#i like this idea of morzan being prickly and vindictive in the way a caged animal is

[alagaesia-headcanons]

the wolves' dinner

This is the drabble I mentioned in this post. ( @marimo331 @dayzcakes ask and ye shall receive~)

Summary: Selena spirits Murtagh away to Carvahall so that she and Brom can raise him and Eragon together in peace, hidden from the world. But Murtagh never forgets the truth of his father, possessed of memories that his parents adamantly steer him away from out of their own fear of the past. Yet it does nothing to avert the reconvergence fated for them all...

Word Count: 1,157

Warnings: None

Read below or on Ao3

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The field work is done and everyone else has returned to the house by the time Murtagh finishes up his final tasks in the barn. That’s partially by design, as he likes the quiet that arises when he lingers long enough. Selena sometimes chides that he comes in late for dinner, but she always saves him a portion anyway. Brom declares that if he stays out any longer, he’ll provide the wolves their own dinner, but with the good humor of man who’s ensured no such thing could befall him. His parents indulge and love him even as they raise their obligatory fuss. But Murtagh seeks the quiet to think about the things that have no place anywhere else.

Birka nickers at him and he pours a last bit of feed into her trough with a sigh. Judging by the shadows cast by the shaft of light spilling through the doors, he ought to leave soon to avoid another quip about the wolves tonight. Murtagh pats Birka fondly, promising, “I’ll go riding with you as soon as I get the chance.” Then he pulls the barn doors closed and diligently locks them.

In the last dying streaks of sunlight, as he turns to face his family’s secluded sliver of Palancar Valley, Murtagh sees the silhouette of a lone figure on horseback coming up the road. Instead of going directly up the hill to the house, he slowly wraps around the other way towards the road to get a better look, urged by a low, prevailing thrum of curiosity. The person rides into the shadow of a mountain peak, unveiling their colors and features. Atop a gleaming roan horse sits a broad shouldered man wearing a dark, fur lined cloak that looks as heavy as the well worn exhaustion suffusing him. He has black hair streaked with gray and a severe, lined countenance of eerie familiarity.

As his steed trots nearer, Murtagh sees one deep black eye and another of icy blue, and he knows he is looking into the face of his father.

Looking too blatantly for too long, it seems, for the man reins in his horse and throws Murtagh a sharp, skeptical stare with those mismatched eyes. Murtagh makes a token effort to ease his own scrutiny as the man glances at the distant house, then back to him. He scowls, then abruptly swings himself down from the saddle and faces him directly.

“Tell me your name.”

Those words flow like cold water down his spine, rousing him as if from a dream. Because, up until this moment, he could swear he’s had this very dream a thousand times. He cannot tell him the truth, wouldn’t dare, but he must say something. Any lie fleeing him, forgetting every name but his own, Murtagh shakes his head and impulsively answers with a sideways honesty, “I’m no one.”

The man tilts his head and takes a step closer. “Is that so? Because that sounds to me like the answer of a man who’s name could get him in trouble. Tell me.”

Murtagh doesn’t waver despite the alarmingly accurate assessment, pervaded by an incongruous calm. He suggests no guilt or fear. “That’s not what I meant. It wouldn’t mean something so serious because it doesn’t mean much at all. It’d be a waste of my breath and your time because I’m no one, really.”

The distrust in his eyes doesn’t vanish, but it shifts like the thought was shrugged off in favor of something else. “I don’t believe you. You don’t strike me as quite so insignificant.”

“It’s true. Not for lack of effort, but every time I’ve tried to figure out who I am, to make something of myself, the attempt was always disapproved of and cut off.”

The man grunts in acknowledgement. “A very stifled life that will lend you,” he allows.

Murtagh looks down the road in the direction he came, down that valley to the rest of the world, down south, in the direction of the Empire’s heart. “Is your life the same? Or have you tasted more freedom and learned what the world has to offer and made that your own? Do you know what it feels like... to truly come into your own?”

“No,” he declares promptly. “I’m no different. I have nothing to offer you- you’d better look elsewhere.” Murtagh wonders if his mother once felt similarly stifled and if, back then, his father believed differently about his ability to give her something more. “In my life, everything gained comes at a cost far higher than it was ever worth, and there’s no escape from all the loss. So it’s defining. My whole existence is stifled.”

Murtagh knows without a doubt why; his life exists directly beneath the thumb of the king. But he can’t acknowledge that, and it feels stingingly awkward to know the truth behind his bitter remarks far more intimately than he realizes. Instead, he does not confront it at all, gesturing behind the man and replying, “At least it lends you such a fine horse. It must make travelling a great deal more pleasant, because I can’t imagine a better companion than that. I’ve never seen a horse so beautiful. I bet it can race quicker than the wind- I’m jealous.”

Eyes narrowing, his lip curls back and his chin twitches up into a derisive angle, but the motion follows through until he’s turned aside, gaze torn away. He glares fiercely at the horizon, his flash of anger rapidly losing heat until exhaustion has quenched it, which then yields enough room for contemplation. “Well, I suppose you’re right. He’s an exceptional beast. And I appreciate the companionship of any creature that can carry me away, away, away...”

“Away from...?” he feigns, desperate to know what he might say.

The man looks his way, his black and blue eyes suddenly assuming an imposing, indomitable clarity in that moment, taking in every last piece of him. Then he comes a step closer and grips Murtagh’s shoulder, thumb angled down to press into his bicep, stopping his heart mid beat at the sensation of his father’s touch. “For your sake, child, may you never find out,” he intones, like delivering a blessing.

Then he releases him and pulls away, turning back to his horse. After he lifts himself into the saddle, the distance and darkness make the two different colors of his eyes almost indistinguishable. The sunlight dies a fast death in the valley. “Will you tell me your name?” Murtagh asks before he stirs back into motion.

“No,” Morzan says. “No point. It won’t do you any good.”

“Alright. Farewell then, no one.”

That earns him a smile, one so unexpected, his breath falters for a second. “Ha. Same to you, my fellow no one. Good luck coming into your own.” He flicks the reins and his horse takes off at a trot, carrying him away, away from Murtagh.