and loiter at the main doors of the castle, waiting for his father to appear. The doors would be flung open, and he would storm in, yelling something to make the doors slam shut again. Murtagh had gotten most of his looks from his father, so he knew that his father looked like him, but what a huge difference it was now!

His father always came home in the same mood. His face would be as black as thunder, smouldering fires in his dark brown eyes, fists clenched, one hand clutching his sword, as if any small thing would make him draw it. When he saw Murtagh, he would shout at him to get out of the way, even pushing him against the wall so he could stalk through. Murtagh always came to greet his father because he hoped that he would be there when his father would finally be in a better mood, and perhaps, he would even get a kind word, a tender look in his direction, but so far, it never happened.

His father was perpetually in a bad mood. Whenever he disappeared, Murtagh would always hear yelling, and the sounds of things being flung around, sometimes glass breaking. The funny thing was, most of those happened either in the kitchen or in Morzan's bedroom, so Murtagh always knew to avoid those places.

It was experience combined with fast nerves that Murtagh knew how to avoid trouble. He learnt how to stay away from his father when his father was in one of his moods. However, it was always the voice, the loud curses, which sent him running. It was the prelude to worse things.

However, sometimes, bumping into his father was unavoidable. One had to heed the call of nature no matter what, and even the fear of his father would not stop him. Sometimes, he was lucky. Other times, though, he would not be so lucky, because he would end up bumping into his father, and that was when the bruises which so vexed his mother appeared.

Sometimes, though, when he got bored with staring out of the window, he would take out his collection of wooden figurines and place them on his bed. He had no idea how to play with them, he did not even know what their purpose was. He would just sit there and stare at them, wondering what to do with them, before finally arranging them around his bed to form the likeness of the city outside his window. After that, he kept them behind his curtain again.

His schedule never varied, and as much as he hated his daily routine, he learnt how to live with it. He never told anyone how he felt, instead, he kept it bottled up inside him. Sometimes, he felt as if the bottle was about to pop open, and he desperately tried to control it, finally managing to succeed after a brief struggle. However, young as he was, he knew that one day, that bottle would burst, and as much as he wanted it to happen, he also feared the results, and fear would always win, and he would continue to struggle to keep the bottle closed.

Sure enough, one day, something did happen, something so terrible that neither Murtagh nor Morzan could have foreseen the consequences of the event.

It had started out as the usual routine. Murtagh had quietly eaten his meals up in his room, and the moment the red dragon appeared, Murtagh rushed down to the hall, waiting for his father to appear.

Sure enough, Morzan appeared, but what a difference! As he strode into the room, the fires smouldering in his bloodshot eyes seemed to burn much brighter. His face was red in colour, and he would hiccup every few seconds. His fists were clenched so tight that they drew blood from the palms of his hands. Yet, his walk was so . . . strange, for want of a better word. It was as if he had just learnt how to walk, he was stumbling all over the place. His rage, which turned into bafflement whenever he fell flat on his face, made Murtagh, despite his fear, cover his mouth to giggle.

His laughter died in his throat, however, when his father swung to face him. He looked even more fearsome than ever, if that was possible, and Murtagh knew that he had been heard. Morzan stumbled towards him, and Murtagh began backing away, stopping only when he felt the wall against his back. He glanced around, he was backed into a corner, there was no way to escape, and worse of all, his father was heading straight for him.

The boy trembled. "I didn't mean any harm," he tried to speak, to at least defend himself, but it only came out in a whimper that his father probably never heard, he never responded to it. Then, he smelt something . . . weird. Then suddenly, he recognised it for what it was. It was the smell his father always carried, every time he came out of his kitchen after a screaming fit, every time he was beaten by him. The smell that inspired both hate and revulsion within him.

He whimpered as Morzan grabbed his collar and flung him away from the corner, and onto the floor in the middle of the hall. As he landed, he felt his wrist snap, and then a sharp pain shot up from that area. The boy stared in shock at his wrist – it was bent at a forty five degree angle to the right, and it was starting to swell.

He stared at his wrist and was so engrossed in trying to hold back his whimpers that when he smelt his father's breath again, he shrieked and started to his feet.

"Go. Now." Morzan hissed at him.

Murtagh tried to move, he really did, but to no avail, it was as if his whole body was frozen into place.

"Leave," his father yelled at him. "Leave, you stupid weakling!"

Still, the boy was frozen, staring up at his father with wide eyes.

It was then that Morzan completely lost it. The stupid child, . . . could he not understand speech? He was no longer thinking, it was as if something exploded from his very heart. He let out a curse, a curse so loud that it seemed to echo from one end of the castle to another, gripped his sword with an iron grip, pulled it out of it's sheath, and flung it at the boy.

It was as if everything was in slow motion. The sword flew into the air, twisting over head and tail, before finally burying it's full length into the boy's back.

It was the worst pain Murtagh had ever experienced in his entire life, far worse than even his father's beatings. The boy gave a gasp and fell to his knees, before letting out an agonised scream. It sent shivers down everybody's spines.

It seemed to even break through Morzan's drunken haze. He stared at the child, now lying facedown on the floor. Blood spurted out the wound, covering the sword, the boy, the floor, spreading towards him . . . his face a mask of horror, he backed out of the hallway, out of the door, before turning, running out into the courtyard, out of the gate, disappearing out of sight.

The sword was still sticking out of the child's back. The servants inched closer, staring at the mass of blood on the floor, the reek of it filling the air around them, until they finally choked and held their aprons over their faces. They just stared at the child, trembling at the though of touching it, getting the blood all over themselves, knowing full well that if they did not, the child would die right there and there. Yet, they made no move.

Finally, one of the servants disappeared into a room, coming back with a towel. Her face a blank mask, she pulled out the sword and laid it on the floor. She then wrapped the child securely in the towel. Her features never even changed, not even when the blood soaked through the towel.

By then, the boy was unconscious, his face as pale as sheet. Even his lips had lost their colour. The servant turned to face the rest. "I will take him to the neighbourhood healer," she said, without a wit of emotion in her voice, she turned and hurried as fast as she could, out of the castle and into the streets.

The other servants watched her go. She was the one who came into contact with the child the most; no doubt it was duty, and nothing else.

Yet, none of them looked back to see that she was running as fast as she could, even though she seemed to be gasping as she ran.

**So what are you guys waiting for? Review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hi guys! Hm . . . finally managed to get this one up despite my buzy schedule! Ah well . . . hope you guys like this! Please read and review, okay? Thanks so much for all your previous reviews! They really made my day!**

**Gak, when is the third book coming out? I really need to know what would happen to Murtagh! Would he be evil or good? Though i think he has more good than bad, all that could change. And please, don't let Murtagh die! He deserves to have a good life after what happened to him!**

**I really hope that he gets together with Nasuada . . . both of them would be happy at least . . . and at least they do not have much of an age difference. Oh well, will wait and see what happens in the next book. For now . . . to continue my fanfiction.**

**PS: for those of you who are in the Inheritance forums, support the UCRM! We need to respect Urgals! They have as much rights to Alagaesia as the rest of the races! (Okay, enough of my shameless self-promotion . . .)**

**For now, on with the story!**

Chapter 5

When Murtagh opened his eyes, he had to squeeze them shut again; the light in his eyes were too bright. No wonder, he was facing the window. He quickly turned his head in the opposite direction, his nose brushing against the pillow, and causing him to sneeze. It was then that he realised that he was lying on his front.

He had never slept on his front before in his entire life. Not even by tossing and turning did he do so. He was so afraid that if he did so one day, he would never wake up again. Yet . . . it had been so tempting to do so sometimes, but it was always the fear of truly ending it all that scared him. It would be so . . . final.

Immediately, the boy gasped and quickly turned on his back. Or rather, tried to. The moment he even moved a muscle, an almost indescribable pain blazed from his back, stretching to every core of his being. The boy desperately tried to keep silent by biting at his pillow, nearly grinding out his teeth in the process but even then, it was far too much for him to control, and he let out a scream. Suddenly, the memories of the day before came flooding back. Wait, was it really the day before? He had no idea.

He remembered when his father came home, he was in an even worse mood than he had ever seen him in his entire life, and when he tried to escape, his father had flung his sword, and it had cut deep into his back. He had been in blazing pain, far worse than what he had experienced before, before blacking out, only to wake up in his own room.

He still remembered that frenzied expression on Morzan's face as he flung his sword, his vision turned dark, and he knew that he would see that face in his dreams for quite some time. This was a monstrosity, how could a father do such a thing to his own son? He had seen fathers from his window, all of them, or at least, most of them, treated their children well. He had seen them come to great him when he appeared at the door, had seen the big smiles on the faces of all involved, had seen the fathers hug their children and their wives, before all walking into the house together.

Yet he knew that these things were different in his father's castle. As compared to the peasants ragged and tattered clothing, his own were colourful, and of soft, richer material. He would have done anything to change his circumstances. Even living in a tiny farmhouse with little food and clothes were preferable to . . . this. Good food, clothing, an abusive father, an absent mother . . . At least if he could have that other life, he would not have to live with this kind of fear.

It was a terrible feeling knowing that he was completely helpless, since he couldn't even move without screaming in pain. It was worse knowing that if his father was capable of doing this to his own son, what if he was capable of doing worse? What if one day, he returned home in a fiercer mood, and knowing that he was lying immobile, completely helpless, would he do something even more terrible to him?

At that moment, he heard the heavy thread of footsteps coming from the corridor. It stopped outside his room.

The boy gasped and yanked the blanket over his head. Or rather, tried to. The moment he even moved a muscle, the pain exploded again. Once again, he let out an agonised scream, and covering his face with his pillow, tried to muffle his screams of pain.

At that moment, the door was flung open and heavy footsteps sounded across the stone floor until finally, the blanket was pulled off. To the boy's surprise, it was not the feared visage of his father staring down at him. Rather, it was a woman. A woman, slightly taller than his mother (who was considered of slight built), and chestnut brown hair streaked with a few strands of grey, bound into a neat bun. Her clothes, if a little threadbare, consisted of an olive-green smock and a neatly starched beige apron tied over it.

Murtagh gazed up at her, and slowly, he began to relax. She was quite tanned and had beautiful blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across a button nose, and shapely rose lips. She had such an aura of sereneness about her that made Murtagh feel warm and tingly inside.

She smiled down at him and slowly, she pulled out a handkerchief and moved towards him. Murtagh tensed, eyes going wide, then relaxed again as she wiped the tears from his face. For a moment, none spoke. Finally, the woman said, "Well, at least you survived. Not many young children survive such an encounter. You certainly have this strength within you. However, I wonder . . . how came you in such a state?"

Murtagh shook his head. As nice as she was, he could not tell her that!

"It's alright," the woman said finally. "I won't ask you for answers you aren't ready to give. However, may I ask what your name is? I cannot keep calling you 'boy' all the time." She paused and gazed searchingly down at him. "You may call me Lidia. That was the name I was born with, though I have acquired many over the ages. So, what's yours?"

The boy stared at her. Well . . . he guessed that there would not be much harm in telling her his name. "Murtagh," he finally mumbled.

Lidia smiled. "I remember that name; it came from one of the greatest heroes to ever hail from Carvahall."

"My mama's from Carvahall!" Murtagh replied cheerfully, then stopped short. He remembered almost exactly everything that his mama had told him, but he did not want to reveal everything about himself. What if by this simple statement he had already said too much?

Lidia smiled again, but this time, her smile seemed to have a tinge of sadness within it. Finally, she said quietly, "Well . . . I guess it's time to change the dressing on your . . . wound."

The mention of having anything to do with his wound made Murtagh's eyes widen. He was about to yank the blanket up again when she let her hand rest lightly on his shoulder. "You have to be brave now, young Murtagh. I can provide painkillers for you, but there would still be a sharp pain. You were so brave already, it would be wonderful if you could continue to be."

"Wait," Murtagh suddenly stared up at her. "H-how long will I be in bed?"

"Well . . ." Lidia replied slowly, "About a year, at the most."

"What?" Murtagh would have shot out of bed if it weren't for Lidia's hand clamping down on his shoulder. "If you do that, you'll take an even longer time to recover," she reprimanded him.

"But . . ." Murtagh's mind whirled. He was as good as dead, then, He would be completely helpless in bed, at the full mercy of his father. One year was such a long time, what if something happened during that time? What if something bad happened to his father to put him in a bad mood . . . and now that he was completely helpless, he would not even be able to defend himself. The boy hid his face inside his pillow. He could not look up at her.

Lidia saw his shoulders shaking, and gently, she patted his head. "However," she tried to console him. "I could try to speed up your recovery."

Murtagh immediately shot back up. "How . . ." he began, but he could not finish his query because his back flared up again, and what else he wanted to say was lost in a scream of agony. Once again, he hid his face into his pillow, biting into it in a desperate attempt to muffle his screams. How long would he have to live with this . . .

Lidia once again patted his shoulder, waiting until his sobs subsided. "See that?" she scolded him. "You'll prolong your time in bed if you continue like this. You do want to recover faster, don't you?" Seeing his sheepish nod, she continued, her voice becoming more businesslike as she described the procedures. "For a start, I'll come every week to check your recovery progress. I'll also prescribe some herbs to apply on your wound so that it would heal faster and not get infected. Your servants have been taught how to dress your wound, and they'll do it every three hours, which would be reduced as your wound heals. In the meantime, I want you to stay very still, move as little as possible during that time, and perhaps, we can cut down your time in bed by one month. Can you do that?"

Murtagh bit his lip as he considered. It was not as if he had a choice anyway. At the end of the day, he would still be in bed. He would still be at the mercy of his father if he should choose to do . . . anything. He could not even hide without screaming in pain. However, if at least that one month would reduce his helplessness, it would increase his chance of survival.

There was a chance that he could ask her whether his time in bed could be shortened further, but she would start to ask questions he could not afford to answer. He could not predict what their reactions would be, and whatever it was, he did not want to see it.

Finally, he looked up at her and mumbled, "Okay," in such a small voice that made her look at him closely, but he averted his eyes and stared at his pillow.

Lidia sighed as she surveyed the small boy before her. He was only three, and yet, he behaved so much older. A small child like him should have been happily innocent . . . She wanted so much to hug him but then . . . he would probably push away and stare at her in fear. She hated to see such a small boy in such a state.

What actually happened to him to make him so old?

Yet, she could not help him if he chose not to tell her. Perhaps, he would tell her if she continued to be as kind as possible to him. For now, though, she could not help him. Most likely, since he was keeping so quiet, he probably did not want her help in this respect.

However, at least she could help him recover faster; he did want that, he had even said so. At least, that made her feel more needed. "Very well then," she told him. "Let's get started. I'll have to change your dressings and put herbs on your wound. It would hurt, but I would mix you a drink so that the pain would be less significant, though it would still hurt. Can you be brave?"

Murtagh nodded, determined. He had experienced pain before; he would probably be able to hold back his screams. He had been holding back pain quite a lot of times; he should certainly be used to it by now.

"Okay then," Lidia stood up, sounding both cheerful and businesslike. "I'll go and get the herbs and bandages. I'll be back soon." She bent down, and, hardly knowing what she was doing, she kissed him on the top of his head. The boy stared up at her, and was rewarded with a gentle smile.

And with that, she swept out of the room.


End file.
