Chapter Text
Nasuada was calm.
That’s what she told herself. Her heart wasn’t racing, and her knee wasn’t aching to bounce under the many layers of fabric that covered it, and she wasn’t tapping her hands against the arm of her throne because she was nervous.
No, she just did that because she wanted to. She was calm. She was the Queen, after all, and the Queen did not get flustered—not for anybody. Not even for a dragon rider. Not even for the man who’d saved her life on multiple occasions. Not even for Murtagh Selenasson, whom she had last seen nearly twenty months earlier.
She’d told Murtagh—when they’d last parted, and he’d flown off to seek his half-brother in the far east—that he ought not to let so much time pass before their next meeting. It had been two years, then, since the fall of the Tyrant King Galbatorix. Two years since she had kissed him in the rubble of Uru’baen, under an invisible cloak of magic, before he’d climbed onto his dragon and flown off.
He’d kept his promise, technically, but twenty months was not much better. This time, at least, Nasuada had received news of his fate, and hadn’t had to wait in ignorance, not knowing if he was dead for all those long months.
About six months after Thorn and he had left, Nasuada had received a letter from Murtagh amidst the mail that came from Mt. Argnor, which the dwarven representatives dropped off every month or so when they came through. It was impressive—their efficiency, the way they were able to maintain a thread of connection between the populace of Alagaesia and the dragon training grounds in the far east. Nasuada had never been more grateful for the dwarves’ work than when she’d looked down at a letter addressed to Her Majesty the Queen, and recognized Murtagh’s handwriting.
The letter was formal and crisp—infuriatingly well-written and disappointingly distant, as Murtagh often was—but it had at least informed her that he was alright, that he was with Eragon, and that he was set to stay on as an instructor at the academy, which made Nasuada somehow both happy and sad.
She had written back immediately, and sent her note to Mt. Argnor along with the next dwarven supply train. Thus had begun a monthly correspondence which Nasuada continually pretended not to look forward to as much as she did. It was good to hear from him—to know that he was alright, though sometimes his letters had been rambling and dour—but it was at least better than the two years of nothingness she’d endured at first, when the Kingdom was in shambles and she had the responsibility of rebuilding it, all the while wondering about Murtagh, and whether he was alive or not.
They’d scryed three times since Murtagh had arrived at Mt. Argnor, though only once alone; Nasuada had regularly scheduled opportunities to scry with Eragon in order to keep up the relationship between Mt. Argnor and Ilirea, as the dwarves did with their supply trains and the elves with Queen Arya’s visits, and every so often Murtagh would join his half-brother in their discussions.
Nasuada would speak to them both through the little mirror that sat on the desk in front of her, occasionally seeing a red or blue shimmer as Thorn or Saphira blinked into the frame. Of course she enjoyed speaking with Eragon, and hearing about the academy and all, but she had wished for the opportunity to share just a few words with Murtagh alone. Still, it was like finally releasing a breath she’d been holding, when she saw him for the first time since he’d left Ilerea the previous autumn.
He’d looked a bit haggard, still, with heavy gray circles under his eyes and a hunch to his posture that was not usual for him, but he was alive, and she’d realized that she hadn’t quite believed that—hadn’t quite believed that it wasn’t a ghost or spirit sending her letters in his name.
Only once had Nasuada found an excuse to scry Murtagh, and this was when Eragon had informed her that he would be the Riders’ new liaison to Ilirea–news which had thrilled her more than she’d let on, even to herself. Their whole conversation, however, was overshadowed by Triana–standing in the room maintaining the spell by which Nasuada was scrying–so the talk was formal and stilted, and though Nasuada had tried to understand the messages Murtagh was sending with his eyes that he wasn’t saying with his lips, she could not quite make a sure interpretation.
Still, when he’d appeared through the spell that last time, his complexion had been much brighter, and his eyes much less dull than the previous few times. She wondered at the change, but with Triana around she hadn’t dared ask more than cordial questions about his health and well-being.
Now, a few months later, she was waiting in the packed throne room, her nobles gathered in their best attire, prepared to greet the Rider Representative, who would be bringing along the first of the rider academy students–a dwarven girl named Thrivka and her dragon Dorama. The whole thing was very exciting–unprecedented and momentous, an important moment for the Kingdom–but Nasuada couldn’t help but feel that she wished there were no nobles in the room, and that Murtagh had come alone.
As she waited, she again recounted in her mind those frantic moments after Galbatorix had fallen, in the rubble outside the citadel, when he’d kissed her—or rather, when she’d kissed him, and he–very surprised–had obliged to return the favor. They had not spoken of it when he’d returned to Ilirea the first time, nor in any of their letters. It was like it had never happened–and since they had been invisible and no one had seen it, it might as well not have.
Sometimes Nasuada thought she’d imagined it–in her dazed state after being rescued from the torment of the Tyrant King–and sometimes she thought maybe Murtagh didn’t remember it, as he had only just been recovering from a nearly-fatal wound and severe blood loss. But still, as she sat on the throne with her back straight and her chin up and her underarms sweating under the many layers of dress—she couldn’t help but replay that moment—the last time she had been so close to him, close enough to feel his breath on her skin and see the gold flecks in the dark of his eyes.
Nasuada shifted in her chair, and blinked away the thought, placing it into the little box in her brain where she kept things like that—unsafe things. This was an important moment—for the kingdom, for the riders, for relations with the dwarves and the future of Alagaesia—it had nothing to do with her or Murtagh. Right now she was the Queen, not Nasuada. And the Queen had business to attend to.
Still, she felt a flutter in her heart when she heard the heavy groan of the large throne room doors swinging open and the royal crier announced,
“Murtagh Selenasson of the Riders and his partner Thorn! Thrivka Gildunsdaughter of Durgrimst Quan and her partner Dorama!”
A hushed whispering echoed over the throne room as the heavy footsteps of dragons shook the floor. Nasuada sat even straighter, and fixed her expression in place, as two figures walked through the square of light between the massive doors.
One was a dwarf girl—around four foot, with curly brown hair braided behind her, a thick jaw and square shoulders, and a fine purple tunic and vest—dressed like a man, according to human traditions, but Nasuada had expected this. Eragon did not distinguish between gender among his students, and they wore what they wished, so long as it was suitable for their training. Nasuada agreed with Thrivka’s apparent assessment—that a man’s clothes were much more suitable to the art of learning weaponry and magic-wielding.
The other figure Nasuada knew without looking, and yet she looked. Murtagh was tall, and his dark hair fell from his shoulders in gentle waves, nearly to his shoulders. His complexion was pale, his jaw sharp, and his brows dark, and he wore red and black, with a high collar and a sweeping cape. His clothes were neither overly-extravagant, nor shabby, but perfectly suitable–dignified. Nasuada shifted in her seat.
The footsteps echoed off the floor as the small figures were overtaken by two large forms, lumbering through the doors one after another—purple and red, scales dazzling as they reflected the torchlight onto astonished crowd.
Nasuada had seen Thorn before, and he was bigger than the last time they’d met, though not as big as she’d expected. The other dragon was of a hue she’d never seen–a purple that was somehow both deep and bright, a stunning river of violet that shifted as the dragon walked. Nasuada’s breath was taken by the sight, her carefully-set expression for a moment disturbed.
When she managed to take her eyes from the gorgeous creature, she was startled to find that Murtagh and the young dwarven girl had reached the dais on which her throne sat, and both were bowing. Nasuada shifted, and nodded to them in return, saying,
“Welcome, Murtagh, welcome Thrivka, welcome Thorn and Dorama, to Ilirea. It is our honor to have you here.”
Her voice was calm though her heart was racing, as the two dragons—one much larger than the other—came to a stop at their riders’ side. Nasuada’s heart again jumped a little when Murtagh stood, and their eyes met, and the corners of his mouth upturned just a little.
His hand rested on the pommel of Zar’roc—a pommel which, Nasuada noticed, contained a small white stone that had somehow been fused to the crossguard—a stone that had not been there before. She did not have time to wonder at the change, though, as Murtagh said,
“Greetings, your Majesty; may I present Thrivka Gildunsdaughter of Durgrimst Quan, and Dorama, first students of the Academy of Riders.”
The dwarven girl bowed again—low, after her people’s fashion, and Nasuada inclined her head.
“Your Majesty,” The girl said, “My partner Dorama and I are honored to be welcomed to your city.”
The purple dragon stretched out her neck and gave a throaty bugle in agreement, a stream of smoke releasing from her nostrils as the crowd murmured in excitement.
“And we are pleased to have you,” Nasuada returned with a smile, walking through the formalities with ease. She then spoke in a voice that filled the whole room,
“The people of Ilirea welcome you both, and it is my pleasure to invite you to a banquet hosted in your honor, Thrivka Gildunsdaughter, to celebrate the first of this new generation of riders.”
Nasuada saw Thrivka smile shyly, but the girl nodded, giving another brisk bow.
“I accept with honor, your majesty.”
Eragon had prepared his young rider well–Thrivka gave no indication of her nerves as she stood in front of the crowd of human nobles. Her and her dragon were regal and calm, and when Nasuada glanced in Murtagh’s direction again, she saw his quiet approval of his student.
***
The evening was a whirl.
From the moment Nasuada had taken her seat in the throne room to await the riders’ arrival, she had been on display. There were two persons inside her at all times—Nasuada daughter of Ajihad, and Her Majesty the Queen. Tonight, she was The Queen—her emotions unreadable, her face pleasant, her stature strong but not intimidating, and her words always perfectly constructed.
As they left the throne room and made for the banquet hall, Nasuada desperately wished she could become herself for a moment, to let her carefully set features relax, to look Murtagh in the eye and speak to him as a friend, not as a monarch. But it was not time yet. They were surrounded by guards and attendants and Murtagh’s young student, and Nasuada the Queen had work yet to do that evening.
Murtagh had been a risky choice as her liaison to the riders. It was a choice she and Eragon had made together, and when she had initially suggested the position, she’d quietly hoped he would select his brother, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think that everyone would be pleased at his presence.
Murtagh had made enemies in Ilirea–both as the unwilling lieutenant of Galbatorix and as a traitor to the empire. Those in the city who resented Nasuada’s rule would resent him just as much, and those in the city who hated the former King would hate Murtagh for his service. Still, Murtagh was the only truly human rider at Mt. Argnor, and the only one who wasn’t either a young student or beholden to other responsibilities.
Whether for good or ill, he was the one person who could act as an intermediary between Ilirea and the Rider Academy. As Queen, Nasuada was wary of this new arrangement, treading carefully to ensure the good of her kingdom. As herself, however, Nasuada was very glad that it was Murtagh—that she would be assured of seeing him at least once a year.
She swept into the banquet hall, sharply aware of how close his hand was to hers, how the hem of his cape brushed against her dress as they walked side by side. When they had ascended to the dais upon which their table sat, she allowed him to pull back her chair, and nodded her thanks as she sank into it, aware of the dozens of eyes on them.
Murtagh then pulled Thrivka’s chair back as well, and the young dwarf gave him a mischievous smirk, as though they were sharing some secret joke, before she stepped up onto a high-legged chair, which allowed her to be at table-height despite her small stature. The two riders were seated on either side of Nasuada, with their dragons lounging on cushions in the corner of the hall.
At the table with them were some higher ranking nobles, as well as Jormundur–Nasuada’s second-in-command–who sat on Thrivka’s other side, making easy conversation with the young rider.
Nasuada had shared a banquet like this with Murtagh the last time he’d come to Ilirea—bursting into the palace in a mad rush to save her life—and that banquet had ended with a terrible, hushed conversation in the garden, with Murtagh’s shaking voice and an awful realization that had forced her to dismiss one of her nobles. Nasuada tried to brush that night away, and breathe through the tightness in her chest, eyeing Murtagh sidelong, trying to gauge his temperament.
The servants came by with the drinks and plates, and a young woman leaned over, pouring wine in each goblet as the rest of the room settled around their tables and a soft chatter began to fill the hall. When the servant reached to pour wine into Murtagh’s goblet, he put a hand out overtop of the rim and said quietly,
“Thank you, I’m alright.”
The servant curtsied and stepped away, carrying on down the line. Nasuada only glanced in Murtagh’s direction once, sitting back as one of the palace spellcasters whispered spells of detection over her food and drink—checking for poison. Murtagh and Thrivka did the same thing with their food, and Nasuada sighed, feeling, as she often did, the weight of the darkness in the world, despite the darkness they’d already defeated.
When their food was declared clean, Nasuada rose to give yet another speech, formally beginning the meal that was hosted in Thrivka’s honor, and everyone in the banquet hall–including the two dragons–began to eat. The rest of the dinner passed in a blur of polite conversation, smiles, and chatter, as Nasuada first pretended to eat, and then made her rounds to the various nobles, greeting them each as if she’d personally invited them to attend.
Thrivka continued to comport herself with dignity throughout the evening, joining Nasuada in greeting the nobles, all of whom were eager to meet the first of Eragon Shadeslayer’s prodigies. Murtagh remained at the table and allowed his student to test the waters for herself.
Nasuada was grateful when night had fallen and the first of the carriages had begun to arrive to cart the nobles back to their mansions. She excused herself as soon as it was appropriate, sending Thrivka with a servant to show her and Dorama to their quarters, and stopping by Murtagh, who was staying close to Thorn so that he didn’t have to speak to any of the departing nobles.
“If you aren’t overly-drained from the evening, Murtagh, I would enjoy your company in the statue garden for a stroll? Providing Thorn can spare you for a moment,” Nasuada’s voice was casual and light, but inwardly her heart was beating hard. Murtagh looked at Thorn for a moment, and something passed between them, before he nodded and gave her a polite smile,
“It would be my pleasure, Your Majesty.”
Nasuada knew a mask when she saw one—and she knew Murtagh’s mask particularly well. She wasn’t discouraged by the cordiality, by the stiff set of his shoulders and the unconcerned tone of his voice; just as Nasuada played two roles, so did Murtagh, and she hadn’t expected to meet anyone but Murtagh the Rider tonight, not in front of all these people.
She waited in the statue garden—one of her favorite courtyards in the palace—and enjoyed looking up into the bronze visage of her father’s face, the soft light of dwarven lanterns giving his statue a warmth to him that reflected who the man had been in life.
The statue garden had been her own idea—a place to commemorate and remember those people who’d given their lives in service of the Rebellion. There were not enough pedestals to include everyone who’d died—the garden would have to be the size of the Hadarac for that—but there were memorials for unnamed Varden and Surdan soldiers, for Werecats and Urgals and Elves, for anyone who’d paid the ultimate price for the life they all now enjoyed. The garden always left Nasuada feeling both peaceful and melancholy, as she remembered what she’d lost–what they’d all lost–and what they’d gained.
“It is a good likeness.”
Nasuada turned at the sound of Murtagh’s voice, and the moment she saw his face in the fading evening light, she recognized it as his —no mask.
She smiled softly back at the face of her father.
“Yes, I think so. Captures him.”
She felt Murtagh step next to her, their shoulders inches apart as they both gazed up at Ajihad’s statue, quiet in the cool evening air.
In that moment Nasuada was reminded that Murtagh had been with her father, in his last moments, that both their lives had ended at the same time, in the same brutal manner. It was a strange camaraderie, a sorrowful connection that they would share forever.
“Hello, Murtagh,” She said softly, looking up at him, both maskless for the first time that evening.
“Hello,” He returned. Nasuada took a calming breath, and turned away, beginning to stroll so that she didn’t have to look in his eyes for too long—she worried she might get lost, if she looked.
Murtagh followed her cue and joined her easy strides as they passed through the dim garden. He held his hands clasped behind his back, his black boots crunching against the gravel path as Nasuada’s guards stood at a distance, posted at every entrance to the gardens, watching their movements.
“You look well,” Nasuada said, “A sight—a sight better than the last time you visited.”
Murtagh smiled softly under his breath, thinking of the last time—when he’d burst into Nasuada’s room and hurled Zar’roc towards her, taking an arrow to the side for the trouble he’d gone to in saving her life, and passing out immediately.
“You look the same,” He returned, “Which is to say, well.”
Their eyes met in a brief touch, and they continued past a statue of Queen Islanzadi, regal in the moonlight. Nasuada still felt stiff, unsure in her words. She had removed the mask of The Queen, whose words were always perfect and whose emotions were only tools, but now she was left as just Nasuada, and Nasuada didn’t always have the perfect thing to say—especially to this particular person.
“Thrivka…” Nasuada decided safely, “...she seems to be doing well.”
They strolled a few paces, and Murtagh nodded.
“She is, yes. Eragon is quite pleased with her progress; she represents the Order well.”
“And the other students?”
Murtagh nodded.
“Coming along, each with their own strengths. Thrivka and Dorama were the first, but the Elven rider—Dusan—he and his dragon Isennath will be ready for their own journeys soon.”
“Then… you’ll be visiting again? With them?” Nasuada asked, calmly.
“Perhaps, yes.”
“And… after this journey, Thrivka and Dorama will be… full riders?”
“No, not–not quite,” Murtagh smiled at the ground a little, “This is just the first phase. They will… leave here and take their first journey alone, visiting Tronjheim, and when they return they’ll enter into their second phase of training.”
“And you… won’t be going with them?”
Nasuada looked at the passing statues instead of at Murtagh’s profile, letting her gaze wander over the mix of stone and greenery.
“No. I am not welcome in Tronjheim.”
Nasuada frowned, swallowing through a lump in her throat.
“I, uh… I thought, in your letters you said… that you’d made amends, with the dwarves?”
Murtagh grimaced a bit.
“Ah…well, yes, some…” He cleared his throat, “Duart gave me a chance to repair things.”
Murtagh reached down to the sword on his belt, tilting it up to show the white stone that had been fused into the hilt.
“A dwarfstone,” Nasuada said, recognizing the cut of the opaque rock. Different stones had different meanings for the dwarves—small stones of varying colors, cut in a certain way, were often used in ceremonies. Nasuada had received a purple stone from one of the older dwarf women when she had come of age in Tronjheim.
Murtagh nodded, his thumb running along the white stone.
“You’ve heard of the Blood Tears Trials?”
Nasuada felt a lurch of fear at that–she had heard, indeed, and they were nothing good.
“You didn’t… oh, Murtagh…”
“It’s alright,” Murtagh gave her a soft smile, “It wasn’t so bad.”
“From what I’ve heard about it, it’s—it’s very bad.”
“Worse than the Trial of the Long Knives?” He asked with a raised eyebrow and the slightest hint of a smile.
Nasuada pursed her lips–he had her there; who was she to talk about severe punishments for the sake of the greater good? She had a collection of scars along her arm to remind her of what she’d done for her people–but now Murtagh showed her only one, turning his wrist over and revealing a thin burn that ran horizontal over his arm, criss-crossing with a smaller, older scar.
“Wasn’t pleasant,” He agreed, turning his wrist in the light, “But it was worth it. Now I can train Thrivka and any other dwarven riders who come through, and Duart and the others do not have to shun me for their honor. The stone is the symbol of my pardon—to show to any dwarf I meet that I am no longer shunned. Thorn suggested I try and fuse it to Zar’roc with magic,” He smiled softly, as he often did when speaking of his partner, “Took a few tries, but we managed it alright.”
For a moment longer he looked down at the hilt of the blade–which was beautiful, Nasuada freely admitted, despite what the sword had been used for in the past–and made even more beautiful by the stark white stone, and its meaning. Murtagh then sighed, and continued their stroll quietly.
“It does not, however… mean that the rest of the dwarves hate me any less than they did before. None of them are required to personally pardon me, and most of them I expect never will.”
It made Nasuada sad, to hear him talk like that–the resignation in his voice, the calm acceptance that he would always be hated, no matter what he did.
She had heard of the Blood Tears Trial before, when living among the Knurla, and she knew it was a painful thing to endure, even for dwarves, who were known for their hardiness. Of course she knew Murtagh was strong, and accustomed to enduring pain, but the fact that he willingly submitted himself to such hardship only raised her esteem for him.
“You didn’t mention the Trial in your letters,” Nasuada offered, softly chiding. Murtagh shrugged.
“Well. Didn’t want you to worry.”
Nasuada didn’t know why that made her feel warm. She took a breath and changed tack.
“So Thrivka and Dorama will make the journey to Tronjheim by themselves?”
Murtagh nodded.
“This will be their first time alone as rider and dragon,” He said, his tone thoughtful, almost paternal towards the young pair, “They will have to rely on each other, navigate on their own, put to use the things they’ve been taught so far. It will have its perils, of course, but… well, you’ve done a good job, making your kingdom safe, Your Majesty.”
Murtagh gave her another soft smile. Nasuada strolled quietly, her hands flattening the pleats of her dress.
“Then you and Thorn will… be going back to Mt. Argnor? When they leave?”
“Well… Eragon’s given us permission to stay for around a month, if it should please Your Majesty.”
It pleased her very much indeed, but Nasuada hid the spark of excitement in her chest, and revealed only a pleasant nod.
“Of course you’d be welcome. I am happy to have you and Thorn around for a while.”
Murtagh nodded, and let silence resume around them.
It was a habit of his–silence. Nasuada had learned that there was often more to be learned in what he didn’t say than what he did. She’d read between the lines of his letters–trying to pick past his stubborn formality to the truth of what he meant, what he was feeling, what had really happened to him after he’d left her in Ilirea.
It was a lot, she knew, and so there were a lot of conversations that she didn’t know how to start. How was his mother–who until recently they all believed dead? What had it been like, meeting his cousin for the first time? Had he been hurt by the witch who’d nearly killed her? Was he comfortable at Mt. Argnor? Was it strange working alongside his brother after spending so long as his enemy?
The jumble of questions bounced around in Nasuada’s head, and she couldn’t figure out where to start, so she just said,
“Thorn isn’t as big as I was expecting.”
Murtagh nodded.
“He’s not… he grows slower…than Saphira, than–the others.”
Nasuada raised an eyebrow in question, and Murtagh shrugged.
“I think he’s just stunted, you know, after… well, he grew very fast, at first, and it’s affected his growth ever since.”
Nasuada felt badly–she’d hoped to pick an easy conversation topic, something light and harmless, but clearly Thorn’s lack of growth was unpleasant for Murtagh to talk about. Another ripple effect from what they’d endured in Uru’baen.
Nasuada wondered if Thorn would ever catch up–if he would remain smaller than other dragons at his same age–if he would always be damaged from what Galbatorix had done. She supposed so. She supposed they all would be. Murtagh and she were no different, still experiencing ripples from the evil that Galbatorix had done to them. That was part of why they walked so stiffly, next to each other, so distant despite being so close.
“And your mother? She’s well?” Nasuada tried, knowing that any conversation was not truly safe, but feeling like she’d burst if she didn’t know.
Murtagh took a breath,
“She seems to be, yes…” Murtagh sniffed, “She writes from Ellesmera. The Elves are good to her, and there are plenty of diversions.”
“It must be strange…” Nasuada prompted, “For all of you.”
Murtagh was looking down as they walked, his face thoughtful.
“In her mind…” He began, “Everything that–everything with… my father, and with… and Brom–it was no more than a year ago.” He looked up into the sky, squinting as if it were sunny, trying to see something that was far off.
“She just needs time,” He concluded, though Nasuada noticed that he had said nothing of his own feelings on the matter, or how difficult it must be for him , to be reunited with his mother after twenty years, after everything he’d endured on his own, as an orphan.
“Well… I hope you’ll get to see her soon,” She offered, and Murtagh gave another sad smile.
“Not exactly welcome in Ellesmera, either,” He said dolefully, and Nasuada’s face burned. Of course, she had been silly to say so–Murtagh and Thorn had been the ones to kill Oromis and destroy Glaedr’s body. Even if they had not been in control at the time, many elves would never be able to forgive them for it.
“But Arya has made it clear she supports you,” Nasuada offered, knowing that the Elven Queen had joined Nasuada and Eragon in publicly pardoning Murtagh for his crimes.
“Arya supports me more than she should,” Murtagh said, an edge to his voice, “And I am sure if she told the Elves to let me pass into Ellesmera, they would be obliged to do so. But I won’t risk her relations with her people by forcing myself somewhere I am not wanted.”
Again Nasuada felt sad for him. Would he ever be able to go about freely, without fear of hatred? Would he ever be able to forget all the things he’d been forced to do? During their time trapped together in Uru’Baen, Nasuada had come to empathize with Murtagh’s plight–seeing first hand the weight of Galbatorix’s cruelty, and the oppressive, smothering chokehold that he could have on a person.
Nasuada did not doubt that if she had had someone like Thorn–someone the King could threaten and harm–she would have eventually broken under the pressure, as Murtagh had, and given the King whatever he wanted. Love had been the Tyrant King’s greatest weapon–using people’s love for each other against them. Nasuada had been lucky–no mother, no father, no siblings, no friends in the King’s clutches, nothing but her own pain–and that she had endured, with Murtagh’s help.
When she thought back on it–which she tried not to do too much–she realized that the only thing Galbatorix might’ve done to break her was–ironically–to hurt Murtagh, and evidently the thought had not crossed the mad King’s mind. It had taken Nasuada a long time to figure it out, to sort through the confused mess of feelings that surrounded Murtagh in her mind.
Their simple friendship had lasted only days–a few bright, unblemished moments of happiness, when they’d first met each other in Tronjheim, before Murtagh had been torn away along with Nasuada’s father.
It had taken her a while to realize that the wrenching grief she’d felt in those first terrible days was not only for the loss of her father, but also for the young man whose company had been so effortless, who had made her laugh and think and wonder, despite being stuck in a small cell for something he had no control over.
She’d grieved for the loss of what might have been, mourned someone she hadn’t ever really known, and she’d masked that grief behind the grief for her father–hiding it even from herself. It hadn’t been until after the fall–after he’d rescued her and risked himself for her, after she’d kissed him in the rubble of Uru’baen, that she’d started to realize the feeling that had been plaguing her all along–the pinch in her heart whenever she’d thought of him, even as they’d sought ways to kill him and Thorn.
She did not allow those feelings to rise to the surface–even now walking with him alone in a quiet garden–because their relationship had stopped being simple the moment they’d left the comfortable cell in Tronjheim.
And also, she did not know how he felt–now with three years between them and Uru’baen, between them and the kiss. And as he’d said to her the day they parted in the rubble–the people needed her to be Queen, and while Nasuada might think of Murtagh with a flutter in her heart, the Queen could afford no such tender feelings. Not now. Not towards this man.
Still, she found that being in his company was still as effortless as it had always been–even if their words were stilted and unsure, it felt right to be at his side. And so she stayed, strolling quietly through the statue gardens as they shared everything that had occurred in the last two years.
He spoke of meeting his cousin Roran and his family, of visiting the place where Eragon had grown up––where he might’ve grown up too, if fate had been kinder. He spoke of his journeys with Thorn, of learning to navigate life at Mt. Argnor, of meeting with the Eldunari and figuring out his place among the dragon riders.
He tangentially mentioned some sort of struggle that the Eldunari had helped him with, dancing around the words in a way Nasuada recognized; she didn’t push him, but put together between his vague allusions and his refusal of the wine at the banquet that he had been forced to curb his drinking habit. She was quietly pleased by this, as his questionable habits had worried her since Uru’baen, and she made a note to keep an eye on him from then on.
In turn Nasuada shared with Murtagh some of the things he’d missed since they’d last met, the goings-on in the kingdom, the various fires she’d had to put out.
“I am set to visit Sinderah in two weeks—it’s been a source of some difficulty for me, and Jormundur is hoping that my presence can quell some of the unrest there.”
“Unrest?” Murtagh asked carefully as they turned the edge of the garden, passing quietly under the watching statues. She didn’t miss the concern in his tone. Nasuada sighed.
“Well, Sinderah was one of the smaller cities that benefited quite a lot from the corruption in Uru’baen and Dras Leona. Now I’ve begun cracking down on some of the poor trade practices, they’re losing money. So…” Nasuada sighed, “Can’t say they’re all pleased with my rule.”
She gave Murtagh a rueful smile.
“But Jormundur hopes–as I do–that showing up in person and speaking with them myself will help them to respect my rule, feel loyalty towards me, see that–see that I care for their business and their prosperity.”
“Is it safe?” Murtagh asked, his tone guarded.
“Have you met Jormundur?” She returned, keeping her voice light, and gesturing to the guards who surrounded them while they walked in the enclosed garden. “He wouldn’t let me walk a corridor if he thought there was danger.”
Despite her joking tone, Murtagh did not seem assuaged in his worry. She carried on with her stroll, though, forcing him to follow,
“If you’d like to join me in Sinderah,” Nasuada offered casually, “I wouldn’t mind the company.”
He said he and Thorn were given leave to stay four weeks, and she didn’t to waste any of that time being apart from them. Still, though, she wasn’t sure where she and Murtagh stood, whether she had the right to ask him to join her as a friend. Instead she asked him as The Queen—as Queen Nasuada might invite one of her nobles. If this bothered Murtagh, he didn’t show it, but only nodded and said,
“I would not mind joining you, if you don’t think I’d be a nuisance.”
“Of course not,” She smiled, but then had a worrying thought, “However… unfortunately I would say Thorn may have to remain in Ilirea.” She looked reluctantly upwards, “It might not do to bring a dragon down on Sinderah when I am trying to convince them to be loyal to me. They might… view him as a threat—”
“–I understand,” Murtagh said quickly, cutting off any further explanation, “I will ask Thorn what he thinks.”
Nasuada nodded, hoping she hadn’t made him angry. Murtagh would sit and take any slander against his own name, would quietly accept hatred from any people group, convinced that he deserved it, but if anyone spoke ill of Thorn his hackles were immediately raised. Still, he seemed calm when he said,
“And the witch-child, she’ll accompany you?”
Still thinking of my safety.
“If she wishes, yes. She tends to go with me, most places.”
“She was at the banquet tonight?” Murtagh asked, but it wasn’t really a question. Nasuada smirked.
“Yes, she was.”
Murtagh nodded.
“Then she is talented at going unseen,” He concluded, “Good. That should serve you well.”
They spoke for a little while more, but the night had turned chill, and Nasuada had duties that would come with the morning, so she walked with him back to the guest chambers where he and Thorn would be staying, feeling regretful that she had to leave him at all.
They stood for a moment in the corridor outside the door to his chambers–Murtagh said Thorn was already resting on the balcony, close enough to feel through their mental link.
“There’s a servant on call, if you should need anything,” Nasuada offered softly, delaying the moment when she would have to walk away.
“Thank you,” He murmured, and his eyes were lowered, but then they flicked up at her, and she saw again the gold flecks in the dark of his irises, swirling in the light of the dwarven lanterns
There was a moment—a dangerous moment–when Nasuada daughter of Ajihad was there, and she felt a question in the darkness of Murtagh’s eyes, and a heat in her skin. Nasuada the woman wanted to lean in closer, to feel that heat, to answer the question that he hadn’t ever asked–and for one treacherous moment the woman almost won. But then Nasuada the Queen took over, and held her ground, and dropped her gaze from the dark eyes, saying,
“Well, goodnight, Murtagh.”
There was a breathless pause in the dark corridor, then:
“Goodnight, milady.”
His voice came softly, as he took her hand and kissed it.
When she turned away from the door with her guards falling into step, she found herself running a thumb along her hand, forcing her heart to slow, and trying not to look back to see if he was still watching.