Empathy

"No, no, Murtagh. You're stance is wrong," Tornac told his student firmly, though not unkindly. He gingerly placed his large callused hand over the boy's smaller, inexperienced one and guided it over the miniature bow into the correct hand position. The man clasped Murtagh's thin shoulders and pulled him into a different posture, leaving Murtagh no choice but to shuffle his feet slightly.

Murtagh's face soured, his brow furrowing with frustration. He hated being corrected by people, even those he was well aware had a much vaster knowledge of the world then his own, as it gave him the impression of being inferior.

It was a glorious spring afternoon, much unlike the previous winter of frigid weather and snow piled ground. Not long before had the plants begun to bloom once more and Uru'baen had been blessed with much missed sunshine, turning the air from its chilly condition to a more heated temperature, almost warm if it weren't for the constant breeze. Thus Tornac, Murtagh's trainer, decided it was time to teach his pupil the proper use of the bow and arrow.

The nine year-old boy narrowed his eyes at his target, a traditional bull's-eye pinned to a haystack fourteen yards away. His jaw tightened in concentration as he focused on his mark, intent on hitting the bull's-eye. But the arrow wobbled slightly in Murtagh's grip and perspiration gathered along his brow in anticipation.

In one sudden movement, Murtagh released the arrow, allowing it to slice through the air toward the target with an inaudible whistle. Tornac and Murtagh watched the missile make its course with hopeful expressions, anticipating the satisfying thwack of it piercing through the stack.

Thwack! The arrow's end quivered as it punctured the bottom half of the target, not even close to hitting the outer rim of the bull's-eye.

Murtagh sighed, annoyed, glaring at the multiple arrows scattered across the grass before him. He looked to Tornac for an explanation.

His instructor ran a hand through his graying brown hair. Tornac ignored his own internal frustration, refusing to allow his emotions to seep through. Eyeing the black feather protruding from the haystack, Tornac searched his mind for words of encouragement. "Well...at least you hit the target this time," he said at last.

Murtagh's mouth pressed into a thin line, but he did not retort. The last thing he wanted--or needed, for that matter, was to anger his only ally. He merely gazed at Tornac stoically, waiting for the middle-aged man to continue.

"Don't worry, Murtagh," Tornac assured him, "You just need practice."

"But I have been practicing," Murtagh argued desperately. "Every day for the past three weeks!"

"And you have improved." He motioned toward the haystack. "You couldn't even shoot an arrow from lack of the proper strength when we started. Now you've managed to hit the target multiple times."

Five times, Murtagh added silently, the ever present frown plastered to his young face. Five times in the course of three weeks of his training and none of them have yet to hit its mark once.

As though he had read his mind, Tornac consoled, "Do not fret, young Murtagh. Archery is simply not your forte, but you have many other talents."

"Like what?" Murtagh demanded, dubious, though Tornac could detect the slightest gleam of hopefulness in the lad's dark eyes.

The man smiled a genuine smile at his student, his expression glowing with fatherly warmth. "You are quite skilled with the blade for your age," he commented. "You have the makings of a fine swordsman if I ever saw one."

Murtagh blinked, overwhelmed at both the man's compliment and the unfamiliar, almost paternal, emotions emitting from him. It was not often that he was compliment, and he treasured every one, especially those from his strict mentor.

A lump formed in his throat, one that he could not swallow. Much to his chagrin, his eyes stun with tears, threatening to cry. Murtagh opened his mouth, as though he were about to speak, then he changed his mind and closed it. He turned his head away in an attempt to hide his eyes.

The smile on Tornac's face faltered, suddenly replaced by an uncomfortable expression. He awkwardly shuffled his feet, his face downcast as he studied the ground with sudden interest.

He cleared his threat. "Shall we get on the lesson, then?" he proposed.

Murtagh snapped his head up, face grim, and jerked his head in a nod.

"Right then," Tornac continued, rubbing his hands together, all business. "Draw your arrow."

Murtagh did as commanded, positioning the arrow into place. He glanced at Tornac from the corner of his eye, waiting for the signal to shoot. Tornac nodded in affirmation.

Taking a deep breath, Murtagh refocused his gaze onto the target. He straightened his posture, narrowing his eyes in concentration. The vein in his neck became prominent as his determination coursed through his body and he held his breath in anticipation.

Letting go of his breath, Murtagh released the arrow at the same time, both coming out in a whoosh. He clenched his eyes shut, not wanting to know the results right.

One second, two seconds, three seconds, he mentally counted within his mind. A full ten seconds had passed when he heard it, the sigh. But that was enough to confirm his fears. He could just feel all of his mentor's emotions seeping through that breezy breath: frustration and disappointment.

Murtagh's young heart sank. The frustration he could handle; he himself was frustrated with his constant failures, so that was understandable. But disappointment...few people knew it, but Murtagh hated disappointing his instructor, the closest thing he had to a parent since he was a year old. Murtagh was ever eager to please the middle-aged man, despite himself.
Who else was there to encourage him, and actually mean it? Certainly not his own father or mother, both of whom were dead. The king was far too occupied with his own royal duties to pay the least bit of attention the the boy. Even if he did bother to grunge up the time to talk to Murtagh, the chances of him actually praising the nine year-old were as likely as the Varden winning the war: Impossible.

No one would ever take the time of day to spend it with him, Morzan's son, least of all care for him in the smallest of ways. Even at nine years of age the boy knew this. It was a terrible thing to admit to one's self, but it was the truth. Murtagh had long ago accepted that his only source of affection by any means was from the man standing next to him, and no other.

A hand gripped Murtagh's shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze of comfort. Murtagh reluctantly opened his eyes to peer up at the owner of the hand, purposely ignoring his intended target.

The corner of Tornac's mouth curved into a lopsided smile. "It's all right, Murtagh," he assured him. "You'll get better at it."

Murtagh frowned, doubtful, but did not say anything in return. He merely bore his gaze into Tornac, analyzing him. Do you really believe that? His expression seemed to say, Do you really care at all, or is pretending also another job requirement?

Tornac's half-hearted smile faded, replaced a grim look. He added pressure to the boy's bony shoulder once more, then let go. Turning on his heel, his back facing Murtagh, he said, "I'll go get us some food. Keep practicing."

With that said, he made his way toward the kitchens.

Murtagh sighed, allowing his carefully composed stoic facade to disappear. His shoulders slumped, and his frown deepened.

I'm a failure, he thought dejectedly. I'll never live up to Tornac's expectations.

Another sigh escaped Murtagh's mouth, this one wearier rather then depressed. His arms were sore from the constant strain of his muscles and his back ached. Now that Tornac had mentioned it, he was a little hungry. He had not finished his breakfast that morning in his rush to get to the training fields on time and the consequences were now starting to take effect.

Murtagh squinted up at the sky, shielding his eyes with his hand. According the sun's position, it was officially a quarter past noon, over six hours since he had last eaten.
Muttering things that would have had Tornac stuff soap in his mouth for, Murtagh turned his attention back to the task at hand. He attempted to shoot his mark three times, each one resulting in misses.

He growled quietly, glaring spitefully at the fallen arrows, but went on never the less. He aimed another arrow, eyes narrowed into slits. His fingers loosened their hold...he was about to release the dart, no doubt ending up with yet another failure when--.

"You're aiming it the wrong way," a clear voice said.

Murtagh yelped in surprise, dropping his bow. The missile flew threw the air once again, only to narrowly missing an innocent passerby much to his chagrin.

"Sorry!" he called after the indignant servant, cupping his hands over his mouth for extra volume. Then he spun angrily around to glare at the person whom dared distract him from practice, only to recoil from surprise.

The girl stared back at him with her wide brown eyes.

She appeared to be his age, albeit a good five inches taller then him. She was lankier then most females, suggesting that she was underfed, but not to the point of starvation. Her porcelain skin shown in the light, casting a surprisingly healthy glow for someone as pale as she was. She had shoulder-length brown hair that curled around her heart-shaped face in graceful waves only made her seem that much paler.

Unlike other the girls he knew--all of whom were daughters of high-classed noblemen of some sort--she certainly did not need a need governess constantly hissing in her ear about her posture. She stood perfectly straight, shoulders back and head held high, all of which were done in a regal sort of elegance.

Despite the way she held herself, her clothing was far from sublime. Her dress was worn, the brown material faded from years of use, older then the wearer. Apparently it had been handed down from girl to girl in its time. Though it was slightly dirty and torn in several places, Murtagh could see it was extremely well cared for by its current owner. A stained apron was tied tightly around her slim waist, digging into her emaciated body. She was obviously a servant of some sort.

All in all, she was a pretty girl, her clothing belying her appearance. Any fool could see from her delicate features that she had the makings of a beautiful young lady in a few short years time. But Murtagh, being only nine, thus having no interest in a female's appearance, cast a blind eye to this and focused on the present. Someone other then Tornac had corrected him in his training, and not just someone else: a mere girl, and one no older then him for that matter. And a servant girl no less, one of much lower status then himself!

"How would you know?" Murtagh demanded acidly. "You're a girl!"

The said girl surveyed Murtagh coolly, making him feel immensely uncomfortable, and inwardly squirming under her fixed stare. It was not a threatening glare like the one he had attempted, but that did not make it any less intimidating. Somehow, her intense gaze seemed to see right through him, as though everything about him and all of his faults were laid bare for her scrutinize, to judge him.

The mixture of emotions in her calm brown eyes gave her an almost wise temperament, though she somehow managed to retain an innocent disposition. One could see that her open mindedness and general acceptance of the world around her, along with her inexperience with the world, gave her these qualities...that she knew of things that at such a young age that people would never have the chance to learn in a lifetime.

To say that it unnerved Murtagh would be an understatement.

She tilted her head, brow furrowed in what appeared to be concern.

"W-well?" Murtagh managed, "Aren't you going to answer me?

She blinked, caught off guard. A rosy pink blossomed along her cheeks, her embarrassment causing her to blush at his blunt remark. She bit her lower lip, glancing to the side as she clutched her elbow nervously.

For some strange reason, Murtagh could just feel her embarrassment as though it were his own. He felt his own face burn bashfully. "Sorry...," he muttered reluctantly, shamefaced. The whole time he was unsure as to why he suddenly felt this way for no particular reason.

The girl's eyes widened, fear evident in her big brown eyes. "I-i-it's all right," she stuttered hurriedly. "There is no need to apologize...." Her face flushed from the lightest of pinks into a dark, noticeable red as she avoided making eye contact with the boy, much to Murtagh's grudging relief.

She's right, Murtagh silently agreed. I'm not the one who should be apologizing! She's the one who should be sorry for making me miss!

Murtagh scowled, but refused to voice these thoughts out loud. Tornac would no doubt give him a fiery tongue-lashing for being impolite to a lady, servant or not.

"How would you know if I were aiming wrong?" he commanded a second time.

She continued to sink her teeth into her bottom lip, her face scarlet. "I-I...taught myself to."

Murtagh stared blankly, and then said flatly, "Liar."

The girl raised her head, her grip on her elbow loosening. Her brown eyes hardened.
"I'm not lying," she retorted, increasing the volume of her voice. It was far from a shout, but loud enough to send a clear message of offense. Though the way she said it suggested that she may have been trying to convince herself just as much as much as she was trying to convince Murtagh. Her eyes found Murtagh's, now hardened in untold fury. "I do know how to shoot with the bow. I can prove it!"

She froze suddenly, covering her mouth in horror. Her eyes dilated, shocked, slowly traveling over Murtagh's face, and searching for a reaction.

A ghost of a sneer hinted at Murtagh's lips. "Then prove it."

Before the nine year-old could open her mouth,Murtagh shoved his bow and quiver into her grasp, then roughly pushed her parallel to the bull's-eye.

Instinctively, her slim fingers curled around the smooth wood, brushing over its mahogany surfaces. It almost appeared...natural.

She bit her lip, glancing around uncertainly. For a brief moment, Murtagh thought she was going to refuse his command and take back the improbable statement, but instead she grip on the bow only tightened rather then loosening as Murtagh had predicted.

The wry smirk Murtagh had worn drooped. He watched the girl, half suspicious, half curious.

Drawing an arrow from the borrowed quiver, she strung her bow steadily. Murtagh examined her pose closely, seeking a mistake, any mistake at all, only to find none. Her posture was flawless to his untrained eye.

Narrowing her knowing brown eyes, absorbed, the girl trained her gaze onto her mark. Her body tensed, remaining a solid, life-like statue for an instant. Then, snap! She released the arrow.

Dumbfounded, Murtagh watched the arrow slice through air until, thwack; the arrow hit its target. He gaped. The feather trembled, and then went still in the bull's-eye, smack down in the middle.

A silence fell over the two children.

Murtagh spun on his heel, glowering at the girl accusingly. "Where did you learn that?" he wanted to know, voice sharp with envy and undeniable anger.

It was one thing for him being unable to shoot the target while many other boys his age managed to strike the bull's-eye. He had only begun learning; he would catch up to them eventually, just as they would catch up to him when they learn to spar with a sword (that is if they were to learn). But when a girl his age had mastered the art already...that was an entirely different matter as far as Murtagh was concerned.

The girl stumbled backwards, almost as if his hostile feelings had knocked her off balance. "I-I-I'm sorry?"

"Where did you learn that?" Murtagh repeated. Amazement crept its way into his tone, bordering on awe when he said softly, "There is no possible way you could have learned that all by yourself. Not without help." He hoped that was the case, anyway.

Awkwardly shuffling her feet, the girl bit on her lip while she considered how to answer his question. Her eyes fell on the bow, twisting the weapon in her hands in hurried, nervous gestures.

"I can't tell you," she said finally, giving Murtagh a fleeting look before turning her attention back to the bow. Her body was taut, preparing for another onslaught of emotions that would no doubt come along with the interrogation that was to come.

She waited...and nothing happened. Surprised, the girl raised her head to look at Murtagh.

Murtagh knitted his brow, processing this new piece of information. Endless amounts of questions swirled around in his head: Who was this girl? Where did she learn archery? Did she know how to fight? What was her name?

"What's your name?" Murtagh asked, allowing one of his many questions to escape from his mind, out through his mouth.

The girl hesitated, and then curtseyed respectfully. "I am Meredith, daughter of Annika."

Murtagh's face reddened. He nodded his head in return, slightly perplexed though he didn't show it. "I am...Murtagh of Uru'baen," he introduced himself, purposefully leaving out his father's name.

Meredith smiled tentatively at him, making no comment on his choice of words.

"Well, 'Murtagh of Uru'baen', it is an honor to meet you." The way Meredith said this nearly made it sound legitimate, like she actually meant it. Despite his choice of words, there was no trace of mockery in her tone.

Why? Murtagh wondered. He may never know.

A crooked smile made its way on Murtagh's lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, 'Meredith, daughter of Annika'."

Meredith smiled politely, curtseying a second time. When she rose, her face was polite, yet serious. "It truly was a pleasure making your acquaintance, Lord Murtagh," she said solemnly. "As much as I would enjoy your company, I must return to my chores. Good day, milord."

With that said, the girl turned and scurried away.

Murtagh stared after her, puzzled. Even though he now knew her name, the question remained: Who was she?

"Ah, Murtagh! I see you finally shot your target!" Tornac exclaimed proudly, seemingly to materialize out of thin air. "I knew you would."

Murtagh jumped. "Err...yes, sir. I did," he lied, feeling somewhat guilty.

It felt strange lying to Tornac, his most trusted friend, but a little voice in the back of his head warned him to keep news of the peculiar girl to himself for the time being. Maybe it was for the best, he decided.