💌 fic

🪡 web weaving

🖼️ edits

When Eragon is sixteen, Murtagh explodes at him after rescuing him from Gil'ead:

The narration specifically describes the venom in Murtagh's voice, but the anger isn't really about Eragon. At this point in the story, Murtagh himself feels trapped with no way out: hunted by the Empire, unable to trust the Varden, convinced every path ends in death. He's overwhelmed by his own helplessness, and instead of confronting that, he redirects it toward the one person standing in front of him.

He's not criticizing Eragon so much as attacking the part of himself he can't stand. The irony is that Murtagh's accusation falls apart almost immediately when you compare their actual circumstances.

When Murtagh was seventeen (older than Eragon, with years of formal training under Tornac, better equipment, and far more combat experience) he nearly died fighting Urgals.

During a clash on a patrol, he becomes overwhelmed and later admits he would have died if Lord Varis and his men hadn't rescued him.

So the same person calling Eragon "totally helpless" had himself needed saving against a stronger opponent.

Meanwhile Eragon, at sixteen, is expected to survive encounters with Urgals, the Ra'zac, escape Gil'ead, and eventually fight the Shade Durza with far less experience.

The "weakness" Murtagh condemns in Eragon is something he has experienced and loathes about himself.

Even in his twenties, after everything he's survived, Murtagh is still forced to confront the same lesson. During the events of Murtagh, he nearly dies again.

During a boar hunt, he's left dazed, injured, and moments away from death before being rescued. Afterward, Bachel tells him:

It's a simple observation, but it cuts to the heart of Murtagh's character. For most of his life, he equates needing help with weakness. His pride convinces him that accepting assistance is failure, that asking Eragon for help would somehow diminish him.

Eragon becomes a reflection of the vulnerability Murtagh spends his life trying to hide from. It reminds me of this Holly Black quote:

A mirror is exactly what Eragon is for Murtagh, and he acknowledges this at the end of Eldest.

Eragon rejects the idea in the heat of the moment, but Murtagh is right. They're incredibly similar, but they respond differently and have different outlooks on life. The reason they clash at times is because they're forced to look at themselves through each other.

Which is why I love how Paolini pays this off at the end of Murtagh.

When Murtagh enters the scrying chamber to speak with Eragon, the first thing described is the mirror itself:

The description feels strangely personal: a lone mirror, human, imperfect. Not accepted by either dwarves or elves.

It's basically Murtagh.

Then Paolini has him stop and look at his own reflection before the conversation even begins.

Even Thorn is absent because the room is too small. Murtagh has no companion, no distraction, no shield. He's forced to stand alone and face himself.

Then the mirror changes, and Eragon's face appears exactly where Murtagh's reflection had been.

"...all-too-familiar." That wording is doing a lot of work.

Throughout the entire novel, Murtagh can't escape Eragon. He constantly compares himself to him, wonders what Eragon would do, hears stories about him, measures himself against him. So when Eragon finally appears, he occupies the exact place Murtagh's own reflection had been.

The mirror literally becomes another mirror.

At first, Murtagh approaches the conversation armored with resentment and defensiveness. He's prepared to be judged.

Instead, Eragon meets him with compassion, and Murtagh finally lets his guard down:

His posture softens, his emotional defenses crack. For perhaps the first time in the series, he willingly lets Eragon see him without the mask.

Later we're told:

That's the real difference between the Murtagh of Eragon and the Murtagh at the end of his own novel.

Back then, he projected and lashed out because he couldn't bear what he saw reflected back at him. Now he accepts responsibility. He doesn't make excuses or redirect his pain onto someone else.

And finally:

That line always gets me.

For years, Eragon functioned as the mirror Murtagh hated looking into because it reflected everything he feared about himself: weakness, vulnerability, loneliness, dependence.

But by the end of Murtagh, the mirror hasn't changed, but Murtagh has. Eragon accepts him without judgment, and in doing so, Murtagh is finally able to accept himself. The mirror meets its reflection and, for the first time, doesn't recoil.