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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.

Chapter Text

The city of Sinderah was warm and windswept–in the summer, it had a very Surdan feel to it, despite the fact that it was less than a days’ ride south from the capital. Murtagh had only been in Sinderah once or twice in his childhood—always passing quickly through, minded by Tornac and his governess, only able to glimpse the city through the thin windows of whatever expensive manor he’d been holed up in. 

Now he was passing through the gates astride a buckskin mare, trotting easily behind the carriage wherein Nasuada sat, as she nodded and waved at the gathered townsfolk on either side of the street.

Murtagh had been riding in the carriage with her for most of their journey, talking easily to pass the time while watching the surrounding area for threats, but when they’d approached, he’d mounted a horse at Nasuada’s request—as she did want to give any of the people of Sinderah the wrong impression, riding into the city with Murtagh at her side.

She hadn’t elaborated what ‘wrong impression’ she was wary of giving, but Murtagh had understood well enough. Despite being the official liaison between the riders and Ilirea, he was more of a detriment than an asset when it came to uneasy political situations like this. No one would have forgotten his role in the Rider War, and many would look down on Nasuada for associating with him. 

It was for this very reason that he had protested Eragon’s choice to send him as a liaison in the first place. Some subjects would look for any reason to hate their new Queen, and Murtagh was a very good reason—he and Thorn had committed atrocities in the name of Galbatorix–willingly or not–and those crimes would not be forgiven by every citizen of Alagaesia. 

On the other hand, those citizens who remained loyal to the Broddring Kingdom would hate him for his betrayal of Galbatorix. He and Thorn, he knew, were doomed to be despised by at least some people everywhere they went, and he could not even blame those who did the despising.

He’d come to terms with that fact as it related to the dwarves, and despite his gladness at being able to mend the rift with Duart and Thrivka and the others, he expected no charity or goodwill from any dwarf in the future. It was the same with the humans, and he didn’t want his poor reputation to bleed over to Nasuada.

Unfortunately Eragon and Nasuada were both intolerably stubborn when they’d set their minds on something, and both of them had apparently set their minds on this—that he of all people should be the rider liaison. 

Of course inwardly the assignment made him gladder than he’d been in a long time. He’d been buzzing with nervous anticipation from the moment he’d first scryed with Nasuada until the moment he and Thrivka and their dragon partners had left Mt. Argnor for their journey west. But he feared what his presence would mean for Nasuada—feared letting her down, or bringing more trouble on her.

When he and Thorn had flown away from the rubble of Uru’baen after the Tyrant King’s fall, he had sworn to himself that he would never hurt her again–that no harm would come to Nasuada because of him, no matter what he had to do. 

So far he’d kept that promise—saving her life from the witch Bachel a few months before he’d arrived at Mt. Argnor. But Murtagh was nervous about what this new position would mean, for him and for Nasuada—and for both of them together.

They’d never had a simple relationship, except for those first fleeting days in Tronjheim, when Ajihad had sent him to a cell for refusing to let his mind be probed. Their first interactions had been so unhindered, so honest and uncomplicated—just two people sharing thought together in a quiet room. 

Murtagh thought perhaps that was why she had stuck with him, during all those dark months in Uru’baen—why his feeling for her had only grown with the long absence, and why seeing her again on the battlefield, and then in the the King’s prison, had plucked a painful chord in his heart. What she had shared with him, even for a brief time, had been so simply… kind. And not many things in Murtagh’s life had been kind.

Things were not so simple now, but still the sight of her struck a chord in his heart, and still he worried that he would break his oath, that somehow his presence might harm her. 

So he rode warily now, far enough back from the carriage to go unnoticed by most, but close enough to come to her aid should she need it. He missed Thorn, and wished he’d been able to ride into Sinderah with his partner rather than this four-legs-long-face, as Thorn called them. But he knew what kind of message it would send, if Queen Nasuada waltzed into Sinderah with a dragon. Nasuada was here to placate, not to threaten. There may be a time for threatening, and if so, Murtagh was ready to aid her in this, but for now her stated goal was to win over the common people of Sinderah—people who’d benefitted from the corruption of the Broddring Kingdom, and were now having to rebuild their livelihoods under a new regime.

Murtagh wondered what Thorn was up to, back in Ilirea by himself; he probably hadn’t even noticed the absence yet—his dragon partner had always been better than him at being alone. 

Thrivka and Dorama had left the previous day after a week of shaking hands and smiling and showing themselves to the people of Ilirea. They’d been introduced to all the nobles, and had visited with many veterans of the Varden who still lived in the city—most of whom would not even look at Murtagh, much less shake his hand. Murtagh tended to expect hostility, though, and didn’t resent the Varden soldiers for their resentment of him. 

It had been the same with the people of Carvahall the previous winter; it had taken them a while to bury the past—to be able to look at him and not remember the most horrific experiences of their lives—and some of them had never been able to. That was the way of things; there were some hurts you just could not let go of; Murtagh knew that first hand.

 He hoped, for Nasuada and Thorn’s sake more than for his own, that eventually the people of Ilirea would no longer see the war when they looked at him, but he knew it would be a long road to any sort of friendship with those he’d fought against under Galbatorix’s rule.

Still, he planned to get on at least cordial terms with as many people as he could, for Nasuada’s sake. Now that Thrivka and Dorama had left for their first solo journey together—giddy with pride and excitement as they’d taken to the skies in the early morning—his sole purpose here was to ingratiate himself with Nasuada and those she deemed important; those that he would need to win over, if the Riders were to have the long-term support of Ilirea. 

He’d started his ambassadorship, almost inadvertently, with Nasuada’s mysterious companion, Elva.

He’d first seen Elva when he’d come to the courtyard where Thorn liked to lie in the sun during the day. The dragon had his own balcony with a soft cushion for sleeping, but–as he’d said the first time Murtagh questioned why he was lying in the upper courtyard–

I like the view better here.

Murtagh suspected that, beyond liking the view, Thorn also liked to watch the servants and guards scuttle past him as they headed from one side of the castle to the other. Thorn loved to be around people, and to talk to people, and to meet new people; in that way he was quite opposite from his rider partner, whose favorite place to be was in the woods, alone.

Murtagh had gone to check in on Thorn after a morning of escorting Thrivka down in the city, and had found the witch-child Elva sitting comfortably in the crook of Thorn’s hind leg, Thorn’s massive red head resting on the ground in front of her.

Murtagh couldn’t think of anyone else in Ilirea who would’ve dared snuggle up so closely to a live dragon. In truth, if it had been anyone else, Murtagh would’ve been angry at the impertinence, but somehow he couldn’t be upset with the young girl, who seemed to be in her teenage years despite the fact that she couldn’t have been older than six or seven. 

Elva and Thorn had both looked at him as he strolled up, boots scuffing the stone and hand resting on Zar’roc’s pommel.

“Lady Farseer,” Murtagh said with a slight nod, meeting the child’s unnerving purple eyes, which stared at him under a fringe of dark hair. 

“Elva is just fine,” The girl said, with an unbothered expression, and Murtagh nodded.

Murtagh realized he hadn’t even been properly introduced to the strange young girl, though he had had encounters with her several times. 

He’d heard of her initially from Galbatorix’s spies, even before the Varden had reached Uru’baen–but the first time he’d seen her was that day in the throne room, when Eragon had brought her with him to try and take down the King.

Murtagh remembered it being an odd sight—the little girl standing before the throne, side by side with an Elf and a dragon. She had been out of place, but still utterly unlike the other two children that were huddled together on the dais–Lord Barrow’s son and daughter–who’d been snatched from their home for the King to use as hostages. In all that frantic day Murtagh hadn’t been able to spare more than a brief thought for the violet-eyed child.

The next time he’d seen her was when he’d rushed into Ilirea to save Nasuada’s life, but he’d been unconscious while she’d helped Thorn fend off the witch Bachel, and the first thing she’d done when he woke up was to hit him over the head with a bowl, to stop him attacking one of Nasuada’s magicians in his confusion. After that, she’d made herself scarce around him, though whether that was because of some particular dislike for him, or just due to her general dislike of everyone, Murtagh wasn’t sure.

“I don’t believe I ever thanked you, Elva, for helping Thorn and I,” He offered. 

“No, you haven’t,” Elva responded dryly, and Murtagh felt Thorn’s amusement.

“Well, thank you; I am in your debt.”

Elva made a face.

“That is unnecessary—I do not need another person indebted to me.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow.

“Can you think of nothing you might ask of a dragon rider?”

“If I need something from a dragon rider I can visit your half-brother; he is certainly indebted to me, and he is objectively more powerful and influential than you.”

“Very well,” Murtagh agreed, amused rather than offended by the girl’s bluntness. “I take it back then; I owe you nothing.”

Elva gave him a flat look.

“What is it you do here?” Murtagh tried, strolling up to Thorn and sitting himself by his partner’s head, opposite the little girl.

“Breath, eat, sleep, occasionally talk, though I’d prefer not to.” She gave him a meaningful glance.

“And when you’ve accomplished all those things?”

“I will thwart assassination attempts every now and then; though of course you know all about that.”

“I’ve thwarted my fair share,” Murtagh agreed, “Though nothing compared to you, I hear.”

“Yes. Nasuada would be quite dead without me.”

Murtagh felt a little uneasy at that–he didn’t love how Elva’s casual conversation could so quickly start sounding like a threat.

“Don’t worry, I’ve no plans to abandon her just now,” Elva said, sensing his unease, “I’m as comfortable here as I’ll be anywhere in Alagaesia, and I’ve had my fill of adventure for now.”

Murtagh knew she had been gone for a while, with the witch Angela, off to parts unknown and unwilling to speak of it. He did wonder, though, what two such people got up to when they were out “adventuring.”

The conversation had gone on like that for a few more minutes, and Murtagh only knew it had been successful by the fact that Elva had not gotten up and left abruptly, which he had observed her do with many other people.

She rode beside him now, heading through the city on a small mare that trotted along quietly without her guidance; Elva didn’t bother with reigns. The girl just sat looking around disinterestedly at the crowd of city-dwellers who awaited the Queen’s entourage, and the horse seemed to have no interest in tossing her off or going astray.

At first the people of Sinderah were quiet and respectful–wide eyes and craning necks seeking out a glimpse of their Queen. But the further they got into the city, the more Murtagh noticed scowls and grumbling. One or two voices called out insults like,

“Usurper!” 

And,

“Go back to the desert!”

And he began to be on edge.

Murtagh’s blood boiled as he touched some of the minds in the crowd, which were full of much worse insults and thoughts. Nasuada had been right in saying that Sinderah was a problem–many of the people were either discontent, or outright rebellious. He had to work hard to keep himself from glaring at the townsfolk who lined the streets, or casting unpleasant spells on them to silence their venomous thoughts.

Nasuada was poised and calm, though, not reacting whenever a voice called out an insult at her. She smiled at those in the crowd who would receive it, and waved and held her head high. Murtagh decided that she had been right to ask him to ride behind, because he wasn’t nearly as good at pretending that he didn’t despise the people they passed.

Eventually they made it to the city-center, where a set of wide steps lead to the main citadel. Nasuada disembarked from the carriage, surrounded by her guards, and strolled up the steps a bit to be greeted by the Governor of Sinderah—a round-faced woman who had supported the Varden during the war. 

Murtagh and Elva and a few others of the Queen’s Entourage followed suit, standing a few steps below her, but still high enough to see above the crowd that had gathered in the square. When Nasuada had greeted the governor, she turned to address the people, her smile warm and open, betraying none of the tension that Murtagh knew she held.

“People of Sinderah,” Her voice echoed off the buildings, “It is my pleasure to be able to visit you and see your fair city today. I thank you for welcoming me so warmly, and I look forward to seeing the progress and growth that you all have made these past years.”

Murtagh scanned the crowd with his eyes and his mind, sensing a few consciousnesses who recoiled at his touch, and a few more that were angry and sullen, but nothing that spoke of imminent violence.

“Your tenacity is an inspiration to the rest of our kingdom,” Nasuada was continuing, “And I hope to spread your message wide—that the hard work and determination of the few can elevate the many.”

Some of the crowd seemed to be receiving her praise the way she wanted them too—awed by the presence of the Queen, and eager to get her approval. But others stared harshly, squinting in the afternoon sun, arms crossed, full of resentment.

Nasuada’s voice floated over the quiet square, echoing loudly and confidently, and Murtagh kept himself very still, only his eyes moving. Nasuada’s guards–who called themselves The Nighthawks, though Murtagh thought that was a ridiculous name–stood at attention between the crowd and Nasuada, also watching. 

Murtagh was just doing another scan of the rooftops surrounding the square, when he heard Elva murmur,

“Don’t go after him, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

Murtagh frowned.

“What?”

Before she could respond, Murtagh heard a man’s voice shout,

“Murderer!”

And he spotted a brown shape hurtling from somewhere in the crowd, flying towards Nasuada. Before he could react, the shape bounced against Nasuada’s invisible wards and fell back onto the ground, as the gathered people gasped and Nasuada’s guards sprang into action, surrounding her immediately.

“Don’t—” Elva said, as Murtagh immediately zeroed in on the man who had thrown the object—a basket of some kind—and leapt from the stairs, racing towards him.

“Murtagh, no,” Nasuada’s voice said sharply, but Murtagh’s veins were spiking with anger, and he didn’t heed her.

 He ran the perimeter of the confused crowd, stabbing out with his mind until he found the person who had flung the projectile towards Nasuada. He felt the man’s sudden fear as Murtagh lashed out, easily pushing past his defenses as his feet pounded along the cobblestone.

“Move!” He hollered at the stirring crowd as he slid through them, still attacking the man mentally.

When he burst out of the edge of the square, he found the culprit tripping down the alleyway, gripping his head. He gave chase for a few breathless moments, before holding out his palm and shouting,

“Verkr!” 

The man stumbled and fell forward, curling up on the ground with a sharp cry as pain radiated through his body.

“Taelda,” Murtagh barked, and the man’s arms and legs suddenly stuck together.

Murtagh drew Zar’roc sharply and slammed his boot into the man’s back, resting the tip of his sword close to the man’s neck as he scowled. The man cried out in fright and pain, as Murtagh dug his foot into his spine.

“Freeze or you lose your head,” Murtagh snarled, his chest heaving. The man was wincing, from Murtagh’s mental and physical attacks, and his forehead was bleeding from where he’d hit the pavement, but Murtagh felt no sympathy. This scum was lucky he was still alive—Murtagh fought the urge to set his feet on fire.

They were in an alleyway between rows of houses, but Murtagh could hear frightened murmurs from the gathered crowd behind him, as they huddled close together, gazing fearfully at the glinting sword. He considered for a moment dragging the man back to the square by his hair, to make an example of him, but then three of Nasuada’s guards pushed through the crowd, their faces hard and wary, and trotted over with weapons in hand.

“My lord,” The Urgal guard said, “We’ll have him from here.”

Murtagh met the Urgal’s gaze with a scowl, hating him and all the other Nighthawks for not protecting Nasuada as they should have. How could they have let this happen? What if the man had thrown something worse than a basket? What if he’d been a magician? Incompetent fools.

“Sir,” The human guard said, looking a little nervous as Murtagh faced off with the Urgal. 

He had mostly worked through his unease around Urgals—living alongside them every day and training with Kharnine had helped him to overcome his old fears—but there was a still an instinctual wariness, and it took him a moment to back down under the sharp yellow eyes of the hulking Kull.

Murtagh removed Zar’roc from the neck of the man, and said,

“Letta.”

Releasing the binding spell on him.

He gave the Nighthawks one last glare, before sheathing Zar’roc and stalking back towards the square.

Nasuada was speaking again, saying,

“–for you. As I am for all of the great cities of our kingdom. The welfare of your people is important to me, and I wish you prosperity. Let us work together to achieve that—and not allow old resentments to keep us from realizing the dreams we have for our families.”

Murtagh waited by the stairs with his arms clasped in front of him, catching some uneasy glances as he scanned the crowd for any more attacks. When Nasuada had finished her address–salvaging what goodwill she could–she gave the crowd another smile, and turned towards the citadel, disappearing inside with the governor.

***

“Her ladyship would like to see you,” Nasuada’s handmaid Farica said, slipping out from the room where Nasuada had met with the Governor. Murtagh had waited in the hall with Nasuada’s other guards, nervously pacing, disliking the fact that she was in there alone. He knew Elva was probably lurking somewhere in the room, hidden, as was her usual practice, but he wanted to be by Nasuada’s side, to make sure she was safe; he didn’t trust anyone else to do it.

He rose immediately and followed Farica through the doorway, finding Nasuada sitting at a desk, looking over city reports.

“Give us a moment please, Farica,” Nasuada said coolly, and her handmaid curtsied.

Murtagh turned back to Nasuada, his hand resting on Zar’roc’s pommel.

“Are you alright?” He asked quietly, and Nasuada stared at him for a long second.

He frowned, confused by the look she had given him, as Nasuada dropped her eyes to the desk and rose to her feet, pushing the papers back into a neat pile.

“Did you see what was thrown at me?” She asked calmly, not meeting his eyes.

“A… basket of some kind.”

“Bread,” She returned, her lips thin as she raised her sharp gaze back to him, “It was a basket of bread.”

Murtagh squinted, unsure of her tone.

“Alright…”

“It was a soft, woven basket, of soft, fresh-baked bread,” She stated again, her voice clipped and her face hard, “And even if it had hit me, which it didn’t –because I have wards in place for just such a situation–it would have done no damage whatsoever, beyond wounding my pride.”

Murtagh’s frown deepened. Was she angry? Was she angry with him ? How could she be angry with him?

Nasuada took a breath, and spoke in a stern, formal voice.

“I explained to you, Murtagh, that I was coming here to win the people of Sinderah over to my rule. To show them that I have their best interests in mind—that I am unlike the previous corrupt regime, and that I am fair, and even-minded towards everyone . I have also made strict laws and important promises regarding the misuse of magic to oppress the common people.”

Murtagh kept very still, clenching his hands together tightly behind his back, slowly understanding why she’d looked at him so harshly.

“So how do you think it looks to them, when one of my companions tortures a man in the street for—”

“I did not torture–” Murtagh gritted.

“–for throwing–”

“–he attacked you!”

“It was a basket of bread ,” Nasuada repeated, pronouncing each syllable sharply, as Murtagh trembled with frustration. How could she be angry at him? How could she really be blaming him for this? It was her guard’s fault, weren’t they meant to find threats? Weren’t they supposed to stop these things from happening at all?

“If your idiot guards had done their jobs,” Murtagh said, “I wouldn’t have had to chase him down.”

“You didn’t have to chase him down,” Nasuada retorted, “I did not ask you here to be my bodyguard, Murtagh, I have plenty of those. I asked you here because I enjoy your company, but if you aren’t going to be able to restrain yourself anytime some disgruntled subject expresses their dislike for me, then perhaps it is better if you return to Ilirea.”

Murtagh recoiled, her words stinging him as he waded through his confused feelings. There was a beat of breathless silence, and Nasuada’s expression changed.

“I told you to stop,” She said softly, her voice laced with its own hurt, “And you didn’t listen to me.”

Murtagh’s face was coiled with confused anger, and he felt a stinging behind his eyes that he hated.

“Elva told you not to, and you didn’t listen to her .”

“She should have seen it before it happened,” Murtagh grumbled, his voice gravelly, “Should’ve stopped it.”

Nasuada sighed, almost exasperated.

“She didn’t see it because it didn’t hurt me, Murtagh. And if she didn’t do anything to stop the man, don’t you think perhaps that meant there was no harm to it?”

“People… can’t just… throw things at you and call you names,” Murtagh tried, barely keeping himself controlled. “It’s not right.”

“No,” Nasuada allowed, “Of course I don’t appreciate it when my own subjects insult me. But you overreacting–”

She lifted a finger as Murtagh opened his mouth to protest.

“You overreacting,” She repeated calmly, “Makes the situation worse ; not better. By going after that man, and threatening him in the street with violent magic , you embarrassed me, and you embarrassed my guards. And I understand that was not your intention, and that you only wanted to protect me, but I need you to understand that I don’t need your protection.”

Murtagh was frowning at the floor, shame and anger coloring his cheeks

Nasuada took a shuddering breath.

“The proper response, in this situation, would have been for my guards to find the man, restrain him, and turn him over to the Governor for punishment. I am not Galbatorix, who cuts down people in the street because they speak out against him.”

Murtagh flinched at the King’s name, remembering the people he’d watched die under the King’s wrath–the people he himself had been forced to kill because they spoke against the king.

“My subjects are free to speak their minds, whether I like what they have to say or not,” Nasuada said, her voice tired, “I need you to be with me on that, or I cannot let you accompany me.”

Nasuada was looking at him, almost pleading, like he had made her sad–like he’d hurt her; he hadn’t meant to hurt her, he promised he would never hurt her.

See? You can’t help it; you’re a monster. She’s better off without you. She doesn’t want you around.

 Murtagh felt like he wanted to bolt, to just run from the room, to storm away and let anger be the only emotion he felt–none of this complicated shame and regret.

Don’t go after him, you’ll wish you hadn’t.

Blast Elva and her blasted gift . Couldn’t she have been a little more clear?

He looked up through angry tears, to find that Nasuada had stepped around her desk, and was walking close to him, her skirt brushing the finely carpeted floor.

“I am thankful for how you have looked after me,” Nasuada said softly, taking Murtagh’s hand and holding it in between her own two soft palms. He was trembling, why was he trembling? 

Weak. Pathetic.

 “And in the past… you have saved my life several times, I am not denying that. If my life is in danger, of course, I am grateful for your intervention.”

 She sought to find his eyes, but Murtagh didn’t want her to see him like this, he didn’t want to be here, he didn’t like looking weak in front of her.

“But I need you to be able to tell the difference between a flaming arrow… and a basket of bread.”

He finally met her gaze, and she was searching for something, her expression pleading.

“Do you trust me, Murtagh?” She whispered, and he dropped his eyes again.

“Of course,” He managed thickly.

“Then please trust that I know how to protect myself. I have Elva and I have the Nighthawks for a reason… and they have kept me alive for years when you weren’t around.”

Murtagh’s shoulders hunched, and he wanted to pull his hand out from between hers. He didn’t like that reminder—that he hadn’t been around, that she’d been alone, that she hadn’t needed him, maybe hadn’t even wanted him.

“I don’t need you to fight for me anymore,” She whispered, and he startled when he felt her brush a strand of hair from his forehead, “I just need you.”

He met her eyes again, and saw a longing in them that scared him, a strange need–a vulnerability that he hadn’t seen in a long time–since those frantic moments in the ruins of Uru’baen, when she’d taken his face in her hands and kissed him. 

He pulled his hand away, before he did something he couldn’t take back.

“I’m… sorry,” He managed, “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“I know,” She said kindly, her shoulders straightening as the strange look in her eyes was replaced by the cool detachment of the Queen. 

“I accept your apology. I hope you’ll give one to my guards as well.”

Murtagh didn’t want to do that, but her gaze was expectant and uncompromising.

He nodded reluctantly, and Nasuada nodded in return, retreating to the safety of her desk.

“I trust Elva implicitly,” She said, her voice once again formal and regal, “It has saved my life on several occasions, and also yours, though you weren’t aware. I know it can be difficult, but when she tells you something… please listen to it.”

Murtagh nodded. 

“I’ll give her my apology as well,” He offered, and Nasuada smiled, her expression friendly again.

“An admirable sentiment, but unnecessary. She won’t care.”

***

The rest of the visit to Sinderah went without incident, and Murtagh only had to restrain himself from bashing in a few heads. There were angry retorts and disgruntled citizens, but no attacks. 

He reluctantly apologized to the Nighthawks, who listened silently, and didn’t admit any offense on their part—though he could tell some of them were pleased at his groveling. He still didn’t completely trust them with Nasuada’s safety–but then again he didn’t really trust anyone with her safety, so perhaps it really had nothing to do with them.

Nasuada had been right—she’d survived a war without him, in which he had been actively fighting against her. She had ruled as Queen for almost four years and he hadn’t been around for any of it, so what right did he have to barge in and start critiquing the way she ran her affairs?

He had a hard time believing that the Nighthawks could protect her, partly because he himself had overrun them and taken her from the Varden camp in the dead of night. However, he had to admit that most threats Nasuada faced were not going to be as deadly or powerful as a dragon rider with a host of Eldunari at his call, and that the Nighthawks–with the addition of Elva and the wards–were likely the best defense Nasuada could have against any normal foes. 

Know the difference between a flaming arrow, and a basket of bread.

He tried to do what she said, and accompany her as a rider and friend, rather than as a bodyguard. It was hard for him to relax, though, when they were in a city where resentment for the crown was high. The things he’d suffered had given him the tendency to react strongly when someone he cared for was in danger. 

He was relieved, then, when their visit to Sinderah concluded and they made their way back to Ilirea. Nasuada had said no more of the incident in the courtyard, and had not even asked Murtagh if he’d apologized to her guards. He was thankful that she wasn’t trying to shame him more, but he still felt conflicted about the whole incident. 

He wondered what the Eldunari would have to say on the matter, and if they would’ve chided him as Nasuada had, for being so rash. Murtagh had often gone to the Eldunari–since that past winter–when he was feeling unsure and needed guidance. Somehow in the presence of the ancient dragons, the temporary problems of his own life seemed much smaller; his worries had no claws, as one of the old dragons liked to say.

He received Thorn’s opinion, though, and unsurprisingly, the dragon took Nasuada’s side.

Friend-Nasuada is wise to hold back her wrath on the silly two-legs-basket-thrower, Thorn had said, The gentle hand will win loyalty, where the whip will win only hatred. We have lived this ourselves, have we not? Do not let your love for her make you blind to reason.

Murtagh had been thoroughly chastened by the time he was back in Ilirea, and he determined not to overreact the next time there was trouble. He wanted Nasuada to know that he trusted her, and more than that, he wanted to be worthy of her trust. 

He had apologized to Elva, like he’d said he would, and sure enough, the girl was not moved in the least.

“I don’t care,” She said dryly, as they rode back up the slope of the city streets, “Just stop torturing yourself over disappointing her; she thinks you’re angry because she reprimanded you, and it’s making her sad too.” 

Elva sighed, squinting out over the city.

“You two are exhausting.”

After returning from Sinderah, the weeks of Murtagh’s visit to Ilirea passed all too quickly, though each day held its small joys. He attended meetings and speeches and banquets with Nasuada, and he often sat in her study while she worked, or read over reports, or listened to messages from the various cities. 

She would ask his opinion on things, sometimes as the rider liaison, and sometimes as a friend, and he tried to give her what wisdom he could, though he considered her to be the wiser between them.

In the evenings they would stroll in the garden together, and a few times Nasuada consented to join him and Thorn on a nighttime flight, despite protestations from her guards. 

Those were his favorite times–when it was just him and Thorn and Nasuada, alone in the sky, with no guards or subjects or servants peering at them. They didn’t land anywhere–Jordmundur had made Nasuada promise to keep to the safety of the skies–but they talked quietly as Thorn drifted between clouds, or brushed along the waters of the Ramr River. 

A few days before Murtagh was set to leave Ilirea, he was strolling back to his chambers after a lunch with Nasuada, when a voice called to him across the courtyard,

“My Lord Murtagh!”

Murtagh stopped, and looked over warily; he was on cordial terms now, with most of the nobles, but he didn’t quite like being accosted by them in public, and had very little trust or liking for any who had been in the court when Galbatorix had reigned.

When he turned, though, his suspicion was replaced by surprised elation, as he saw a thick-chested, bald man trotting over towards him, his hand resting on a ceremonial sword.

“Ah! At last, I’d hoped to catch you,” The man said, beaming warmly, and making a formal bow as he stood before Murtagh.

“Lord Barrow,” Murtagh breathed, amazed to see the man again after so long. 

“I… I didn’t realize you were still in the city.”

Murtagh accepted the man’s eager handshake.

“Oh, yes, sir, yes. I was off on business the last time you came through–few years past. Was so sorry to have missed you. But I heard great things, and I was ever so pleased to learn that you’d become the liaison for the riders. Well, deserved, my lord, well deserved.”

“Please, it’s just Murtagh,” He corrected, smiling at Barrow’s exuberance. 

The man had helped him recover after one of Galbatorix’s violent rages, and had been one of only a few people in Uru’baen whom Murtagh felt kindly towards. He’d almost lost his two children the day the Varden attacked, when Galbtorix kidnapped them to use as hostages against Eragon. But Barrow did not seem to blame Murtagh for this, and appeared to be in good health and spirits.

“How is your family, your children?” Murtagh asked, and Barrow smiled.

“Very well, kind of you to ask. My son has started studying under a scribe this year, aiming to be a man of learning, perhaps do some apprenticing with the scholars of Tierm when he’s of age.”

“That’s very good to hear.”

Murtagh stood in the courtyard for a long while then, talking with Lord Barrow as servants and businessmen passed them. Barrow invited him for dinner, which he accepted, and he was welcomed warmly by his wife and two children, who were now almost teenaged. 

He listened to Barrow’s praise for Nasuada, saying how much better things were under her rule, and how grateful he was that his family had been allowed to continue serving in the court. 

“Things were difficult,” He said, his voice taking on a pained quality, as he held his wife’s hand at the table, “And we nearly lost… nearly lost our dear ones, as you know. But I am forever in your debt, for saving them.”

“No, I…” Murtagh held a hand up, “My… brother… saved your children. But for me, they might not have been in danger to begin with.”

Murtagh swallowed, feeling a tightness in his throat at the memory of that terrible day–the frightened screams, the smell of blood, his own clawing fear. 

Barrow looked at him with a heavy gaze.

“From what I hear…but for you, none of us would be here now. And we are thankful…” He squeezed his wife’s hand, “...for everything we have.”

Unlike with most of the Uru’baen elite, Murtagh believed Lord Barrow, who had always struck him as a reluctant participant in Galbatorix’s regime, and who had rebelled in small ways–helping Murtagh even when it was dangerous to do so.

He was glad to be reunited with the older man, and to know he and his family were doing well, but seeing Barrow again did dredge up some painful memories for Murtagh, and he slept very little that night, waking up with a start every few minutes, dark dreams flickering on the edges of his memory.

It was hard, to be in the city where he’d lived so much of his life, where he’d experienced so much pain. It was changed, of course–rebuilt after the destruction of the war, and given a new name–but some buildings and streets were still the same, and Murtagh’s memories of them were painful.

When he rode through the gates, he remembered being dragged by his wrists as the Twins took him to meet his doom. When he walked up the cobblestone thoroughfares, he remembered heaving over the gutter, his whole body hurting. When he passed by certain staircases in the castle, he could catch the familiar scent of damp stone–like the dungeons where he’d been tortured for endless dark days.

Over time, Murtagh had learned not to keep these feelings locked inside himself, and so he quietly shared them with Thorn as they sat together on the balcony outside his chambers, the lanterns of the city below reflecting the flickering stars above.

Thorn accepted Murtagh’s memories, and shared his own, and any time Murtagh awoke with a shout, he found Thorn’s comforting presence there, promising him that he was safe, and that he was not alone–banishing the phantoms of his dreams.

The day finally came when Murtagh knew he and Thorn would have to leave–they’d allowed themselves an extra two nights, since there had been a thunderstorm passing by–but now that it was clear, he knew they had to be off. Eragon was expecting him, and he had students to look after. 

He said goodbye to Nasuada in the early morning of a fine day, meeting her in her study once again, and sharing a morning meal with her before the sun had fully risen. Both of them were subdued and melancholy, and Murtagh felt like he had something dancing on the tip of his tongue, words he wanted to say, unable to find them.

Nasuada was hesitant as well, after she had delivered her official farewell and handed off the letters and gifts that he would be taking back to Mt. Argnor with him. When she no longer had Queenly duties to hide behind, she grew quiet, and her eyes had a soft, unsure quality to them.

The two of them went out to her balcony and stood together looking over the city, while Thorn ate one last meal in the nearby courtyard.

“I will miss your company,” Nasuada said, her shoulders drawn back as the sky grew light about them. 

“And I yours,” He offered, not looking at her, but very aware of the distance between them, of his own skin, of the way he was breathing. Nasuada’s hands rested on the railing of the balcony, very still.

“I hope it won’t be long, before you return again,” She offered, and Murtagh nodded.

“I think… Dusan and Isennath will be ready for their own journey soon, if their training continues to go well.”

“Well,” Nasuada glanced at him with a smile. “Then I shall hope for their success.”

Murtagh nodded, resting his own hands against the railing, feeling as though he was holding his breath.

“You’ll write?” She asked, and Murtagh nodded again.

“Of course.”

“Good.”

A beat of quiet passed between them.

“I hope I’ve been clear,” Nasuada continued, still looking out to the lightening sky, “You and–and Thorn are welcome at Ilirea any time, no matter what your business.”

“Thank you,” Murtagh responded, aware that only a few inches of space separated them. Nasuada cleared her throat a bit.

“I… wrote in my letter to Eragon that I hope to–to visit Mt. Argnor, sometime. Perhaps in the next few years or so.”

Murtagh felt her glance at him, as though gauging his reaction to this.

“That… would please me very much,” Murtagh said, his eyes flicking to her only briefly, before returning his gaze to the sky. She continued calmly.

“I supposed that… since Queen Arya makes regular visits, and… King Orik has plans to come, that I might… also remain close. See the work for myself. Be connected… with you all.”

“That… sounds wise,” Murtagh managed, “You have my support, certainly.”

He felt her sigh a little, and there was a beat of silence, broken only by the distant call of birds and the soft noises of the waking city. Neither of them looked at each other.

“Well,” Nasuada said, “I suppose… we’ll see, then.”

“I suppose we will.”

Murtagh was holding his breath, and somehow he wasn’t surprised when he felt her hand touch his. He was still, as her fingers brushed against him, but his hand moved to softly clasp hers, as they both rested against the balcony. 

They said nothing then, as the minutes passed and the encroaching departure loomed over them. Murtagh hated all goodbyes–he hated to walk away from someone, or to watch them go and not know when they would meet again. He hated the feeling of loss that followed him when someone he loved was far away–the ache that left him empty. 

He supposed that was why he’d lived so much of his life closed off from that love–because he’d lost so much, so early, and had tried to avoid reliving that feeling.

Somehow with her, it was worse. Somehow leaving Nasuada felt like leaving a part of himself. Somehow he wished he could stand on that balcony forever, watching the sunrise over a city he’d once hated, and holding the hand of a woman he knew he loved.

Chapter Text

Mt. Argnor in the summer was beautiful and warm, full of the scent of blooming trees and the soft sounds of insects chirping in the reeds by the riverbank. On the warmest days the students and their dragons would often find their way down to the river–when they weren’t training or helping take care of the keep–and they would spend the afternoons frolicking in the water.

Eragon was lenient with them–sometimes too lenient, in Murtagh’s opinion—and he would forgo a few hours of training just to sit with them by the riverbank and watch them play. Sometimes the wild dragons would join in the frolicking, and the display of color would be dazzling as sunlight and water gathered on the dragon’s scales and reflected chips of light onto the ground below.

After a long few days of traveling with Thorn back from Ilirea—flying from sunrise to sunset—Murtagh had landed outside the keep as the last rays of light faded from the sky, and was greeted warmly by the other residents of Mt. Argnor, who had been finishing up their evening meal.

Thrivka and Dorama had not yet returned, but they weren’t expected for a few more weeks, and Murtagh was obliged to relay details about his journey to an eager crowd of Elves, Dwarves and Urgals, who were always glad for scraps of news from Alagaesia. Murtagh slept most of his first day back, resting beside Thorn on the balcony during the warm afternoon, and only getting up to get them both something to eat..

The next day he sat by the riverbank while the young dragons and riders frolicked in the waters. Thorn joined in and washed the grime of travel off his scales while Shillith—the silver-scaled dragon who adored him—tried to get him to play. Murtagh remained on the bank, despite the students’ encouragement to join in the festivities.

“Not going in?” Eragon asked, after he’d climbed out onto the bank, shaking water from his hair. Saphira lounged beside him with her tail in the water.

Murtagh shook his head, and thankfully Eragon let it go. They’d talked about Murtagh’s dislike of swimming before, and Eragon knew not to push. Ever since his captivity in Uru’baen Murtagh hated getting in the water–it made him feel panicky to submerge his head, even in the bath. It reminded him too much of the tortures he’d undergone in the King’s dungeons, when his head was covered by a cloth and he was doused with water until he nearly choked to death. 

The previous summer, he’d tried to go for a swim in the river and just push through the panic, but it had resulted in Thorn having to come rescue him as he clung to a log that stuck out from the middle of the current. The fear was stupid, he knew—there were a dozen spells that would prevent him from drowning if it ever came to that, but something in his head was broken when it came to this, and any time he was in water past his waist, he started to feel like he couldn’t breathe.

 Thankfully his brother—who was usually relentless with his questioning and pestering—had learned to leave it alone, so they sat quietly on the bank as Shillith and Isennath wrestled playfully, sending up waves as their tails smacked the surface of the water.

“How did things go… with Nasuada?” Eragon asked after he’d wrung most of the water out of his hair. 

“I gave you my report yesterday,” Murtagh returned with a frown.

“No, I know–I mean, you told me about all the meetings and Thrivka and all. But I mean, how is she?”

“The Queen is well; bit of unrest in Sinderah, but she’s been handling it.”

Eragon’s lips turned up a little.

“That’s not what I meant.”

Murtagh twisted his mouth.

“I don’t… know what you want me to say, I gave you my report.”

Eragon laughed a little, watching one of the wild dragons take to the sky.

“I’m not asking Murtagh the Rider , I’m asking Murtagh my brother ,” He clarified, “And I’m not asking about the Queen , I’m asking about my friend Nasuada. I just wondered how it might have been, seeing her again.”

“It was fine.”

Murtagh shifted, but he felt Eragon looking at him and he didn’t like it. He could sense the curiosity bubbling from his brother, and he knew Eragon wasn’t going to let this go until he’d said whatever he was trying to say. 

“What?” Murtagh asked dully.

His brother sighed.

“It’s just, when I scryed Thrivka she said you two looked… friendly.”

Murtagh frowned over at Eragon, who was gazing towards the river calmly.

“Wh–what does that mean?”

Eragon shrugged.

“She’s just… observant.”

“I don’t what that means, ‘observant’.”

Murtagh was on edge, he didn’t like Eragon dancing around things like this.

“Look…” His brother sighed, half-smiling.

“I just want to say, that if… if you and her, you know… I support whatever it is you might–be exploring.”

“What?” Murtagh said sharply, squinting at Eragon, his shoulders tightening. 

“I know it’s complicated,” Eragon raised his hands placatingly, “I know for both of you it isn’t simple, but as your brother you have my full support, and as leader of the riders, you know… we’ll figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Murtagh asked, though his skin felt hot.

“If you… if you have feelings for each other.”

“Wh–what–who told you that?”

Eragon gave him a dubious look.

“Come on, Murtagh… I mean… I can be observant too.”

Murtagh frowned.

“Did–I mean–she didn’t say something to you–Nasuada–she didn’t say anything…” 

Murtagh’s heart was beating a little too fast, and he noticed Saphira watching their conversation through one cracked eyelid.

“No, no, but…” Eragon shrugged. “You know, I see how many letters you send to each other. And… well,  I can tell when I’m scrying with the two of you that… you’d really rather I wasn’t in the room, right?”

Murtagh cleared his throat, clenching his hands together tightly and trying to seem relaxed. Thorn sauntered out of the water and shook himself off, sinking down next to them.

“I don’t… it’s nothing to worry about, it… nothing’s going to happen,” Murtagh swallowed tightly, a dozen different memories fluttering into his mind—the touch of Nasuada’s hand on the balcony, the weight of her shivering frame in the dungeons at Uru’baen, her desperate kicks as he dragged her from the Varden camp, her screams in the Hall of the Soothsayer, and her lips on his as they stood in the rubble of the King’s citadel…

“But… I mean, you’d… you’d like it, if something did happen?” Eragon asked, his voice sounding very far away for a moment as Murtagh tried to put his memories back in their place.

“It doesn’t matter, it didn’t mean anything,” Murtagh muttered.

“What didn’t mean anything?”

“The–wh–when we kissed–everything was emotional, and we’d almost just died–”

“She–wait, you kissed her?!” Eragon said, his voice rising. Murtagh winced at the noise, and checked to make sure none of the students had heard.

I thought you did not want to tell anyone about you and Friend-Nasuada pushing your lips together, Thorn said curiously in his mind, looking up from licking his claws.

Yes, I’m aware, Thorn, Murtagh snapped, kicking himself for his mistake. Now Eragon would be relentless.

“She–she kissed me , just… I mean, after Uru’baen,” Murtagh managed, rubbing his head, already tired. “It wasn’t—it didn’t mean that, it was… I’d just saved her life, okay? It was a ‘thank you’ kiss.”

“...a ‘thank you’ kiss,” Eragon said incredulously. 

“Ye–I mean… look, you know everything that happened that day; it was all confused.”

“And she was so confused she kissed you?”

Murtagh frowned aggressively, picking at the grass.

“It’s not anything,” He muttered.

Eragon seemed to be trying to keep from laughing, and Saphira was making a rumbling sound in her chest that Murtagh knew was amusement.

“What?” Murtagh sighed.

“Well…” Eragon leaned back on his elbows, a knowing expression on his angled face, “I’ve saved Nasuada’s life several times… and she’s certainly never given me a ‘thank you’ kiss.”

Thorn snorted, letting out a drift of smoke, and Murtagh frowned at his partner as Eragon chuckled.

“Look, Eragon, if you’re worried that something–that I can’t execute my duties as liaison–”

“No, I’m not… I’m not worried.” 

Eragon raised a placating hand, but then his amusement drained away and he became sincere.

“I just want you to know that… if you do feel that way about her… you have my support.”

Murtagh braided grass blades together quietly, unsure what he wanted to say. Did he feel ‘that way’? Of course. He’d known it since Uru’baen, since he’d tried to save her at risk to himself and to Thorn, and maybe before, though he hadn’t allowed that truth to sink in. 

But he’d resigned himself a long time ago that the way he felt for Nasuada would not be reciprocated, that their future was not together, and that she would find someone else–someone more suitable, someone less complicated, someone who could give her everything she deserved–and she would love them and marry them and be happy with them. And that was alright, he’d told himself. It was what she should have—it was what he hoped for, actually, though it hurt.

He knew Eragon was well-meaning, but it was painful to be talking about Nasuada and him as if there was such a thing—as if he could entertain the notion that he and Nasuada could be something more than what they were now. 

Of course not. 

Even if she did feel the same way he did–and he had no reason to think that was the case—both of them knew it was impossible. Their relation to each other was too complicated, as it had been since that day under Tronjheim.

“You of all people should understand,” Murtagh said quietly, “That it doesn’t matter what you feel.”

Murtagh sighed, and looked back towards the dragons in the water.

“...some things just can’t be.”

It was quiet for a long moment, but Eragon just shrugged beside him, betraying no sign of hurt from Murtagh’s reminder of his own tragic affections.

“But maybe some things should.”

***

Something had changed, Nasuada knew it.

When Murtagh and Thorn had left for the eastern reaches, Nasuada felt the usual tugging at her heart, the same feeling she had every time she watched Murtagh walk away from her.

The month Murtagh had spent at her side had been a welcome relief from the sometimes-lonely work of Queenship. She’d treasured the little moments they got to spend apart from prying eyes and demanding subjects, but things for them were still what they had always been–complicated.

She had sent him a letter only two days after he left, knowing it would arrive with the dwarven supply train after he and Thorn had arrived at Mt. Argnor. She tried to write the way she always did—warm and informative; not too intense, not too personal, and not too prying–but she missed him, and she felt the loss more keenly now that she’d spent a month with him at her side. 

She received his letter in return—a summary of his travels, a report on the goings-on of Mt. Argnor, and well-wishes for her health. It was infuriatingly formal, as always, and not even close to the warmth of their conversations as they strolled in the castle gardens or flew over Ilirea with Thorn. Still, she was glad to hear from him, and wrote him back immediately.

The rhythm of their usual distant relationship was disrupted, however, when Nasuada hosted a high-ranking, wealthy nobleman from near Gil-ead.  It began as a routine visit—with Nasuada treating the Nobleman and his family to all the finery Ilirea could offer. This was one of the less-savory aspects of her role—kissing up to powerful people and wasting resources on the wining and dining of those whose favors she would need in the future. But Lord Echren was not the worst of the wealthy Alagaesians she’d been obliged to work alongside, and the visit had not been altogether unpleasant. 

However, on the last evening of Lord Echren’s visit, the older man pulled Nasuada aside after a dinner with a few dozen nobles, bowing formally and saying,

“I hoped I might have a word with your Majesty.”

“Of course, my Lord Echren, how can I help you?”

“Well,” The old man tipped up on his toes, looking sheepish, “Truly it isn’t so much how you can help me, as… as my son. Well… I’m speaking to you on his behalf, really, and if your honorable father was still among the living, I would certainly speak to him, but as it stands…”

Lord Echren cleared his throat.

“...as you know, our family is respected in Gil-ead, and influential in Northern Alagaesia. We’ve a long history of serving the people with honor, and have been glad to be free of the Tyrant’s oppression, and to serve Your Majesty these past four years.”

Nasuada nodded, her face expressionless; she didn’t know what this was leading to, but she had an idea, and it made her anxious to be done with it.

“...my son Aucklen,” The old man gestured to the young man across the room, “Has been raised up to inherit my place, and has comported himself honorably for all of his twenty-five years. Being that Your Majesty has no husband, and that you are of marrying age, I hoped to respectfully express my son’s interest in having the honor of courting you.”

Lord Echren bowed demurely, placing a hand over his heart, and Nasuada kept her face expressionless as her brain buzzed with the shock of the sudden offer. Of course it had not been the first time someone had made romantic overtures to her, but it still caught her off guard every time, especially when she hadn’t even looked twice at Lord Echren’s son.

 She cleared her throat, and said,

“I…I am honored, Lord Echren, that your son would think of me in such a way. I see that he is a man of great character, and hearing both your and his passion for serving the people of Alagaesia fills me with hope for the future of our great kingdom.”

Nasuada tried to keep her eyes soft and her smile sincere.

“However, I cannot say that I am looking to court any gentlemen, at this time. I have my duties, you see–”

“Of course, Your Majesty, you have many responsibilities,” The old man gave a nod, “Which is why a partner to share the load of ruling would be such a balm for–”

“Indeed, perhaps, Lord Echren…but at this time, my responsibility is to the people of Alagaesia… and I am not seeking to be wed.”

She could see Lord Echren hiding his annoyance and disappointment. He was nice enough, but Nasuada could see his dislike for her slipping through, despite his best efforts. Rejecting a man in any form was a dangerous dance, and if this man had hopes for his son to become the second most powerful person in Alagaesia, then he would take this rejection hard. 

“Your Majesty knows your own mind, of course,” Lord Echren agreed, his smile almost seeming sincere, “Though I hope you won’t take too long to pursue the avenue of marriage–your own legacy and heirs depend on it. My wife and I know personally the dangers of waiting to bear children; we wanted to have had a host of them, but in the end we got only our dear Aucklen.” 

The old man beamed warmly at his son across the room, and Nasuada’s blood began to boil. How dare he. The impertinence of the implication–to suggest she should marry his son now because she was somehow running out of time for child-bearing. She was the Queen, for Gokukara’s sake, not a common barmaid.

“When the time comes that you are looking for a partner,” Lord Echren continued, as Nasuada struggled to keep a scowl off her face, “I hope you’ll remember my offer. My son, I believe, would make a worthy candidate for your affections, and a worthy partner in creating your legacy.”

“Of course, I shall remember your words, Lord Echren,” Nasuada said coolly, her eyes glinting with fury but her face calm. 

She was still fuming when she was in her chambers later that night, and Farica was helping her undress.

“Honestly, the audacity!” She said, pulling rings off her fingers one by one, as Farica undid her hairpins and Elva lounged over one of the chaises, “For him to blatantly make an offer of courtship, and imply that his son would be a suitable father for my children . It’s improprietous, and presumptuous, and even if I had been willing to consider Aucklen Echren as a potential suitor, I certainly am not now. ”

“You did not care for him?” Farica asked calmly.

“He’s fine, or he was fine, before his father stuck his nose in—but I wasn’t thinking of him as a suitor .”

“Why not?” Elva asked blandly, and Nasuada frowned.

“I just… I don’t need a suitor.”

“He is quite handsome,” Farica pointed out, smiling at Nasuada through the mirror, “And he seemed polite, intelligent, respectful.”

“Yes, as I said, he’s fine,” Nasuada shrugged.

“So?” Elva said, raising an eyebrow, “Why not consider him as a suitor?”

Nasuada’s brows knit; Elva was looking at her in a challenging way–it was a look Nasuada recognized, and she didn’t like it being used right now.

“I’m not… in the market,” Nasuada managed.

“You are of marrying age,” Farica offered, not seeing Elva’s look, “There is nothing wrong with entertaining your options.”

Nasuada was still for a moment, something caught in her throat, a thought that she knew she couldn’t speak out loud. When she looked up into the mirror, Elva was still watching her carefully.

“Perhaps,” Nasuada conceded, giving Farica a smile and hoping the conversation would move on.

She lay awake that night, alone in her large, luxurious bed, replaying Elva’s question in her head.

Why not consider him? Why not him? Why not?

She avoided the thought as it chased her throughout the following few weeks, and she tried to replay her visit with Lord Echren and his son, considering the way the young man had comported himself. He was charming enough, and handsome, as Farica had said; he seemed to genuinely care for those underneath him, and wasn’t too proud or pompous. 

But Nasuada hadn’t for a minute considered the young man as a potential match for her future. Why not? What made him a poor match? What was wrong with him?

It took Nasuada a few weeks of distraction and poor sleep, before she was finally able to come to the conclusion that the problem really wasn’t with Lord Echren’s son at all—the problem was with her.

She realized it the day a mail delivery was made to Ilirea, when Farica brought her a letter from Murtagh. Nasuada’s giddy relief at seeing his handwriting on the envelope was followed after by a sudden sinking feeling.

Why not consider him? Why not?

“Everything alright, milady?” Farica asked, as Nasuada held the letter in her hand, frozen.

“Y-yes, thank you, Farica.”

That night, Nasuada lay awake again, staring at the canopy over her bed, trying to put her feelings back into carefully managed little boxes, but the letter was sitting on her bedside table, and she lit a candle to read it again. She pictured his voice in her head, pictured him sitting over a desk with the sun setting outside, his quill scratching against parchment.

Nasuada,

The weather is fine here, turning chill now, and the leaves have begun to change–they change early, this high in the mountains, and the colors are already beautiful. If I were any good at making fairths, I would make one to show you, but Eragon is much better at them than I.

 Dusan and Isennath are coming along nicely as partners, and it may be that we will send them on their first journey next spring, in which case I will come to Ilirea again and bring them with me. I hope that would be suitable for you.

I am well, thank you for asking. And though you had the courtesy not to inquire directly, I will relieve your curiosity and let you know that your suspicions are correct—I have given up strong drink entirely since last winter. 

I hope you are not hurt by my failing to divulge this fact to you sooner; it has nothing to do with any lack of trust I bear for you–quite the opposite, really. I trust you implicitly, and I suppose I was worried of what you would think of me. In truth, I simply felt embarrassed about it. However, Thorn says I do not need to feel that way, and that is why I suppose I am telling you now.

I had no control over my habits, and they were causing me to behave in a way that was unbecoming, for which I am ashamed. Eragon saw that I needed intervention, and he and the Elders helped get me on a more steady path. It has not been easy to maintain, but with Thorn’s and Eragon’s help I have had only a few stumbles. 

For a long while the drink was the only way I knew to keep at bay those memories which are still painful for me to dwell on–I tell you this because I know you understand, having painful memories of your own. However, with the help of those who care for me, I have found other ways to combat the darkness when it threatens to overwhelm me, and am doing much better now than I was last year at this time, though some days are still difficult.

As Thorn says–sharing a burden among many hands makes it lighter for all. Though of course he doesn’t have hands, so who is he to talk, and being a dragon he could probably make light work of any burden, so I suppose his metaphors are only so useful. 

All this to say—I am thankful to you, for the burdens you have helped me carry; I hope they have not been too heavy a weight on you. I also wish to offer my own hands, such as they are, to help in the carrying of whatever burdens may weigh on you. You are not alone.

He went on to apologize once again for the incident in Sinderah, for his overreaction, and concluded the letter with an amusing story about his Urgal student named Kharnine, who it seemed was Murtagh’s special protege. 

This was something they had discussed in letters as well—his difficulty in working through the ways he had been terrorized by Urgals in the past, so as to live alongside them comfortably at Mt. Argnor, and be a suitable teacher for Kharnine. Murtagh had not been around when Nasuada formed the alliance with the Urgals, so learning to trust them and re-training his instincts towards them had been a difficult road.

Nasuada read the letter over again, hearing his voice in her head, and focusing on his words:

You are not alone… I offer my own hands…

It was beginning to settle into her bones, the understanding, the answer to Elva’s question: 

Why? Why was Lord Echren’s son unfit for her? Why would she not consider his courtship? Why had she spurned every advance, turned away every suitor, deferred every question of marriage for four years?

She had always wanted to be married, to have a family–though she knew not every woman desired such things. She had many relatives from the Tribes who’d chosen to live their lives alongside each other, without a special partner or children of their own. They led fulfilling, beautiful lives, and gave their love to the family they chose–the tribe that surrounded them–rather than a husband and children. This was a viable way of life, she knew–but Nasuada’s heart had always yearned for the close connection of a spouse and children of her own. 

It was something she had lamented, when she’d been in Galbatorix’ clutches, thinking she’d reached the end of her life. She’d regretted not marrying and having children, as had been her dream, and regretted that her legacy would be only war, and death. 

Now she was here, four years on, still unmarried and prospectless, still by her own choice, and beginning to ask the same question Elva had—Why? She definitely wanted a husband… but it wasn’t any Lord or Governor or rich merchant’s son or even a King or a Prince… she didn’t want any of them. She couldn’t give her heart to any of them, she realized… because it already belonged to someone else. 

Nasuada gazed at the finely woven canopy above her head, Murtagh’s letter clutched against her chest as the realization settled into her, so mixed up in hope and fear that she couldn’t figure which was the stronger emotion.

“Gokukara help me,” She breathed, caught between a laugh and a grimace, the Queen and the Woman fighting for dominance, melding, becoming the same person with the same goal and the same desire, both helpless before this wave of feeling, before the truth that fell over her as she held the letter to her heart.

“...I love him.”

***

Things changed, after that. Nasuada saw to it.

Her letters were less careful, more prying, more personal, more honest. She took Murtagh’s confession about his struggle with drink, and she capitalized on it, confessing hurts of her own, asking for more. She wanted more. She wanted to know him, to feel known by him, to let nothing lay between them unsaid, to bear each other’s burdens and know each other’s hearts. She wanted him to understand clearly how she felt, to grasp the realization that she had finally accepted.

And if he did not feel the same way… well, that might break her, for a time, but she had to know. She needed to know. Nasuada the Woman was winning–she was becoming reckless. After being confronted with her refusal to consider the hand of any other suitor, it became all the more clear to her that this would never change–she would never look at Lord Echren’s son, or any other Lord’s son, and see the possibility of marriage. It was settled. The ship had sailed with her on it, and she hadn’t even noticed.

She would marry Murtagh—which until now she had dismissed as an impossibility—or she would remain single. There may have been a time when someone else could have won her hand, but now she knew it in her bones–like she’d known she had to lead the Varden, like she’d known Galbatorix’s evil, like she’d known Eragon was the only hope for the free people of Alagaesia–she could have no one else. 

And as for the many, many reasons why a union with Murtagh would be a bad idea? Nasuada found she could not muster the energy to care. 

What did it matter if her nobles would be repulsed by the thought? She loved him. What did it matter if King Orrin and the Surdans would have qualms about her joining her hands with a former enemy? She loved him. What did it matter if King Orik and the dwarves hated her for it? She loved him. What did it matter that he was a rider, and had duties in the eastern reaches? She loved him. What did it matter that every single person in her life would tell her she was mad, that Jormundor would be aghast, that her advisors and generals would tell her not to do it, that Queen Arya and Eragon and Orik and probably even Murtagh himself would tell her not to do it? 

She loved him.

Nasuada poured herself into her work as Queen, smiling at nobles and visiting cities and hosting banquets and seeing to the affairs of the city, always surrounded by people, yet always distracted by the absence of the one person she wanted nearby.

She was determined to make a world in which they could be together, in which Murtagh could feel safe allowing himself to love her—and he did love her, this she became more sure of with every letter. It was slow work, getting him to let his walls down, but the more she opened up, the more she bared her heart to him, the more it seemed he felt compelled to respond, and the more she could read his meaning through his formal words. 

When he said I hope you are well, what he meant was, I wish I could be with you. When he said, it is too quiet here, what he meant was, I miss you. When he said, it has been difficult, what he meant was I need you. And when he said, I will do whatever I can to help, what he meant was, I love you.

The winter passed and spring approached, and with it news that a new dragon egg had hatched—a human child from Feinster, who would be traveling to Ellesmera for a time, before joining the others at Mt. Argnor. Murtagh and Thorn would be escorting Dusan and Isennath to Ilirea, to meet with Queen Nasuada, before they visited Tronjheim and Ellesmera, as Thrivka had done the previous year. 

We will arrive together, and if it pleases your majesty, I will stay until their time in Ellesmera is concluded, at which point Thorn and I will join Queen Arya, Firnen, Dusan and Isennath, in escorting the new rider back to Mt. Argnor.

Nasuada was almost giddy at the thought, realizing that it would be at least two months before Dusan and Isennath had made the rounds of Alagaesia and were ready to return. Murtagh would linger in Ilirea for two months, with her.

She had to try and remain focused on her duties over the next few weeks, waiting for spring to come in earnest so that she could expect Murtagh’s visit. They were still dealing with unrest in Sinderah, with a new Governor that did not seem to be as supportive of Nasuada’s regime as the previous one, and she had a scheduled visit from some of King Orrin’s advisors, as well as an envoy from the Wandering Tribes. These were all important meetings, vital to her maintaining peace and control throughout the Kingdom, but all she wanted was to get them over with.

Time moved too slowly for her taste, but soon enough the weather had begun to warm again, and Murtagh scryed to say that he was leaving with his apprentices, and would arrive in Ilirea in a few weeks’ time.

It had been not quite a full year, but felt like ages, before she was once again sitting in the throne room and watching Murtagh and Thorn stroll across the echoing floors, towards her. 

In the first week of his visit, they found occasional moments to step off and be alone for a while–strolling in the gardens or taking to the skies with Thorn–but Murtagh had to ferry Dusan around the city and make sure the young rider and his dragon were prepared for their first solo journey together, so he was kept busy. 

Once the elf and his partner had left Ilirea, though, Murtagh was once again at Nasuada’s beckon call, and they hardly left each other’s side for weeks. He joined her on a visit to Furnost, sat in on her weekly court meetings, flew an urgent message to Dras-Leona for her—though she knew he hated the city—and otherwise helped her as she managed the affairs of the kingdom. 

It felt right, having him at her side, partnering with him to keep the people of Alagaesia at peace and prospering. It was hard for Nasuada to imagine that this was the same man she had fought with for many desperate months, enemies on the opposite side of a war. It was hard to think that she had once tried to kill him, and he had once violently kidnapped her in the middle of the night. It was hard to remember the fury in his eyes, when he looked at her with such softness.

I love him, She thought in response to those eyes, which said the same thing.

They ate their meals together in her private dining hall–when Nasuada wasn’t beholden to some banquet or public dinner–and afterwards would often sit or stand on the balcony that attached to the dining chambers, overlooking the wooded slope behind the city and sheltered from prying eyes.

On one such night, they were leaning against the railing and watching the sun disappear over the end of the Ramr River, and Nasuada was reminded of the year previous, when they’d stood on another balcony before Murtagh had left for the east. She’d taken his hand then, in a moment of weakness, and he had not pulled away. They had stood together in silence, knowing that words were too dangerous, and putting off the inevitable departure.

She felt that same impending departure now. After nearly two months of pleasant days and lovely evenings, she knew that Murtagh would be leaving soon, to meet up with Arya and the Elven caravan on the outskirts of Du Weldenvarden. 

Nasuada’s heart selfishly wished that the new rider would not be ready, that they would be given more time, that Murtagh could stay longer. But he had duties to attend to and students to look after, and other people in his life to care for, including his mother, who would be joining the caravan up to the point where they met with Murtagh, so he could see her.

“Will it be strange? Seeing her after two years?” Nasuada asked, as the sky turned a rosy pink and nightbirds began their calling.

Murtagh smiled softly.

“I suppose everything between us is strange,” He offered, and Nasuada smiled too.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true.”

Nothing about Selena would be normal, anymore. Normal mothers did not return from the dead after twenty years, missing their sons’ entire childhoods while being held captive by a mad witch. But from what Nasuada had heard of the woman, her return had been a welcome one, for both Eragon and Murtagh.

“It is not easy,” Murtagh said then, looking at the sky as he spoke, “To be parted from the people you love.”

“Hmm,” Nasuada agreed, her arms still, only a breath of space between her shoulder and his. Murtagh sighed.

“Sometimes I wish the world were much smaller,” He said, “So we might all be together, and not spread out like seeds scattered in the wind.”

Nasuada smirked down at her hands, which rested on the balcony railing.

“Metaphors–you sound like Thorn.”

“No, I sound like Eragon, ” Murtagh corrected with a shake of his head, “He’s always talking about farming and plants and all. It’s the only way he knows how to explain things, I think.”

Nasuada laughed at that, her voice echoing off the nearby hills. She remembered meeting Eragon back when he still looked like the simple farm boy he’d always been–before the war, before his training and changing by the elves, before he had truly grown into his manhood, when he was still amazed by everything and full of questions. She remembered Murtagh back then, too, in those brief days when things were simple, and it made her wistful.

“I hope things will work out, for me to make a visit to the mountain next year,” She sighed.

“He’s amenable to the idea, as am I, and Arya,” Murtagh confirmed, “He’d be glad to see you.”

Murtagh gave her a kind glance, and Nasuada looked down again. 

They had been talking for a while about a royal visit to Mt. Argnor, and Nasuada was more eager than she could let on to see the new home of the riders for herself. Part of her wished Murtagh would just take her with him now, but she cared too much for her people and her affairs as Queen, and she knew the work she did was important, and could not be given to just anyone. She would have to be patient.

“I do miss him,” She lamented, and Murtagh nodded.

“He misses you too.”

He was not looking at her–his gaze on the steadily sinking sun, but Nasuada watched the side of his face, the gentle way his dark hair fell, and the light stubble along his jaw.

I love him, The voice of her heart repeated, and she inched just a breath closer.

“Do you miss me? When we’re apart?” She asked softly, and she saw him go very still.

His head turned towards her, but his eyes were cast down.

“Of course,” He murmured, and Nasuada’s hand was drifting towards his, gently brushing the sleeve of his tunic as his eyes flickered up towards her.

“I miss you,” She confessed in a whisper, “And it isn’t like the way I miss Eragon.”

Murtagh’s eyes were focused on her with a look both pleading and fearful, a look of baited breath, of both stillness and the desire to move.

“It is not easy,” She echoed back to him, “To be parted from the people you love.”

She saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes, and he did not look away. The air was close between them, and everything was still, and her hand was on his wrist, and she felt a quiver in her breath. The Queen was gone, there was only a Woman now.

She kissed him, and this time it wasn’t surprising, wasn’t frantic and desperate and full of pain like before, but soft, and breathy, and somehow inevitable–like they had been two arrows hurtling towards the same target, destined to find the mark at last.

Nasuada’s senses were overwhelmed, as she leaned into him and sank deeper into the kiss, as his hands came up to frame her face and she placed her palms against his chest. This was it, the feeling in her heart that had been tugging painfully every time she watched him leave, the absence in her, the ache—this was the answer, and she had known it for a long time, but it didn’t make the sensation any less staggering.

Her heart was beating quickly, and her whole body tingling as she felt his hands trembling against the side of her neck. She could’ve stayed in that moment for an eternity, holding onto him and breathing in the scent of his skin. 

But in a blink he was pulling back and saying,

“S–stop–stop, Nasuada–”

Immediately she pulled her hands back and let him step away from her, her eyes fluttering open as she tried to keep her balance. 

Murtagh had backed away a few feet and was also holding onto the balcony railing, breathing heavily, his free hand held out, as though to ward her off.

“Murtagh…” She pleaded, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“We can’t–”

“–Murtagh–”

“No, no this isn’t–we–I’m sorry, I shouldn’t… I…” 

He was backing away, and turning for the door and she had to stop him.

“Murtagh–Murtagh, we must have this out!” She cried, “It’s no use, we cannot go on like this.”

Her words stopped him before he reached the inside, and he stilled, his back to her, his shoulder rising with uneven breaths. Nasuada’s heart was hammering and her lips were tingling but she had to speak.

“We must have this out,” She repeated, “I know I have not imagined your feelings for me. I know–”

“Nasuada–”

“–and I have tried to set them–”

“–Nasuada, please–”

“I love you,” She blurted out, the truth, entirely, totally, open to him.

Nasuada watched Murtagh close his eyes, a grimace creasing his forehead, his shoulders sinking, like she had just sentenced him to death. And for a moment she was afraid, for a moment she began to doubt–had she invented it all? Was it just a lonely daydream? Did he not value her the way she valued him?

But then he turned fully, and he looked at her pleadingly, and she understood the reason for his despair.

“We can’t do this, Nasuada,” He breathed, pain flickering across his features, “We cannot.”

“I know what you’ll say,” She started tightly, keeping her voice calm, “I know you’ll say it’s no good, and that I’m a Queen and you’re a Rider and we both have our responsibilities, and you’ll say your reputation is no good for me, and that you’re not worthy or stupid nonsense like that. But I’m telling you now that I don’t care about any reputation, and you are worthy, and it is because of my commitment to this Kingdom, and your commitment to the Riders that we two ought to be together.”

She was walking closer, as she pleaded her case, and he was not backing away, though his whole demeanor was near breaking.

“Look at this,” She breathed, taking hold of his wrist and turning it gently over, exposing the burn from the Blood Tears Trial, crossed over the scar from where he had tried to end his life in the dungeons at Uru’baen. 

Next to his scars she displayed her own–the marks from the Trial of the Long Knives–still ridged across her skin these many years later. Their forearms lay side by side, light and dark, filling the space between their bodies.

“We are the same, you and I,” She whispered, “We have bled for our people, we would both give our lives for the good of this land. I know this…”

She placed her free hand around the back of his head and forced her eyes under his, begging him to know what she knew, begging him to understand.

“I know you , and I love you, and if there is any woman in the whole world who can marry the man she loves then it ought to be the blasted Queen , oughtn’t it?”

Nasuada was begging, shamelessly, pathetically; she needed him to see, but he was shaking his head, his arm trembling in her grasp.

“I promised I would never hurt you again,” He whispered, “I promised , and if I–if…” 

He took a breath.

“You cannot stand before the whole world with me at your side, you cannot join yourself to me. It would hurt you–”

“It wouldn’t–”

“Don’t you tell me,” He interrupted, his voice becoming harder as he pulled his arm away, “Don’t you tell me that people wouldn't turn against you because they would . You would lose the loyalty of any Varden soldier who lost a friend or a brother because of me, you would lose the goodwill of the Dwarves, the Elves would show you disdain, your nobles would disapprove, and your enemies would use me as a weapon against you and I cannot–Nasuada, I cannot be the cause of more pain for you–”

“It would not–”

“It would!” He cried, his face contorted, “Don’t lie to me! You are too smart not to see it; I would hurt you.”

“The people have learned to accept you–”

“They have learned to tolerate me–as a Rider, as Eragon’s blood brother, as someone who stays far off and tends to his own affairs–they will not tolerate me as–as yo–your husband , as the consort. You know this, Nasuada.”

Nasuada had to take a moment to breathe, her whole body feeling like it was on fire, wanting a dozen things at once, reeling from Murtagh’s fierce rebuttal and dizzy with the fact that he had just said ‘your husband’ out loud.

“I love you,” She finally managed, because it was the only thing she could be sure of, the only anchor in this unsteady sea. “And I know you feel the same way. And everything beside that is secondary.”

“Your safety, and security on the throne is not secondary to me,” He said, holding her face again, this time with the urgency of trying to shake her awake, rather than the tenderness of pressing his lips against hers.

“I cannot hurt you again,” He whispered, a plea to her. She blinked.

“You are hurting me,” She said in a quivering voice, knowing it was cruel, but knowing it was also the truth. Murtagh grimaced, and dropped his hands, his shoulders hunching as she continued.

 “I love you, Murtagh, and I am distracted from my duties when I am apart from you, and I cannot have anyone else but you–”

“You have not tried–”

“I cannot–”

“You have not given them a chance.”

“Who?!” She demanded.

“ Anyone !” He returned, “Any–any suitor, any eligible man, any good man who would be a good fit and stand by your side, and give you a family and everything you want–”

“I don’t want any man, I want you. ”

“You cannot have me!” He snapped, and Nasuada felt anger joining the emotions fighting in her chest.

“You look me in the eye, Murtagh Selenasson, and you tell me that you do not love me,” She demanded, her voice harsh and wounded, “You tell me in the ancient language that you do not love me, and that you do not wish to be married to me, and this will be done, and we never need speak of it again.”

Her chest heaved as she stared across at him, utterly sure and yet also utterly terrified at the next words that would come out of his mouth. 

There was a heavy silence, both of them fighting for air, and then he raised his eyes to her, his expression weary and full of pain.

“You know I cannot,” He muttered helplessly.

“Then marry me,” She demanded, still breathing tightly, still close to tears.

Quiet stretched between them.

“You could be happy with someone else,” He whispered, “If you would only give them the chance.”

Nasuada’s nostrils flared, she was coiled tight, all her muscles clenched.

“What must I do to prove to you that I cannot have anyone else?” She said thickly, hating him so much, and also deeply in love. Selfless, he was, utterly selfless–willing to give her up to someone he deemed better, even though he could not deny his love.

Murtagh looked up searchingly, and she could see the conflict behind his eyes.

“Three years,” He said, “You take three years and you listen to every suitor that comes seeking your hand, and you consider every nobleman that is of worthy reputation and a good heart. And you give them a chance; you really, truly, open your heart to them, and I know you will find that you can love someone else–someone who is better for you.”

Nasuada was very still, and she did not miss the terrible ache at the end of his words, the obvious pain that the thought of her with someone else gave him.

“You don’t trust me to know myself?” She asked tightly, and he sighed.

“I trust that love is blinding, and that people can change.”

He held his arms open, as if showing himself as proof.

There was a tense silence, as Nasuada thought quickly, exhausted from the sudden emotion, her heart still pounding though she stood still.

“Three years is too long,” She said finally, and Murtagh looked frustrated.

“It is too long, Murtagh, not all of us are immortal.”

That silenced whatever protest he was about to raise, and she said,

“One year.”

She swallowed tightly, lifting her chin.

“I will give you one year. And I will try things your way.”

“You have to mean it,” Murtagh said, still guarded, “You have to really mean it, you have to give them a real chance–”

“I will,” Nasuada promised, “I promise I will look at every suitor and eligible man, and I will give them a chance to win my heart.”

“You promise?” He asked.

“I promise,” Nasuada breathed, “One year. And if at the end of it you still feel for me the way you feel now… the way I feel for you … then we will set aside whatever else may stand in our way, and we will face what comes… together. Can you promise me that?”

Murtagh hesitated–reluctant, in pain, like two parts of his heart were fighting for dominance.

It hurt Nasuada to see him like this, so defensive and recoiled from her, and it made her want to shake him awake and demand that he go back to kissing her and forget all this nonsense. Couldn’t he see the truth? Couldn’t he understand?

“I promise,” He said finally, as the last light of the sun dwindled over Ilirea.

Chapter Text

Murtagh left Ilirea only a few days after their disastrous conversation on the balcony. He’d hastened his departure and remained closed off to Nasuada in the last few days, which upset her but which she also understood.

She’d left their conversation feeling both pain and exhilaration. On the one hand, he’d rejected her offer of marriage and told her she could not have him; on the other hand, he had confessed his love for her through his inability to deny it. 

One year–that’s what she’d given him. One year, and the promise that she would sincerely consider the romantic advances of any eligible man who came her way.

Twelve months had never felt longer.

The first suitor who had happened her way was one of King Orrin’s men–a Surdan prince who was a cousin of Orrin’s or some such, younger than Nasuada by a few years, but intelligent and respectable and seemingly hard-working. He hadn’t quite been old enough to fight when the war had started, so he was inexperienced and a bit naive, but Nasuada found his company pleasant enough.

She forced herself to do as Murtagh had asked, and sincerely give the young Surdan a chance–sharing meals with him and going for strolls in the garden, and listening to his passion for sailing and seafaring. He was very nice, but when he announced his imminent departure, Nasuada felt nothing. She bid him a pleasant farewell, and did not miss him even once when he had returned to the south.

The next suitor was a man from the Wandering Tribes–some distant relation of hers, she thought, but not too close as to make things strange. His name was Kula’ami, and he was a very interesting man–passionate and eloquent and caring. He loved storytelling and poetry, and wrote poems for her which she found flattering and inventive. He helped her learn more about her people, with whom she had always had a strange relationship, and he respected her accomplishments as Queen and general.

“Your prowess and strength in the Trial of the Long Knives has become legend among our people,” Kula’ami said one evening as they wandered through an Ilirean market together, watched over by Nasuada’s guards as always, “A good leader must be willing to give everything for her followers, as you did. I am honored, to share skin and blood with one so strong.”

Kula’ami wrote letters to her after he’d gone back to the desert, and she found them diverting, but she did not pine for his return as she did with Murtagh.

Murtagh’s letters, however, had become short and far-between since he’d returned to Mt. Argnor. She knew what he was doing–distancing himself from her so that she would be truly free to choose, so that perhaps she would stop caring for him and open her eyes to the possibilities of other men–but it backfired on him. Instead of losing interest in him, his aloofness and absence only made her value his missives even more. 

She was frustrated by his stubbornness, but she had made a promise, and did her best to put him from her mind while she kept herself open to possibilities. She even considered Lord Echren’s son Aucklen again, going riding with him when he visited the city just before winter. Again, she found the young man intelligent and eloquent, caring and kind, and sincerely quite handsome—but when he kissed her hand and looked at her, she did not feel the flutter of hope in her chest, and did not lie awake at night imagining a future with him at her side. 

Nasuada was as busy as ever, but the winter seemed to drag by, and she was once again waiting for the warm months so that the year of what she considered to be her exile would be done with. 

Her visit to Mt. Argnor had been officially scheduled for that summer, with plans to join the Elven ambassador Vanir on his journey east. Vanir would visit Ilirea for a few weeks in the spring, and take her with him when he left. He had visited regularly since the end of the war, bringing Queen Arya’s well-wishes and requests, as well as overseeing the transportation of whatever dragon egg was making the rounds at the time. 

Nasuada had been at first put off by Vanir’s stiffness and look of superiority, which was common among the Elves she’d met, but his affect had softened somewhat over the years, and she had come to respect the elf and his work.

They would leave for the east together, along with a select group of Nasuada’s guards, Elva, and Vanir’s companions, and make their steady way to Mt. Argnor, visiting outposts and cities along the road. 

The Elves were eventually going to be joined by Queen Arya and a larger group from Ellesmera, who would arrive at Mt. Argnor after them, meaning that Nasuada and Arya would be able to meet together with Eragon, Murtagh and the riders. 

Nasuada greatly looked forward to being reunited with so many people she cared for; she knew it was an opportunity that she might not see again. As Murtagh had said, it was rare these days, with all of them so spread out. She was eager to see Eragon in person for the first time since the war, but it did not outweigh her desire to see Murtagh.

Whenever Nasuada met with Jormundur they made plans for his governing of things during her absence, which would last at least a month, because the journey to Mt. Argnor was so long.

“I’m not being selfish, am I, Jormundur?” She asked the older man as they sat in one of her studies on a chilly winter night, candles flickering around them, “Perhaps I ought to send you as my representative; I needn’t really go myself, do I?”

“You’ve said yourself that visiting the Rider Academy at least once is important to establish your equality with Queen Arya and King Orik,” Jormundur pointed out, “Urgal leaders have visited, dwarven leaders have visited, even Angela and Elva and King Halfpaw’s mate have been there—it is important for the people to see that you are just as relevant to the success of the riders as any of the other race’s leaders.”

Jormundor shifted in his chair.

“Could you accomplish that by sending a representative? Perhaps. But I think it more than reasonable at this time for you to take the time to visit. The situation with Sinderah is not going to escalate much in the next few months, and there’s little to be done in regards to the dwarf-tribes bickering amongst themselves. If you are asking my opinion, things in the kingdom are as good as they will ever be–you cannot guarantee an opportunity will come again.”

Nasuada had nodded, grateful for Jormundur’s reassurance. He was a practical man, and not usually willing to compromise for silly whims and selfish desires. If he thought her trip to Mt. Argnor was warranted, then she could rest easy.

So she made the preparations, trusting Triana and Jormundur and her other advisors, and counting down the weeks as the weather warmed. She entertained nobles and spoke with various gentlemen, many of whom were of marrying age and suitable status–but try as she might, when she placed the idea of courting them up against the idea of courting Murtagh, there was no comparison. She could not desire them more than she desired him, and she could see no future with them, no family, no love for the rest of her life. 

When summer came and the date of her departure approached, Nasuada found herself full of nerves. She had not received a letter from Murtagh in over a month, and his last correspondence had been stiff and formal. She was as sure now of her love for him as she had been the previous year, but she had to allow for the possibility that he did not feel the same way. She knew she might arrive at Mt. Argnor and find that he had moved on from her, that in the last year he had come to realize that he did not wish to be with her for the rest of her life. 

It filled her with dread to think on, but she had to prepare herself for the possibility. If he truly did not want her anymore, then that would be that, and she would walk away. 

Her heart was sick at the thought.

***

A year had never passed so quickly in Murtagh’s life. 

Things were abustle when he’d returned to Mt. Argnor after his journey with Dusan and Isennath. He’d joined up with the Elves outside of Du Weldenvarden, and been able to see his mother as they camped on the outskirts of the woods for a few days. Selena was not journeying with them all the way to Mt. Argnor, though he told her she would be more than welcome.

“You and Eragon have a new rider to tend to,” She said, gently brushing his hair back from his face, as she often did absent-mindedly, “I won’t be in the way of that.”

The new rider was a human girl named Rhiannath, from Gil’ead. She was wide-eyed and cautious, even after a few months spent with the elves and her dragon Everenne–a female with maroon scales, much darker than Thorn’s. 

The young girl had been skittish around all of them, at first; according to Arya she hadn’t much liked the Elves for her first few weeks in Ellesmera, and had kept to herself. Murtagh understood why, if she was from Gil’ead; she was old enough to remember the Elven invasion of the city, and had probably watched Murtagh’s vicious battle in the sky with Oromis and Glaedr.

It had taken her a while to warm up to him, too, but when they’d arrived to Mt. Argnor and she and Everenne had been able to meet the other young riders, the two had gradually let their guards down and joined in the rhythm of life at the keep.

Because of the new rider–as well as Dusan starting his next phase of training and the upkeep of the academy–Murtagh was kept busy throughout the summer months and into winter, which was how he liked it. He tried not to dwell on thoughts of Nasuada, and when he received letters from her, he forced himself not to respond right away.

A small part of him thought that he should not respond at all, that he should remove himself from her life completely, so that she could be free to let go of the foolish, wonderful idea that had planted itself in her head—the terrible, exhilarating notion that she might marry him. 

Try as he might, though, Murtagh could not be cruel to her, and he knew that refusing to return any sort of note would make her worry for his well-being, so he responded to her letters with short, formal notes, hoping that if she was angry with him, it would only cause her to see how unsuitable a companion he would be for her.

As the residents of Mt. Argnor settled in for the cold winter months, Murtagh began to both fear and hope that he might receive some royal notice announcing the Queen’s impending marriage. He dreaded the dwarven supply trains that brought their mail every month, and when he received no letters from Nasuada he was both thankful and heartbroken.

It pains you to be distant from her, Thorn said one day in winter, after the dwarves had left and Murtagh had sent no letter with them, I still do not understand why you torture yourself thus. You used to wonder whether she felt the way you do–and now you know she does. If two dragons wish to mate, they do not stop and wonder what anyone else will think; the matter is settled, and they are nestmates, until they do not wish to be any longer.

It’s not as simple as that, Murtagh responded with a sigh, I would not be a good… nestmate for her.

She does not seem to agree, and I know from your feelings that neither do you.

Just because we both care for each other doesn’t mean we should be married. With humans–especially with someone in her position–marriage is more than just being nestmates. It does matter what others will think. That’s what I’m trying to get her to understand.

So you hope she will find another nestmate? And then what? I will sit by and watch you be miserable for the next hundred years? I do not wish to do that.

I will not be miserable, Murtagh responded, sitting up and looking Thorn in the eyes, I will be content, knowing that she has someone in her life whom she can love and who will be good for her, will give her what she wants.

What she wants is you, she said as much–

She doesn’t– Murtagh sighed, and ran his hands through his hair, knowing he wouldn’t be able to convince his partner. 

Thorn always saw things so simply, so black and white. It was often that way with the dragons–they viewed humans and their feelings as unnecessarily complicated. Thorn had said the same thing about Eragon and Arya, when he came to understand their own complicated feelings for each other.

I do not understand why you two-legs choose to suffer so much, when you could simply do as you desire and be done with it.   

Maybe he was right, but still Murtagh could not stomach the thought of Nasuada’s kingdom turning against her because she chose to stand with him. He had played through the scenario in his head, making a list of the enemies she would make and the friends she would lose and the difficulties that would come her way, because of him.

I promised I wouldn’t hurt her, Murtagh said, repeating it to himself for the dozenth time.

There are different ways to feel pain, Thorn had responded, You may be avoiding the consequences of a union that the other two-legs would not approve of, but she is still hurting, as are you.

Murtagh’s partner had gazed at him with kind understanding, and he couldn’t be angry, even though the reminder of Nasuada’s hurt stung him.

I wish only for your happiness, Thorn had concluded with a sigh, resting his head on the floor and blinking up dolefully, It is intrinsically tied to mine.

Murtagh gave Thorn a tired smile, rubbing his hand behind Thorn’s head, as he knew the dragon liked.

I know… and I’m sorry, I wish it were simpler. But I’m afraid the thing that would make me the most happy could also cause the most harm.

It was my understanding that we chose a long time ago not to let our paths be directed by fear, Thorn had said, cracking one eye open and gazing at Murtagh in the way only he could–that knowing way, the way that saw every corner of Murtagh’s heart and accepted it and loved it fully. 

As the months went on and no royal announcement was made, Murtagh’s dread began to be mixed with a tentative hope. He did not know what to wish for–that Nasuada would visit Mt. Argnor and announce that she had accepted the hand of some nobleman or Lord’s son, or that she would force him to follow through on his promise. 

Selfishly he hoped she had spurned the advances of every man who’d dared make romantic overtures; but more deeply he feared what it would mean for her future, if she tied her heart to his and placed the fate of her kingdom in his unsteady hands. 

Time continued on its relentless pace, and the weather around the mountain began to warm, and Murtagh’s days were filled with training and building and caring for the land, as all the while his thoughts strayed to Nasuada, and what she was doing, and how it would feel to see her again.

The day came when Saphira and Dorama flew back from a morning excursion and said that they had spotted a ship on the river containing a small group–a group that would include Vanir, Nasuada, Elva, and a retinue of elves and royal guards. 

The dwarves immediately set to cooking a welcome feast, and Eragon sent Shillith to get Thorn and Everenne from where they were practicing flight up the mountain, and Murtagh paced nervously in his chambers, feeling like his heart might hammer its way out of his chest.

No matter what, I am with you, He felt Thorn’s voice in his head the moment his partner came into range, and Murtagh stepped out onto the balcony where Thorn slept, to meet him as he circled down from the sky.

Thorn pressed his great scaly head against Murtagh’s, and Murtagh held on, breathing in the calm that came from his partner.

You made a promise, Thorn reminded steadily, all you have to do now is follow through. And if she no longer feels the same… then you have your answer, and can be at peace.

Despite the steady stream of encouragement coming from Thorn, Murtagh was not any more relaxed when they stood assembled outside the keep to receive their guests. Eragon noticed Murtagh’s unease, and placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder.

“Alright?” He asked, and Murtagh nodded; he had not told Eragon of his agreement with Nasuada–of her marriage proposal and his response. But Eragon knew that their relationship was not simply one of colleagues or friends, so Murtagh suspected his brother understood the cause of his nerves, if not the extent to which the stakes had risen. 

Before the sun had set, a ship came into sight from beyond the copse of trees, visible from the slope on which they stood. The craft was beautiful, and of elven make, and it floated almost effortlessly along, its sails tainted pink with the light of the evening. 

The assembled company of the residents of Mt. Argnor remained still as the boat anchored and its members departed. Murtagh spotted Nasuada immediately as she stepped down the plank to the shore, steadied by one of the Urgal Nighthawks. 

He felt the familiar tug at his heart as she and the rest of the company crossed the grass between the river and the keep, and tried to keep his hands steady behind his back. It must have been a glorious sight–the assembled dragons in front of the great stone structure, scales brilliant in the evening light.

But as the newcomers approached, Murtagh could see Nasuada’s expression, and he recognized the moment she found him among the crowd, because her eyes lit up and her face seemed to glow with an inner joy. 

Her beauty took his breath away, and he felt suddenly a wave of all the emotions he had been trying to tamp down over the past year, all his love for her, which he’d been trying to set aside for both their sakes. 

He could see nothing else as Nasuada crossed the distance between them, following the line of elves. The moment their eyes had met, he’d understood that the glowing expression on her face was not for the majestic dragons that awaited her arrival or the beauty of the mountain keep—that expression was for him , and he knew immediately that she had not changed her mind. The words she’d spoken the previous summer were still true, and she had come to see him fulfill his promise.

***

Mt. Argnor was more beautiful than Nasuada could possibly have imagined. She had seen exactly four dragons in her life, and had been breathless at the sight of each, but to disembark from the ship and see nearly a dozen of them assembled on the hill in front of the keep, Nasuada had nearly fainted.

Then she’d found Murtagh’s eyes, and she was dizzy for a whole other reason. The distance between them was far too large, and Nasuada had the girlish urge to run up the hill and throw herself into his embrace. She restrained herself, but her eyes said what she could not speak out loud.

They shared a dinner that was simple, but plenteous, and full of laughter and song as Elven friends reunited and Nasuada’s Urgal and Dwarf guards had the pleasure of greeting Kharnine and Thrivka–the first of their kin to have the title of Rider. 

Nasuada embraced Eragon warmly, forgoing the usual formality of her Queenship and saying,

“There is no audience to perform for here, Eragon, you need not bow.”

He had bowed anyway, of course, but accepted her hug as an old friend.

“It’s good to see you,” Eragon said as they stood holding each other’s arms, all smiles.

“And you,” Nasuada returned, “And you, Saphira, well-met.”

She curtsied to Saphira, who inclined her head and blinked.

Well-met, friend.

After Vanir had given their formal greeting and she had set her guards at ease, Nasuada had greeted Thorn and given Murtagh a hug–though it was stiff and dispassionate, as they were surrounded by his students and the other residents of the academy.

“I’ve missed you,” She whispered, before stepping back. He only nodded, a tension and a longing in his eyes, as Thorn swung his head forward and gently nudged Nasuada.

Friend-Nasuada, it is good for you to be near again.

I feel the same, Thorn, She said with a smile, laying a hand on his scaly brow.

The evening had been spent greeting and reuniting and being introduced to those whom she hadn’t met yet–including a dwarf named Duart, and an older Urgal woman named Nal, who was apparently the mother of one of her guards.

Elves and dwarves and Urgals alike got up to perform poems or songs, and the night was long, but filled with joy. The only thing she wished was that she could have some moments alone with Murtagh, but as it was they cast shared glances across the room towards each other, both silently asking the same question.

She was shown to a simple but comfortable room, where she would stay with Elva–who had spent the night mostly conversing with the various dragons, seeming more at ease with them than their riders. 

Nasuada had declined to have Farica come along with her to Mt. Argnor–because she knew her handmaiden would not want to be away from her family for such a long stretch of time–and she found it a pleasant change to tend to her own affairs–to do her own hair and put on her own clothes—though she did need Elva’s help in doing up some of her dresses.

The morning after her arrival, Nasuada was swept away immediately after breakfast to receive a tour of the keep and the grounds, and she could share only a brief conversation with Murtagh before he took off with Thorn and one of the other pairs for their daily flight. 

She was amazed at the keep and the grounds and the gardens and the way Eragon had built a home for him and his students out here in the wilderness. Eragon took her up to see the little cottage they had built up the mountain, for moments of quiet meditation, whenever a student might need to step away from the bustle of the keep for a day or so.

“We learned quickly that we needed to give each rider and dragon the chance to be alone with each other sometimes,” Eragon explained when they had flown back down to the grassy slope. “Their bond is the most important part of their training–learning to trust each other, to support each other, to share something special–and it’s nice for me too,” He said with a mischievous smile, “To have a place to run away every now and then.”

Nasuada smiled, watching as one of the wild dragons soared overhead.

“You never get used to it,” Eragon commented, noticing her wonder. Nasuada laughed.

“Is it everything you imagined?” She questioned, “Everything you hoped for, when you set out?”

Eragon sighed.

“Yes, and no. I did not realize how much I would have to rely on the others here to do what I could not do alone. But relying on them has taught me many valuable lessons, and Saphira and I are the better for it, I think.”

Eragon walked easily with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes scanning the grounds that bustled with life.

“I hoped for a safe place for the dragons to rebuild their race, and for the riders to start anew…” He said, sounding peaceful, “And I got it.”

His eyes were dancing when he looked down at her.

“That’s in no small part thanks to you.”

Nasuada’s gaze lowered.

“And you,” She rebutted, “And Arya, Islanzadi, King Orrin, King Orik, every Varden soldier… and my father… and Brom…” She smiled up at him, a twinge of melancholy as she hooked her arm through his, giving him a gentle squeeze.

“Your father would be very proud of you, Eragon,” She said, and Eragon returned her soft sadness.

“As would yours.”

Nasuada nodded, and took a breath, admiring the view as the silver dragon—Shillith was his name–splashed in the river.

“I’m afraid I could get used to this,” She said with a soft laugh, and Eragon smiled again.

Not until the next afternoon did Nasuada find an opportunity to speak alone with Murtagh. 

They had finished another group meal in the main dining hall, and she had spent several hours in a wooded clearing watching Eragon practice swordsmanship with the students, first with Dusan, whose fighting style was similar to his own, and then with Kharnine, who was much harsher and more aggressive—terrifying to watch. Eragon adjusted his fighting style for each student, and in that alone Nasuada noted how much he had improved over the years, even since the end of the war.

Murtagh sat beside her and calmly explained the different exercises Eragon was putting the students through, his own sword not even strapped to his belt. Nasuada knew that Murtagh did not teach combat to the riders at the Academy–it had been his one demand when Eragon took him on as an instructor, that he not be required to teach his students how to kill. He also, Nasuada discovered, did not even take Zar’roc with him during his day to day activities at Mt. Argnor.

“Why not?” Nasuada asked quietly as Kharnine stepped aside and the newest rider–Rhiannath–took her place. The young girl was around fourteen or fifteen, and was clearly just understanding how to handle her sword, but she had learned a lot over the last year of training.

Murtagh shrugged as Eragon started slow with Rhiannath, making a series of simple attacks and allowing her plenty of space to deflect them.

“When I first got here, I didn’t feel safe, you know. I felt like… something bad was always coming, like I had to be ready. Carried my sword with me everywhere.”

Murtagh squinted up at the sparring pair.

“And I hurt Thorn, one night, when I was drunk…” He muttered, his voice suddenly very quiet, “Swinging Zar’roc around like an idiot; I cut him, and he didn’t even say anything.”

Nasuada winced, understanding how hard that must have been for him to realize, and understanding more the reason for his determination when it came to giving up drink.

“I had been living with this… fear over my head, and I…had to let it go, had to try and trust that everything was going to be alright,” He said softly, his face pensive.

 “So I just… left the sword in my room one day. And everything was fine; the academy didn’t… burst into flames, and no one died, and I didn’t need my sword.”

He smiled softly, gesturing to his empty belt.

“Took awhile to feel comfortable, but… I kept doing it, and it felt right. I think it sends a good message to the students: they’re safe here.”

Nasuada smiled, she loved to hear him talk about his pupils, loved the way he used to write about them in his letters, the way his voice grew excited when he spoke about their work. He sounded tender, and gentle towards them in a way that was different from how he spoke with her—almost paternal.

“I’m sure they appreciate that,” She said, “Rhiannath especially–it is hard to feel safe in a new place.” 

Murtagh looked at her for a long second, before turning his attention back to the sparring.

They watched Eragon with the students for a few hours, enjoying the coolness of the trees that shaded them, but when Eragon sent the young riders down to the river to clean off and followed after them, neither Nasuada nor Murtagh moved from their spot on the turned-over log.

“Eragon said that path…” Nasuada gestured across the clearing,  “Leads to a glade that is full of lilacs this time of year.”

Murtagh nodded, and a breath of quiet filled the air.

“Would you show me it?”

Murtagh nodded again, more hesitantly this time, but then he stood, and offered her his hand to rise.

They walked together quietly under the green canopy of trees, a soft afternoon wind rustling the leaves above. Nasuada was at peace and utterly calm here, in a way she rarely was in Ilirea; it was good to be in the open air, walking through dirt, not worried about lurking eyes or pressing issues of the court. She felt safe, as Murtagh had said, and she felt close to him, despite the heaviness that hung between them.

She knew he would not be the first to broach the subject matter, and understood that she would have to ask the question that was laying on both their hearts. But she was reluctant to do so, because the afternoon was so lovely, and the company even moreso.

“I missed you,” She said finally, deciding that was a safe place to start. Murtagh swallowed, as they sauntered slowly down the wooded path.

“And I, you,” He said quietly. Nasuada’s heart was beating very insistently, and her mouth felt dry, but she forced herself to breath in the calm green air, and remind her that this was the man she loved, and she need not fear him.

“I did as you asked,” She said, her voice soft, “I… I tried… I gave them a chance, truly.”

They had arrived at the edge of the clearing, a lovely sea of green and purple, and Murtagh stopped, his expression strained.

“There are many admirable men in the world,” Nasuada said quietly, tentatively reaching out a hand, and brushing her fingers against his,  “But none that I could love so well as I love you.”

Murtagh swallowed tightly, and looked at her with that same terrified, hopeful look. Nasuada smiled ruefully.

“I’m sorry if that isn’t what you wished to hear.”

Murtagh was looking down at their hands now, his thumb tracing the lines of her palm.

“It is both my dearest wish and my deepest fear,” He whispered, and Nasuada placed her palm on his cheek.

“You are safe here,” She reminded, “You need not be afraid of me.”

Murtagh sighed heavily, still looking down.

“You will not be convinced with more time?” He asked, and Nasuada shook her head.

“This year was the longest of my life… and I spent several fighting a war,” She pointed out with a soft smile, “No other will take your place in my heart—I am more sure of that now than I was last summer.”

Murtagh winced, and Nasuada tried not to be hurt by that. She tried to remind herself that his reluctance was not due to any lack of love on his part, but rather a fear of what their union might mean. It still hurt, though, that he seemed so aloof, that he had not openly spoken the words to her, that she had not been able to receive the same love she gave.

Murtagh was holding her hand and looking down at it, and he seemed to be both fighting to hold tighter, and struggling to let go.

“I must make you one last plea…” He said softly, “But I need first to ask the Queen’s permission to speak of things that are not… fit for polite company.”

Nasuada’s calm expression faltered for a moment as he blinked up at her, unsure. She was taken aback by the sudden formality, and by the fact that he had just released her hand and was wringing his own tightly together, like he needed to distance himself from her.

“Y–you have it,” She managed, “Anything you need to say to me, you can. You know that.”

Murtagh nodded, taking an unsteady breath, not quite meeting her eyes. Nasuada’s heart was uneasy now, hot in her chest, suddenly pricked with fear.

“You have… spoken to me of your desire to have a family,” He started hesitantly, as birds rustled in the branches above their heads.

“...that it is your dream to have children of your own, and–and now heirs to your throne as well.”

Nasuada nodded, her brow creased as he met her eyes, a deep ache behind his own—it was a look she recognized as one of old pains.

“You deserve to have everything you want, Nasuada,” He whispered, his hand coming up to softly brush away a strand of her hair, “You have so much love to give… and you would make a wonderful mother; any children would be lucky to have you as their family.”

Murtagh’s eyes were glazed with unshed tears, and the quiver of his voice stabbed Nasuada like knives. He was mourning something, grieving like there had been a death.

“I would see you have this dream,” He breathed, his head shaking as he looked into her face,

“...but you cannot have it with me.”

Nasuada remained still for the span of a few heartbeats. 

The wind rustled quietly around them, and she took a careful breath, searching his eyes.

“...because you will not have children?” She asked tightly, “Or because you can not?”

Before Murtagh spoke, she knew the answer from the expression on his face—sadly resigned, apologetic, almost pitying that she had held out hope. He glanced down again, clearly struggling to say it.

“When I was… s-sent out by the King,” He said quietly, “He w–he wanted to make sure there were no accidents .”

Murtagh looked up at her regretfully.

“His physicians made sure I could not inadvertently become the father of any noblewoman’s children.”

Nasuada felt the twist of the knife in her heart, hating to see the man she loved hurting, and wondering if she would ever come to the end of the horrors he’d faced in Uru’baen. Her own dreams were an afterthought to his pain—how could she care about such things, when he’d endured so much on his own? But she did care, and he knew she cared, and that made it all the worse.

Nasuada placed a comforting hand on his cheek, trying to think of something to say, but he continued before she found her voice.

“The truth is, Nasuada,” Murtagh took her hand again, determined to see this through, now he had begun, “I have–I have not… been with a woman, since Uru’baen.”

He swallowed, and shifted his shoulders, clearly embarrassed.

“And I–I truly do not know… if… if it holds any p-any pleasure for me, anymore,” He was wincing as he said it, unable to look her in the eyes, ashamed of his own weakness, for which she felt angry on his behalf.

“You deserve to have someone who can… who will–f–fulfill husbandly duties,” He breathed uncomfortably, “Who can give you… who can give you the pleasure that should be… between a husband and wife.”

He was practically gritting his teeth as he spoke, clutching her hand like a lifeline but unable to meet her eyes. 

“I would not see you deprived of such things,” He concluded shakily, “Deprived of the family you deserve, and the pleasures that any wife would be right to expect. And so I am–I am asking you… to consider letting someone else take–take my place at your side… even if you believe they cannot take my place in your heart.”

Silence stretched between them for a long moment, and Nasuada could see that Murtagh had made his final plea, surrendered everything to her, given her every reason he could think of to walk away from him–every reason but the one that really mattered.

She tried to breathe through the pain in her chest and the ache behind her eyes, seeing him like this, and knowing it was because of her, and also knowing it had nothing to do with her. 

There was a moment–she had to be honest with herself, there was one moment–when she considered what it would mean, to lay aside a dream that she had held since she was a young girl, to forget all prospect of motherhood, and resign herself to being childless for the rest of her life. This was a choice she now had to make; Murtagh had not been given the same choice, and for that she would be furious to the end of her days.

There was a moment, but it was only a short one. Because in the next moment, she considered what it would mean for her to give him up–to choose the possibility of motherhood over a life with him at her side, to choose any man but him… and she knew that her choice had been made a long time ago.

“Murtagh…” She placed a hand against his face, feeling the warmth of his skin, and silently asking him to meet her eyes.

“...I am so sorry,” She whispered, “...for what they did.”

She took a shaking breath.

“And if I could take that pain from you, I would. And if I could give you back the choice… I would . I wish I could give you back your choice…”

She sniffed, feeling the sting of her own tears, and fighting to remain steady.

“But I am making my choice, now…” She continued, “And I am choosing you, Murtagh . I do not want any husband… I want you as my husband . I do not want anyone’s children… I want your children. And if we cannot have children, and if our family consists only of you and me and Thorn,” She had to chuckle a little through her tears, 

“...then I will still be the happiest woman in Alagaesia, because I will be at the side of the man I love.”

She gripped his hand tightly, to keep him from drifting away, to make sure he knew that she could have said these words in the ancient language, because they were the truth.

“And if you find… that you have no joy or pleasure in–in our marriage bed, then I will simply go without.” She laughed a bit then, and confessed, since they were being totally honest now,

“I have gone without for nearly thirty years, and I promise you, I shan’t notice the difference.”

Murtagh’s only reaction was to blink down at their hands.

“I would still have you,” Nasuada continued urgently, needing him to hear this, “Even if you could not move, even if you’d–you’d lost your body and turned into an Eldunari or become a spirit–even then, I would still want you by my side, because I love you, Murtagh… not for your body, and not for what you can or can not give me… I love you for your heart, and your mind, and your kindness, and your strength, and your wisdom, and your courage, and your selflessness, and every part of you.”

Nasuada stopped to catch her breath, holding his face and caught between joy and tears.

“So I will ask you, now, again … will you make me the happiest woman in Alagaesia, and consent to marry me?”

Murtagh looked at her fully then–full of all his protests, she could see, of all his many reasons why she should not choose him–and yet she had chosen him. He breathed in to steady himself, and pulled her hand away from his face.

“...I have one condition,” He said, and Nasuada groaned in frustration and eagerness.

“What? What condition? Whatever you need, you have it, you stubborn–beautiful fool.”

Murtagh looked determined, but she could see he was hiding a spark of his own happiness.

“There is unrest in Sinderah–”

“There is always unrest in Sinderah–” Nasuada dismissed wildly, unable to think through her own joy.

“–I kn–I know–” He raised a hand to placate her as she nearly bounced in place. “But I know it has not been faring well this past year, and you’ve had protests from some of the dwarf clans as well, who’d rather distance themselves–”

“Murtagh, please get to your point…”

“If we… if–if I agree to marry you now, we must keep it secret.”

Nasuada blinked, her eager giddyness suddenly dropping.

“A secret?”

“Just for a while, just until things are more settled.”

Her brow knit.

“I am not ashamed of you, Murtagh,” She said seriously.

“I know. I–but you need King Orrin’s favor, if there is a revolt, and he will not look kindly on us together. You need the dwarves’ support–all of them–and those who are against your alliance will only use our union as a weapon to bolster their case. It was true last year, and it remains true now, and I cannot–I cannot let them hurt you because of me. Please, Nasuada,” He was looking at her now, his eyes fierce,

“If something happened to you because of me… I could not live with myself,” He breathed, “I am not asking for forever… just–just until Sinderah is in a better place, and this conflict among the dwarves has been settled. Then you may—you may parade me about the city if you wish, and I will happily stand at your side and tell the whole world you are my wife. I will write out a thousand declarations and scatter them among the streets from Thorn’s back, I w–I will march into Du Weldevarden and present myself before the Elves as your husband. But only when it’s safe. Only when it won’t hurt you.”

Nasuada swallowed, working through it in her head, the possibilities, the obstacles.

“Nothing is guaranteed,” She returned, “There will be other problems, other–other conflicts, other cities that have unrest.”

“I know,” Murtagh said, “But you’ve only had the throne for five years… and you need to maintain the allies you have. Give it time… and I–and I promise, I will stand with you.”

“A secret marriage…” Nasuada mused, her heart fluttering as she allowed herself a small ludicrous smile, “I suppose it… could be romantic.”

Murtagh sighed, close to rolling his eyes, but smiling.

“But you will marry me?” She confirmed, holding his face again. “Secret or not, you will say yes? You will be mine?”

Murtagh looked down at her with an expression both loving and exasperated, brushing her hair back, and shaking his head, his eyes so full of love for her that Nasuada thought she might burst.

“I have been yours since the day we met,” He whispered, and then he kissed her. 

In the middle of the quiet woods, surrounded by waving lilacs, Murtagh kissed Nasuada until she was breathless, and with every heartbeat he silently spoke his love for her. For the first time his kiss wasn’t hesitant, or afraid, or heavy with the weight of pain. This time it was all of him, a gift to her, a surrender to the future that they’d both fought against for so long. A future together .

Nasuada imagined this was what dragons felt, when they soared above the clouds on a cool, clear day—free, and strong, and full of life—and perfectly, exactly, precisely where they were meant to be.

Chapter Text

“How can I help you two?” Eragon asked as his quill scratched notes out on supply reports. Murtagh was standing before the desk in Eragon’s study, Nasuada at his side, feeling both nervous and elated, unable to quite stand still, wanting to run or fly or swing his sword or roar his exuberance to the sky like Thorn would. 

Instead, he spoke:

“We’d like you to marry us.”

Eragon’s hand jerked, and ink splattered across his parchment as he looked up sharply. 

When his brother lifted his bewildered gaze, Murtagh pointedly reached for Nasuada’s hand, and clasped it tightly. He could feel her smiling at Eragon’s stunned expression, as even Saphira lifted her head off her cushion.

“Wh–”

“Nasuada asked me to marry her, and I said yes,” Murtagh said, hoping he sounded calm and commanding; he wasn’t quite sure how Eragon was going to react. “We’d like to be married, and we’d like you to do it.”

Eragon was blinking rapidly, his face caught between a half dozen different emotions and his eyes flicking between Murtagh and Nasuada like he wasn’t sure if they were playing some joke on him. 

Murtagh was trying to keep his expression neutral, but inwardly he was buzzing with the happiness of holding Nasuada’s hand, of saying the words out loud, of being here in this moment with the people who meant so much to him. 

Thorn was waiting in the doorway, and hummed with happy amusement, feeding off of Murtagh’s emotions and transferring his own. 

When Murtagh and Nasuada had returned to the keep after their eventful stroll in the forest, they had gone immediately to Thorn, who knew the moment he’d touched Murtagh’s mind what had happened, and crowed with joy.

“I hope you’ll forgive me, Thorn,” Nasuada had said when Thorn swooped down to meet them at the foot of the slope, nudging them both affectionately and humming deep in his chest, “I ought’ve asked your thoughts on the matter, before proposing.”

Thorn had blinked at her warmly.

You are the heart-partner of my heart-partner, Beloved-Nasuada; if I had my wish, Murtagh would have asked you to be his mate long ago.

Murtagh could tell that Nasuada was relieved—he imagined she had her concerns about Thorn being jealous of their relationship, but she didn’t know Thorn as well as he did. 

The three of them had climbed the hill to the keep, and almost immediately gone to find Eragon, who was now sitting flustered at his desk, ink splattered across his supply reports and a slow smile spreading across his face.

“ Married ?” He said, still stunned, “I d–I didn’t realize you’d–I mean, I didn’t think you were courting.”

“We weren’t, I don’t think…” Nasuada laughed, and Murtagh felt her lean into his shoulder, “But also…”

He looked at her as they both tried to work out what to say.

“...I think we’ve been courting for a long time,” She concluded, and Murtagh felt that summed up the situation adequately.

He turned back to his brother.

“You said before… several years ago, you said… that if we had feelings for each other, you would–would support that. I know it will complicate things, but…” Murtagh swallowed tightly, trying to be firm, to show Eragon that he meant this, that he wasn’t going to back down. The Academy was important to him, but Nasuada was also important, and despite all the many reasons why it was a bad idea, she had chosen him–so now he was going to defend her to the last.

“...but we’re ready to deal with whatever comes.”

Eragon’s eyes were shifting back and forth in thought, like he was running through all his objections in his mind, Saphira watching from the corner. Murtagh could tell they were talking to each other in their minds–he knew what it looked like when a rider was carrying on two conversations at once.

“When?” ‘Eragon finally asked, looking up, and Murtagh and Nasuada glanced at each other, both seemingly unprepared for the question. Nasuada seemed about to laugh again, and she shrugged.

“I… tomorrow?” She suggested, looking so beautifully exuberant; Murtagh would’ve married her right that minute, but he turned to Eragon with a nod.

“Tomorrow,” He concluded, as though they had planned it all along.

Eragon’s fingers were pressed against each other, and he seemed deep in thought. The more seconds that went by without him congratulating them or giving his well wishes, the more nervous Murtagh was getting. Had he made a miscalculation? Had he misinterpreted Eragon’s words from before? Would Eragon be against Murtagh marrying the Queen, essentially allying himself permanently with Nasuada’s kingdom above all others? Would he make Murtagh choose between being an instructor at the academy, and being Nasuada’s husband? He didn’t want to do that. He couldn’t do that.

“I cannot marry you tomorrow,” Eragon said finally, and for the first time a twist of hurt entered Murtagh’s bubble of happiness.

He grimaced, and he felt Nasuada shift beside him.

“W…why not?” He asked hollowly, already feeling anger bubbling in his chest.

Peace, Murtagh, Thorn advised from behind, shifting his own weight, as if he were ready to pounce.

Eragon wiped his ink-stained hands with a cloth, sighing.

“The party from Ellesmera led by Queen Arya is set to arrive here in less than a week’s time…” He began, his angled face stiff, and serious.

“Among their number will be our mother.”

Eragon raised his eyes back to Murtagh, and suddenly there was the unmistakable flicker of a smile.

“...and I don’t think I’d live to see winter if I let you get married without her.”

Eragon broke into a grin then, and Murtagh felt his heart unclench as Saphira hummed in amusement and Nasuada breathed a sigh of relief.

Eragon then rose from the desk and stepped around, grasping Murtagh’s hand and pulling him into a fierce hug.

“Of course I’ll marry you!” He laughed, “And of course you have my support. I love it, I love you–both of you–”

Eragon embraced Nasuada as well, beaming and almost swaying with joy.

Joy to you both, Saphira’s voice echoed in their heads, I am glad to see you join our family, Friend-Nasuada.

“Thank you, Saphira,” Nasuada laughed, her arm around Murtagh’s waist; he could hardly believe what was happening right now, he never wanted her to let go.

“We have to prepare!” Eragon said wildly, “We’ve got to–to plan a feast, choosed where to gather, find some–some flowers, some ribbons, Nasuada, you need a dress–”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” Murtagh dismissed.

“Well, you’ve got to wear something nice—”

“I am wearing something nice,” Murtagh said in offense, as Eragon hurried back around to the desk, already starting a list.

“This is going to be the first wedding at Mt. Argnor,” Eragon responded commandingly, “And it’s going to be the first wedding I officiate that isn’t in an active war camp—so it’s going to be nice , and you’re going to deal with it, Murtagh.”

Murtagh frowned at Nasuada, but her eyes were sparkling, so he couldn’t stay mad. He supposed she might like the idea of flowers and a dress and decorations and all, and if she wanted it, then he would see her have it. He would see her have everything she wanted for the rest of her life.

“Oh–Roran!” Eragon realized, “He won’t be able to be here. Katrina and he will be sorry to miss it.”

“Well…” Nasuada started in hesitantly, still holding tight to Murtagh’s hand, “The truth is Eragon, we actually are wanting to keep this… to keep this just between us, for now.”

Eragon’s buzzing excitement was dampened for a moment.

“Keep this between… who?”

Murtagh straightened his shoulders.

“I’ve asked Nasuada to keep us a secret… for her safety and the good of the kingdom. I don’t need to tell you how this complicates things. And with the way things have been with the dwarves… now would not be a good time for her to be making enemies.”

Eragon raised a sharp eyebrow.

“That is… risky.”

“I told Murtagh I was not ashamed of us,” Nasuada put in, “And that I’d send an announcement to all the cities today declaring him my consort. But…” She glanced at him and squeezed his hand comfortingly, “He has a point, about Sinderah… about the dwarves. And… I’m willing to keep this quiet until things are more secure.”

“Everyone on the mountain would have to agree not to say anything,” Eragon pointed out, “Your guards, all the elves, Elva, our mother…”

“I won’t ask anyone to make an oath if they aren’t willing,” Murtagh said calmly, “But we would prefer… if everyone could agree.”

Eragon sat back with his hands intertwined, and Murtagh could see his mind working.

“I don’t see why anyone would have a problem,” Eragon agreed, “But… you know, unless you’re going to keep this a secret forever…” He glanced up, and both of them shook their heads immediately. Not forever.

“...it could cause some issues down the road. People might resent your keeping something like this from them.”

“Maybe,” Nasuada acknowledged, “But I can handle resentment as long as I have my allies.”

Eragon nodded, and his smile returned.

“If that’s what you want, then it’s settled. I support you two, whatever you need. Those of us here can swear in the ancient language to keep it between us… then you won’t have to worry.”

“They don’t have to swear if they don’t want to,” Murtagh reiterated, uneasy with the thought of his friends and students shackling themselves with oaths on his behalf–even if it was for Nasuada’s sake.

Eragon seemed to understand this, because he looked Murtagh straight in the eyes and said in the ancient language,

“I swear I will tell no one outside of Mt. Argnor about your marriage, until you or Nasuada say I am allowed to do so.”

Murtagh felt a surge of gratefulness for his brother’s unquestioning support, and nodded.

The supply reports were utterly forgotten then, as Eragon switched into wedding preparations, eagerly taking to the task. As night fell and word spread about the mountain, Murtagh received hearty handshakes and warm hugs and well-wishes from all of his companions, and he hardly ever let go of Nasuada’s hand, feeling as though he might wake up from this and realize it was all a dream.

At dinner Eragon made the announcement official, though most of the residents of Mt. Argnor had already heard, and he toasted Nasuada and Murtagh’s health and happiness. Murtagh watched the gathered group carefully for the hesitation and concern he expected to see. Most everyone, however, seemed to be fully on board with the proposal—slightly surprised, perhaps, but not upset or dubious. The Elves seemed the most reserved about the matter, though this was understandable, as elves did not get married and therefore weren’t entirely sure what the point was.

But if anyone had any reservations or disapproval, they kept it to themselves, and that was alright with Murtagh. He had lived for years with all the self-doubt that he could handle, and he had given Nasuada every reason he could think of not to marry him. She’d decided she didn’t care about any of that, and so he would choose not to care either, and hang what anyone else thought.

No one seemed to object to the idea of keeping the union a secret, and most of the assembled group quickly swore in the ancient language to remain silent on the issue. Blodgharm seemed pleased by the idea of secrecy, saying that it was wise to consider all consequences, and Elva said that it would prevent much pain, which worried Murtagh, though she would not elaborate.

The rest of the evening was spent with lively chatter in the dining hall, as Ithki planned a wedding feast with the dwarven cooks, and Istirith conferred with the elves on what they would do to decorate the glade. They’d settled on holding the marriage ceremony in the largest of the wooded clearings where they often sparred or trained, and the elves had taken it upon themselves to make sure the place was presentable. 

Murtagh didn’t know what to make of all the fuss, but he tried to receive it passively, as his friends gave their congratulations and, over the next few days, began offering him gifts of various sorts.

 Duart spoke a dwarvish blessing over him, and handed him a russet-colored stone that he said would portend prosperity for their marriage. The old Urgal woman Nal presented Nasuada with a necklace made of bird bones, putting it over her head and saying,

“Wear it for three days before your wedding, Lady Nighstalker, and your children will be born strong and tall—fit for battle and winning much honor.”

Nasuada had accepted the gift as it was meant, and neither she nor Murtagh had the heart to tell Nal that the bone necklace would be of no use to them.

The next few days were busy with a mix of Murtagh’s regular training work, preparations for Arya’s arrival, and setting up for the wedding, and unfortunately the bustle and fuss was making Murtagh more and more nervous for the actual event.

He hadn’t ever thought past saying yes to Nasuada, and now that the actual prospect of going through with it was facing him, he was trying not to panic. What did he know about being married? What was he supposed to do? Would he be expected to make a speech? How would they manage it? They couldn’t live together, since it was being kept secret, and since Murtagh still had his responsibilities at Mt. Argnor, but he wanted to be by her side–he couldn’t just leave her in Ilirea again, could he? But he’d have to. She had her responsibilities too.

He was madly in love with Nasuada, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, but beyond those two facts, everything else was overwhelming. Murtagh began to wish that Eragon had just quietly married them in his office that first evening and gotten it over with–but he could see that Nasuada was enjoying herself, so he let it be, and did his best to be invested in the preparations.

The day before Arya’s company arrived, Eragon dragged Murtagh down to one of the glades where they had regular campfires, and he found that all the rider students and their partners were assembled around the flaming logs.

Eragon gestured for Murtagh to sit on one of the overturned logs, as Kharnine grinned over at him and Thorn settled into an empty space.

“It used to be Carvahall tradition,” Eragon explained, loud enough for everyone to hear, “The day before a man got married, that all the other men of the town would host a celebration for him; to separate him from his beloved for just a bit, and prepare him for starting the next chapter of his life off proper.”

Eragon looked around at the assembled students and dragons, who were all smiling and eager. Murtagh already felt self-conscious, and he tried to fight the urge to get up and flee.

You will have to put up with much more attention than this, Thorn said, noting his discomfort, If you are to be married to the Queen.

Murtagh gave his partner a sardonic look, but kept his peace, trying to relax as Eragon continued his speech.

“Well, it’s not the day before, and we’re not all men…” He said apologetically, as Thrivka shook her head.

“...but we wanted to celebrate you.”

Eragon passed a mug to Murtagh–with cider in it instead of mead–and they all raised a toast.

“To Murtagh and Nasuada, and a new member of the family of Riders,” Eragon said, meeting Murtagh’s eyes across the flame.

The students cheered the toast emphatically, and Murtagh only nodded, feeling very warm. He hadn’t liked leaving Nasuada alone–he found he didn’t much like leaving her side at all–but Eragon explained that Nal and Istirith and some of the women were having their own celebration for her. 

“She’ll be alright without you for a few hours,” He promised, clapping his hand on Murtagh’s shoulder. Once Murtagh forced himself to relax, the evening was lovely and boisterous, as the gathered students and their dragons recounted their favorite stories, sometimes making jokes at Murtagh’s expense, and sometimes growing serious, and thanking him for what he’d taught them in their years at the academy.

“When Shillith hatched for me, I knew there would be those who doubted me,” Kharnine said in her own toast, “And I came to the mountain proud of the chance to represent the Urgralgra with my partner.” 

She smiled at Shillith.

 “But also, I was afraid, though I would not admit it. Master Murtagh did not let me be puffed up with pride. He told me the truth from the start, but he also showed me he would do anything to protect my partner, and because of that, I was less afraid. I knew Master Murtagh was on our side, and that he saw me for myself , not for what my people had done in the past.”

Kharnine looked at Murtagh now, and her yellow eyes were somber, but shining with admiration as the firelight flickered off her horns.

“My people have dubbed you Stoneheart because of your great strength and resolve–a fitting name. But Shillith and I are glad now that you have found a dam of equal strength and resolve–with whom your heart can be soft. You are worthy of Lady Nighstalker, and she of you. A fit match.”

Kharnine raised her mug, and Shillith let out a trumpet in agreement, and Murtagh felt both self-conscious from the praise, and very thankful to be surrounded by such people. The evening was lovely, though he missed Nasuada, and he was grateful to have some quiet time alone with just the students and his brother, amidst all the bustle.

He did not see Nasuada again until the next morning, when they ate breakfast together on Thorn’s balcony. Nasuada complimented the other women of Mt. Argnor for her own celebration, saying that even Elva had consented to join in the frivolity.

“Did you have fun?” She asked him warmly, sitting on the stones with her legs crossed and her hair loose, very un-queenly, but so beautiful. 

“After they got through with their teasing, sure,” He admitted good-naturedly. 

They were much kinder than they needed to be, Thorn said primly, A little friendly ridicule is healthy.

“As long as it’s not at your expense, hmm?” Murtagh returned.

When I choose a mate, they are more than welcome to make their jokes at my expense, Thorn returned, his snout turned up haughtily.

“Well then, we shall have to start looking for suitable candidates,” Nasuada said with a smile. Murtagh was glad they could all talk easily together like this–he was thankful that the two people he loved the most fit together so well. Nasuada was a different version of herself here, in Mt. Argnor. 

He’d always admired her strength as Queen—her regality and composure, and the stern way in which she was able to command a room—but here on the balcony in the morning sun, her shoulders were soft and her tight curls hung loosely about her face, and she was letting herself really smile. Murtagh liked every part of her, but he loved to see her relaxed and at ease, and to know that she felt comfortable around him.

Now, he thought, even when he saw her stiff and regal in the throne room, he would have the pleasure of knowing this other, secret side of her–one that not many got to see. He didn’t want their time together at Mt. Argnor to end, but he did look forward to that one thing.

“What are you thinking?” Nasuada asked with a twinkling smile, noticing Murtagh’s gaze.

He shrugged, and brushed one of her curls aside.

“Just looking at you.”

The color of her cheeks deepened, and she looked down at her plate.

After a beat of quiet she said,

“I had something I wanted to ask you, um… about the–the ceremony and all.” 

Her eyes flicked up, and she seemed caught between nerves and excitement.

“Of course,” He said immediately, feeling Thorn’s interest.

“Um… well, among the–the Wandering Tribes, we wear gold jewelry with symbolic significance, you know… such as status or wealth or position.”

Murtagh nodded.

“And, well, in the Inapashuuna, when a man gets… gets married, he will get a gold ring in his left ear, up–sort of at the top. A piercing.”

Nasuada gestured to her ear.

“And I didn’t know if… maybe if you’d like to do that.”

“To get the piercing?”

Nasuada nodded.

“You don’t have to. I just thought I’d mention it.”

Murtagh furrowed his brow in thought for a moment.

“But if you’d… if you were marrying one of your people… he’d get it?”

“Yes, it’s tradition,” She confirmed, “It symbolizes that a man is, well… taken.”

Murtagh smiled quietly, he liked the sound of that. 

“Married women wear three gold bracelets on their left wrist,” She continued with a gesture, “But… seeing as we’re keeping this a secret, I suppose I’ll have to wait to start wearing them. It might cause questions if any Tribe members come to Ilirea.”

Murtagh nodded, and looked at Thorn.

What do you think? Should I do it?

Thorn shrugged mentally.

Dragons do not need such adornments; I have known no dragon to where jewelry–except for Saphira’s gold ring from Two-Legs-Short-King-Orik. But if it pleases you to follow the traditions of Beloved-Nasuada’s people, then do so.

Murtagh nodded, then looked back at Nasuada, who had been quiet, clearly aware that Murtagh and Thorn were talking.

“I’d be honored,” Murtagh confirmed, and Nasuada seemed relieved. She was more nervous this morning than was usual with her—Nasuada was usually very good at keeping her composure no matter the situation, but Murtagh could guess at the reason for her nerves.

He placed a hand on her knee, to keep it from bouncing.

“It’s going to be alright,” He offered, “She’s not frightening, I promise.”

Nasuada smiled sheepishly, knowing who he was talking about.

“She’s your mother, of course she’s frightening,” She said with a laugh. The caravan was set to arrive sometime that day, and Murtagh would get the pleasure of introducing Nasuada to Selena, who had no idea that her eldest son was going to be married the following day.

Murtagh himself was a little nervous, if he was honest. He hoped Selena would be happy, and not concerned at the seeming suddenness of it all. To both Murtagh and Nasuada, the road to get to this point had been a long and painful one, but to everyone on the outside–except for Thorn–it must have seemed ludicrous how abruptly they’d chosen to commit their lives to one another. Murtagh hoped Selena would understand; he knew she’d had her share of complicated romances. 

“Well, look at it this way,” Murtagh offered as Nasuada fiddled nervously with her necklace, “The first time I met your father, he threw me in prison.”

Murtagh shrugged.

“It can’t be any worse than that.”

Nasuada broke into a playful smile. He loved to make her smile, and he knew that, despite the sadness of not having Ajihad around on an important occasion like this, she would like to remember him with joy and softness. 

For Murtagh’s part, he would always be thankful that he’d had a chance to meet Nasuada’s father–however briefly–before he’d died. He hadn’t known at the time, of course, what an important figure Ajihad would play in his life, but the fact that they had fought together meant something to Murtagh, even if he had been unable to save him that day in Farthen Dur. 

Murtagh remembered the conversation he’d had with the older man, just before they were beset by the Urgals. Ajihad had offered him a place among the Varden, commending his bravery and his heart, and Murtagh remembered that meaning a lot to him. He hadn’t had many people in his life to look up to before then, and even when he’d been suffering in Uru’baen, Murtagh had clung to Ajihad’s words—trying to believe that he really was everything that the Varden leader had thought he was. 

In the end it hadn’t worked—eventually Murtagh had been worn down by torture and pain and despair—but Ajihad’s words had meant something; the fact that a man such as him would have believed in Murtagh. It had always been there at the back of Murtagh’s mind, even in the moments he was most ashamed of.

I hope I can continue to honor you, He thought then, as if praying, watching Nasuada speak to Thorn on the sunny balcony,

  And I hope you would be pleased by Nasuada’s choice of me. I swear I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of it.

***

Murtagh spotted his mother among the company of elves as they rode into view astride their beautiful horses, Firnen circling in the sky overhead. 

Selena was shorter than the rest, and wore a light gray cloak over her thin frame; she waited while formal greetings were exchanged first, between Eragon and Arya and Nasuada—all of whose rank warranted some ceremony—but once the official business was concluded, Selena dismounted gracefully and turned to Murtagh as he approached.

“Hello, darling,” She said with a smile, putting her hands on either side of his face, and searching his eyes as she often did. 

“Hello, mother.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek as Thorn snaked his head close.

“Hello, Thorn, it’s good to see you dear,” She patted Thorn’s snout and he blinked calmly. 

Eragon joined them both after exchanging a few quick words with Arya, and hugged Selena tightly.

“I’ve missed my boys,” Selena beamed, “And I’m not certain how, but you both seem to be getting taller every time I see you.”

Eragon laughed.

“Or perhaps I’m getting shorter,” She lamented with a wink. Arya and Nasuada were talking near Firnen’s green bulk, and Saphira had not followed Eragon over, but rather stood nuzzling Firnen’s neck on the slope before the keep.

“I’m so pleased that we could all be here together,” Selena continued, “I’ve been wanting to meet Ajihad’s daughter for some time.” 

She glanced Nasuada’s way, and Murtagh shifted, swallowing down some nervousness.

She’s your mother, it’s fine; it’ll be fine, He told himself, and forced a breath through the tightness in his chest.

“I can… introduce you, if you’d like,” Murtagh offered, and Selena nodded with a grin.

“I’d be honored,” She nodded, and Murtagh held out his arm for her, as Eragon met his glance and gave an encouraging nod. 

Arya had moved on to greeting Vanir, and Nasuada anxiously pressed down the pleats of her dress as Murtagh brought his mother over.

“Mother, this is Queen Nasuada Ajihadsdaughter,” Murtagh said with a nod, listening to his own heart fluttering in excitement, “Your Majesty, this is my mother, Selena Cadocsdaughter.”

Nasuada breathed carefully, but she was smiling; no doubt she was as nervous as he was. Selena curtsied low.

“I’m honored, your majesty.”

“The honor is mine,” Nasuada returned, “And you may call me Nasuada, of course, milady.”

Selena nodded, and there was a bit of a lull, as Nasuada glanced at Murtagh, a question in her eyes. 

“Um…” Murtagh cleared his throat, “M–mother, I… Nasuada and I… actually wanted to speak with you.”

He lead Selena and Nasuada a bit away from the rest of the gathering, towards the fringe of trees that began to cast their shadows across the grassy slope.

“We… um, well…” Murtagh looked at Nasuada for help, unsure how to start this; his mother was standing there expectantly, a questioning smile creasing her lips, and his heart was feeling very hot. Feeling himself shaking a bit, Murtagh decided to just get it over with, and he took Nasuada’s hand, like an anchor. She squeezed it back.

“Nasuada and I… are in love. And we plan to be married… tomorrow,” He blurted out, and held his breath for the response.

Selena was halfway smiling, and Murtagh did not see as much surprise as he was expecting. His mother only ducked her head, as if hiding the rest of her smile.

“I hope you’re not… displeased,” He asked, nervous, “I know it seems sudden, to–to anyone else, and we never meant to keep anything from you, we only–”

“I knew,” Selena said calmly, finally lifting her face so that Murtagh could see the sparkle of joy in her eyes. She glanced between Nasuada and Murtagh, “The way he talks about you…” She said to Nasuada, her eyes sparkling.

“Well. A mother knows these things.”

Murtagh felt another tight squeeze from Nasuada’s hand.

“I am not displeased,” Selena assured, “I am very, very happy. And very pleased for both of you.”

Selena took Nasuada’s free hand.

“It is truly my pleasure to meet you, darling, and if you are even a quarter of the woman my son has made you out to be… then it will be my honor to call you daughter.”

“Thank you, Selena,” Nasuada returned, clasping Selena’s hands gratefully. Murtagh could see Nasuada’s eyes misting as she smiled, and see the tension draining from her shoulders. It felt strange, to be here watching this moment, an occurrence which had not appeared in even his wildest imaginings.

“I am more glad than you know to have your blessing,” Nasuada continued, “Both your sons have played important roles in my life, and I can see where they get their strength.” 

“Unfortunately, I cannot claim the credit for their strength,” Selena demurred, looking at Murtagh, “My sons had to grow up without me, but I am proud nonetheless of who they grew to be.”

With the anxious prospect of introducing Nasuada to his mother out of the way, Murtagh’s full attention was now fixed on the fact that the following day, he would be married. He felt equal parts exhilarated and terrified, but Eragon assured him that was normal.

“Not that I know from personal experience,” His brother said as they helped bring out the food for the welcome dinner, “But from what I saw with Roran–marriage and anxiety seem to go hand in hand.”

His brother clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“You love each other, that’s all that matters.”

Arya greeted Murtagh calmly and offered her congratulations as the meal commenced with noise and chatter.

“Both of your happiness is well-deserved,” She commented, looking forward instead of at him.

“Thank you.”

“I don’t need to tell you that it will complicate things,” She added after a moment, “Even if you plan on keeping it a secret for now.”

Murtagh nodded. He wasn’t offended by Arya’s bluntness, and in reality he’d been expecting much more resistance than he’d received so far from everyone else. 

“Yes,” He confirmed, “We’re prepared to face whatever comes.”

“I do not say this as an insult to your integrity,” Arya continued, “But your union changes things. From now on the Order cannot rely on you to remain impartial towards the affairs of Nasuada’s kingdom.”

Murtagh nodded, his hands clasped behind his back calmly.

“In truth, Arya, I have never been impartial towards Nasuada,” He returned, not angry, but matter-of-fact—being as honest with Arya as she was being with him. “I have loved her far longer than I have been a member of the Order.”

He met her sideways glance frankly, and she nodded.

“Well. Nothing of worth is simple, I suppose. We stand behind you both, of course.”

Murtagh inclined his head thankfully.

The two of them had never minced words with each other; theirs was an honest relationship, and often Murtagh found that Arya would tell him things that Eragon either would not or could not—difficult things to hear, sometimes, but true. He valued her straight-forward approach.

“Love isn’t ever simple, so far as I can see,” Murtagh continued, still looking at the gathering crowd instead of at Arya, “But it’s worth the risk, don’t you think?”

He looked at her straight on then, and she returned the look without flinching. He knew she understood his meaning, but there was one subject on which they had never been frank with each other, and Arya did not deign to change that now.

“Perhaps,” She said coolly, her gaze unchanging.

***

Late into the evening the gathered group feasted and shared news with each other. It was rare for the residents of Mt. Argnor to receive tales from the populated lands of Alagaesia, so the new company was much appreciated.

Murtagh had never liked crowds, and he tended to get tired easily when trying to keep up with more than one or two people, but he did enjoy the evening, and tried to go along with the frivolity, holding Nasuada’s hand and keeping close to her whenever he got overwhelmed.

For her part, Nasuada was at ease among the large group; she was charming and diplomatic, but much more relaxed than she was whenever she had to perform queenly duties. She was still conscious of the impression she was giving, but the people gathered here were not her subjects, and she did not need to win any favor from them. Murtagh was glad to see her fitting in so well with the elves and the other residents of Mt. Argnor.

“I would love to see Ellesmera someday,” She said late that evening, when they had stepped outside for some air, and were strolling around the paths of the little vegetable garden. “I know it’s rare for them to allow humans, but… from everything I’ve heard of it…”

Nasuada drifted off, her eyes roaming the sky, as Murtagh imagined she was picturing the ancient trees of the Elven city. He loved to see the way the moonlight reflected on her skin, her gaze dreamy; he loved that he could be so close to her, could watch her so carefully, could feel her hand in his.

“I won’t go, though…” She said quietly, looking at her feet in thought as they strolled slowly, “Not until you do.”

Murtagh smiled softly, his emotions mixed with melancholy.

“It may be a while,” He pointed out, “Before I am welcome in Ellesmera. Elves have long memories.”

She looked up at him.

“Then I’ll wait.” She kissed him once, briefly, as if to seal her promise, and he sent a silent thanks to the gods of all races, that she was her and he was him, and somehow they were here and together, and tomorrow they would be married and then there was the rest of forever.

“There’s something I need to ask you,” She said quietly, as they turned around the end of one of the garden beds, and their steps faced towards the keep again, light spilling out from the doorway onto the slope below.

“Anything,” Murtagh assured.

“We’ll… be married tomorrow,” She said, a smile in her voice, and Murtagh laughed a little.

“Yes, I’d noticed.”

She was looking over at him, and her face was full of soft joy, but also wistful melancholy.

“And we’ll pledge ourselves to each other… for the rest of our lives.”

It filled Murtagh with a thrill of joy to hear her say that. Was this really him? Could he really be this lucky? Had all the pain he’d endured really been worth something? Or was this a cruel dream?

“Yes,” He confirmed, eager for the next day to come, so he could make his vows and declare his love for her before all the assembled company..

However, Nasuada stopped her strolling, and she turned inward, holding his hands gently with hers.

“...‘the rest of our lives’… does not mean the same thing for the both of us.”

Her dark eyes reflected the moonlight as she searched his gaze, and Murtagh frowned.

“It is my hope and my goal,” She continued, “That the kingdom shall not see another war like the one we fought, so long as I am alive.”

Nasuada took in a deep breath.

“And that means that I will most certainly die before you.”

Murtagh grimaced, feeling a painful tug in his gut. Why say this? Why was she talking of death now on the eve of the happiest day of their lives? Why would she hurt him like that?

“I need you to make me a promise, Murtagh…” She whispered, placing a palm against his cheek and looking into his pained gaze.

There was quiet for a moment, and the sounds of the nighttime closed around them.

“...when I am old, and the time comes for me to leave this world,” Nasuada said achingly,

“I need you to let me go.”

She nodded to steady him, her eyes pricked with tears as a hot stinging filled Murtagh’s throat.

“I will gladly pledge myself to you for the rest of my life,” She reiterated, “But even so, I will have to leave you one day, and take the path from which no one returns.”

Murtagh wanted to protest, wanted to stop her speaking like this; he did not want to hear about her death, did not want to even think of it.

“There have been sorcerers and magicians throughout the ages who have fought against death,” She said, swallowing tightly, “And men have done heinous things in the search for immortality.”

Nasuada shook her head, her eyes blazing with determination and her jaw set.

“I will not have my life prolonged by twisting the fabric of the world,” She said, “I do not wish to live a life that is preserved only by unnatural magic.”

Her hand gripped the back of his head tightly, their foreheads almost touching.

“You must promise me now, while we are young and full of life… that when my time comes, you will not destroy yourself trying to save what cannot be saved.”

Murtagh felt her hand squeezing his tightly, her eyes determined.

“I am mortal, and that is as it should be. And when I am gone… you must continue to live .” She smiled through her tears, and Murtagh felt his own threaten to fall, the spectre of his future pain looming so close in that moment.

“You must allow yourself to find joy,  Murtagh, to find love again, to live , and not despair of the world because our time together comes to an end.” 

She sighed.

“Tomorrow I will promise to share with you my whole life… but I know I will not be able to share in all of yours. It is enough for me, however, to know that when I am gone, you will still have people who love you… and a life worth living.”

Nasuada tilted her head.

“Can you give me that promise?”

Murtagh grimaced, feeling a dreadful ache in his chest, his cheeks dampened. As he had said to Arya, love was never simple—the deepest loves and the deepest griefs were always found together, pain and joy inevitable partners in the dance of life. But was the pain he would feel then worth the joy he felt now ? He hoped so. 

“I don’t… I don’t want to live in a world without you,” He shuddered, and Nasuada gave him a look of sympathy.

“You will not have to for many years yet,” She comforted, “But I am mortal, and this is the truth. And if you are to join yourself to me… then I need to know that you will be alright when I’m gone. Thorn will need you still, and Eragon, and your students, and your friends… there is still a life worth living in that future. I plan to live a very long, very happy life… but I need your promise; that you will let yourself live, even when I am gone.”

Murtagh sniffled, holding her hands in his, trying to imagine a world without her, and despairing at the thought. But then he thought of his time in Uru’baen, when he had no one but Thorn to comfort him, and he thought of the time before he’d met the Varden, when he and Eragon had joined together in their fight for survival. And he knew that there was light to be found, and good things to be had, and joy to be experienced that had nothing to do with his love for Nasuada. But still, considering a life without her was like considering a day without the sun. 

He and Eragon had shared many long talks on this matter—on the painful knowledge that everyone they knew and met would one day grow old and die. That Roran and Katrina, and Duart, and Nal, Jormundur and Selena and any friend who was not an elf or a rider… they would all be gone one day. Nasuada too. It was a terrible burden, and some days it made Murtagh despair.

Was it worth it, then? To love Nasuada? He supposed he wouldn’t know until the time came and he had to give her up. All he knew now was that he couldn’t say no to this—couldn’t walk away from her for the sake of avoiding that pain. And perhaps that was what it meant to love in the first place—to care for someone, despite knowing the pain it would bring.

Today, he decided, he would not despair. Today Nasuada was young, and alive, and so, so beautiful. Today he had her in his arms, and their future stretched before them like the vast expanse of an open plain–full of possibility.

Today he would not despair. Today, he would love.

“I promise to love you until the day you die…” Murtagh whispered thickly, holding her tear-misted gaze, “And even though I shall never stop loving you… I promise to let you go.”

Chapter Text

The next day broke beautiful at Mt. Argnor, with mist curling off the grass as the early morning warmth drew it away.

The mountain was busy with noise and life, all training and work put on hold that day for the ceremony that was going to take place. 

Nasuada remained in her quarters, having left Murtagh in the hall of the keep the evening before, and instantly wishing they could be back together again. That morning, Elva helped her to get ready, behaving much more congenially than was her habit—Nasuada guessed that she was feeding off the general happiness of the people on the mountain today, and perhaps off of Nasuada’s own happiness—without much pain to make the girl feel irritable. 

The elf woman Istirith had made an elegant but simple dress for Nasuada, and she helped her get dressed while Elva did her hair. Arya came by with some offerings of her own, lending Nasuada a set of earrings and a beautiful necklace.

“I know it is human tradition for a bride to borrow something of her mother’s on her day,” Arya said kindly, “I hope this will suffice.”

Nasuada felt a warmth in her chest as she accepted the gifts gratefully, and embraced Arya. Even her melancholy thoughts of missing her father and mother were overshadowed by the joy of the day, and rather than dwell on the sadness of their absence, she thought of how privileged she was to have had a family worth missing. She knew they were with her in heart, and moreover, she knew they would have been proud of her choice of husband, so she let the melancholy wash over her and through her, blossoming into quiet contentment as she donned Arya’s gifts.

In the afternoon of the day, with sunlight dappling through the layered leaves, the residents and guests of Mt. Argnor assembled in the large training glade, which was unrecognizable from only a handful of days previous. 

The elves had taken to their work with gusto, and had sung out of the plants a beautiful display of colors and shapes. Benches grown of treeroots sat in a semi-circle, facing a magnificent arch formed from two trees that had melded together, as though clasping hands with each other. 

The arch was covered with twirling vines and blooming flowers, exploding with color and light, and trailing all along the edges of the clearing. Every tree on the border seemed to have lengthened their bows, stretching towards the center, and their arms were drooping with vines and flowers that hung from them in a way that was somehow both perfectly planned and stunningly wild.

Nasuada herself had been given a crown of wild flowers that twisted into a tress, falling down her back at the same length as her curly hair. She arrived at the clearing escorted by Elva and Istirith, and found the strange crowd assembled—Urgals and humans, elves and dragons and dwarves, all waiting for her. 

But despite the overwhelming beauty of the glade, Nasuada’s eyes fixed immediately on the man standing under the arch, his back straight and his long hair resting cleanly on his shoulders. Nasauda lost her breath for a moment as she locked eyes with him, and somehow, impossibly, her happiness increased.

When she stood before him, Murtagh’s hands were clasped at his front; his tunic and jerkin were of the same fabric as Nasuada’s dress, and he wore a crown of leaves, with small white flowers woven throughout. 

Nasuada beamed up at him, her heart full to bursting. It was strange and wonderful to see him so dressed, but she almost laughed, despite the solemn moment, when she noticed that someone had given Thorn a necklace of flowers as well, which the dragon wore proudly across his red scales.

Eragon stood between Murtagh and Nasuada, smiling almost as big as the both of them as he raised his voice to greet the gathered crowd.

“Friends! Welcome.”

The ceremony was a blur for Nasuada, as she felt the excited flutterings of her heart, and the constant urge to either laugh or cry or both. Her eyes were locked on Murtagh the whole time, reveling in the love and softness she found therein, and when Eragon beckoned them to take each other’s hands, she felt his trembling to match her own. She did not let go of him, as Eragon made his speech as officiant. 

Their ceremony was a strange and lovely mixture of traditions–Eragon drew words from the heritage of the northern villages such as Carvahall, but he also included recitations that one would hear among the Wandering Tribes, and some phrases that Nasuada recognized from Surda or the coastal cities. It was appropriate, she thought, since she and Murtagh came from different parts of the world, and both had called many places home.

Rather than offer any sort of dowry or exchange of goods—as Nasuada technically owned an entire kingdom and Murtagh technically owned nothing but his sword and saddle—they had settled on simply making vows to each other, of their own words. After all, no one outside of this assembled group would know anything of the marriage for the foreseeable future—this ceremony was about them, and no one else.

When Nasuada came to speak, she took a calming breath, anchoring herself in the depth of her lover’s eyes, and said,

“Murtagh Selenasson of the Riders. My love for you is as the desert… stretching to the horizon forever, wide and powerful, and all-encompassing.”

Nnasuada breathed through a smile.

“Today in the living presence of those we love, and with the spirits of those who have passed on watching over, I vow to give my heart to you until it beats no more. I vow to trust you, as you have earned my trust, and to rely upon you, as you have proved your reliability. I vow to tend to your hurts with gentleness, and open my own hurts to your care. I vow to be by your side, whether in person or in spirit, and I vow that I never shall love another as I love you. When I am wronged, I promise to forgive. When I do wrong, I promise to beg forgiveness. When we agree, I promise to stand with you to the last, and when we disagree, I promise to listen to your truth.”

She felt the tight grip of his hands on hers, pulling her in, urging her on.

“I promise to love your partner as if he were my own,” She said, glancing at Thorn with a smile, “And to consider the both of you in all my choices. Until I return to the sands, I declare myself yours, Murtagh of the Riders—with a glad and willing heart that from here on shall belong to you.”

Then Nasuada spoke a traditional phrase in the tongue of the Inapashuuna, a sealing of her vows:

“The earth and sky witness this my promise. Until they are no more, so shall it be.”

Then Murtagh took a shaking breath, his eyes smarting as he glanced down at their clasped hands. Nasuada could feel the gazes of the gathered company on them, the soft breeze blowing through the hanging ivy. Never had a place or a moment felt so perfect as just then, in the glade, with him.

“Nasuada daughter of Ajihad,” He breathed, his voice low, “You are to me… like the stars of the night—which banish the dark, fill the world with their beauty, and guide lost travelers safely home.”

He gripped her hand, and she tried to listen hard to his words, to not get lost in the moment, in the haze of her love for this man.

“Today I promise to share everything with you,” He said, his brow knitting together, “Your strength shall be my strength, your certainty my certainty, your goodness my goodness, and your pain… my pain. I will give to you all that I have to give, and when that is gone, I shall give yet more. I vow to hold you when you are hurting, and to let you do the same for me. I vow to carry your burdens, and give you my own. I vow to lift you up, and be lifted by you. My heart has been yours since the day we met, but now I give to you also the strength of my body, and the magic in my veins, and the force of my mind.”

Murtagh let go of one of her hands, just to brush a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch was as soft as the breeze.

“You have made me a better man,” He murmured, “And I vow to spend the rest of my life being better for you. I am yours, always, Nasuada daughter of Ajihad, and I shall love you in this and every lifetime.”

Nasuada was already weak with speechless joy, but then Murtagh did something that caused a ripple of surprise from the assembled elves, and even from Eragon. 

He repeated his vows in the Ancient Language, sealing their truth for all time.

Nasuada didn’t understand the words, but she felt the binding meaning as if he was speaking a spell over her. They settled into her bones, and anchored her to the ground and to his eyes and to the beating of his heart. And she wished she could give him such a gift in return, to seal her promise in the same way. 

But instead, when he had concluded his second vows, Nasuada put her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him. They hadn’t got to that part of the ceremony yet, but she supposed that they were sort of making things up as they went along anyway, and she wanted him to feel how much she loved him.

When they parted again, Eragon had them cross their wrists, and he wrapped a red ribbon around both of them, as was tradition in the north. The cloth gently fell over the scars on both their arms, and it reminded Nasuada of the words she had spoken to him the previous year—that they were tied together by their pain, and their sacrifice. Now they were tied together also by their love.

When Eragon joyfully declared them to be man and wife, Murtagh leaned down to kiss her again, and as Nasuada flung her arms around his neck, she felt him lift her from the ground and twirl her around, swinging her in his embrace, as their friends applauded and flower petals cascaded from the sky.

***

Dwarven lanterns hung from the branches and lit the clearing as the sun descended behind the mountain and evening fell. The dwarves brought down the tables from the dining hall, along with plate after plate of food, which they laid out around the clearing.

Nasuada and Murtagh sat together on a table laden heavily with flowers and the best plates and cutlery Mt. Argnor could offer. She hardly wanted to let go of his hand to eat the meal that was set before them, but the food was delicious, and she’d been too nervous to eat all day, and the dwarves and elves who had made the feast were rightfully proud of their work.

The evening was filled with music and laughter and light. The elves performed songs for them, and the dwarves did a ceremonial chant that involved a lot of stomping, and the Urgals presented them with an honorific they called the “Howl of Ilgra” which did include quite a lot of howling and some more stomping. Murtagh assured Nasuada that this was a great show of respect, and that it was not often performed for non-Urgals, so she tried not to be too startled by the terrifying display, and gave them her thanks.

After the dinner, all the musicians among them broke out various instruments, and the dancing began. The night was a blur, but Nasuada tried to soak in every moment as they danced under the stars, and told stories, and listened to their friends sing.

Before the dwarves had brought out the sweet dishes they had prepared, Nasuada and Murtagh completed the Inapashuuna ceremony of bestowing symbols of gold on each other. First, Murtagh presented Nasuada with three gold bands that would dangle from her wrist—he had formed them himself with magic, from gold he’d taken from the ground.

Eragon put them on her wrist, as it was not custom for the husband and wife to directly bestow each other’s jewelry. Instead, another member of the tribe would do it, as a public declaration of the tribe’s acceptance of the union.

“I will be proud to wear them,” She said with sparkling eyes, sitting on a tree stump as Eragon slid the bangles onto her wrist and she held Murtagh’s hand with her free one. She looked up at him,

 “And even when they cannot be on my wrist, their meaning will remain in my heart.”

He bent down and kissed her upturned face as Eragon said,

“Alright, alright at least let me get out of the way first.”

He bounced to his feet and gave Nasuada a little bow, still grinning.

“We… accept you as part of the tribe, Nasuada, wife of Murtagh.”

Next Murtagh took her place on the log stump, and tilted his head to the right so that Arya could pierce a needle through his upper ear. They completed the process without magic, since it was ceremonial, but that meant that the needle prick did hurt.

“Sorry,” Nasuada said with an apologetic smile, holding Murtagh’s hand as Arya bent over him and placed the sharp point against his skin. Murtagh only squeezed her hand and winked at her, as Arya quickly punctured the lobe of his ear and slid a small gold circle into the newly-formed hole.

Thorn’s head was hanging close, and he sniffed curiously.

“It’s alright, Thorn,” Murtagh said with a smile, “Hardly hurts at all.”

“I’m sorry Thorn, I hope you’re not upset,” Nasuada offered apologetically, and Thorn blinked over at her calmly.

I do not see what piercing of the flesh has to do with choosing a mate, He mused, But if my rider and you are happy, Beloved-Nasuada, then so am I.

He ducked his head, and she gave him an affectionate pat on the snout. When Arya stepped back she said,

“We accept you as part of the tribe, Murtagh, husband of Nasuada.”

Murtagh nodded, and Nasuada did not miss the significance of Arya performing this particular part of the ceremony—she being the Elven Queen, who spoke on behalf of her people.

“What do you think?” Murtagh asked when the others had stepped away and he looked back at her, his hair tucked behind his ear so that the earring was on display.

“Roguishly handsome,” She said with approval, brushing a gentle finger along his hair, “Now everyone can know you are a kept man.”

She bent down to kiss him again, having lost count of how many times she’d kissed him that evening, and yet wanting nothing more than to keep doing it. The celebrations continued late into the night, and Nasuada had the pleasure of discovering that the man she had married was an exceptional dancer, leading her gracefully in a circle around the flickering campfire, and weaving in and out between the other dancers with ease.

When Selena had taken Murtagh’s hand to dance with him for a moment, Nasuada stood quietly to the side and watched the merrymaking, joined by Eragon, who sipped a drink as they followed the path of Murtagh and his mother’s movements.

“Since when is my brother any good at dancing?” Eragon asked, amused, and Nasuada gave him a sly glance.

“He grew up amongst nobility, Eragon,” She returned, bringing her eyes back to her husband– her husband! –and enjoying the sight of his smile, “There really isn’t much to keep oneself occupied besides going to dances and practicing swordsmanship. And you know he’s an exceptional swordsman.”

Eragon just sighed, feigning a beleaguered look as he took another sip.

“I suppose Garrow never had much time for dance lessons in between all the milking and plowing.”

Nasuada chuckled and Eragon cracked a grin.

“Well, you seemed to be doing alright with Arya,” She pointed out—the two of them had been dance partners for much of the night. She gave Eragon a knowing look, then, but didn’t dare say much more on the subject. Eragon only tightened his lips and looked away, though she saw a slight quirk in the corner of his mouth that bespoke a smile.

“I’m glad to call you my sister, Nasuada,” He said after a minute, growing more somber, “You make him happier than I’ve ever seen.”

Nasuada took Eragon’s hand and gave it a loving squeeze, content to watch the joyful company, and wile away the hours until dawn.

***

The sky was still dark, but it was more than halfway through the night when the celebration gradually began to wind down, and Murtagh ran up to the keep to fetch Thorn’s saddle. They would be flying up to the little cottage that the Order had built up the mountain, which Eragon had prepared for them to stay in, just to have a few days to themselves.

Nasuada had told her guards in no uncertain terms that, no, they would not be accompanying her to the cottage, and no they could not come to check on her or station a watch on the perimeter. They had been displeased, of course, but when she reminded them that the man she would be with was, in fact, one of the most powerful magicians in the world, they didn’t quite have anything to say in their defense.

Flower petals were thrown and their friends cheered them farewell as Murtagh held a hand out for Nasuada to climb up onto Thorn’s back, following her shortly after, and nestling behind her as the dragon rose to his feet, giving a joyful trumpet in response to the cheers.

Nasuada’s stomach lurched as Thorn took off into the night sky, circling the clearing as Eragon and the others continued to wave. Murtagh wrapped his arm around Nasuada’s waist, and she felt secure enough to open her eyes and enjoy the view as Thorn rose above the trees.

They flew in cool silence for a few short minutes, climbing up the slope of the mountain in the dark, until Nasuada spotted a pinprick of light in the forest below. Eragon must have sent someone up to light the fireplace and lanterns of the small cottage. Thorn let them down in a quiet clearing, disturbing a family of deer that had bedded there for the night. 

Murtagh helped Nasuada down, giving her a kiss on the way, and then turned back to Thorn and held his jaws for a moment, pressing his forehead against Thorn’s scaly brow, as they often did.

They exchanged some silent words, before Murtagh backed away and Thorn gave Nasuada a nudge with his snout, turning to take off again, and buffeting them with the air of his wings as he angled back down the mountain.

“I hope he won’t be lonely,” Nasuada said, holding Murtagh’s hand and leaning herself close against his shoulder as they watched Thorn’s shape disappear through the sky, which had just started to turn gray with the impending sunrise.

“I can tell him to come back, if you like,” Murtagh offered, an amused glint in his eye, and Nasuada rolled her eyes.

“Come on, it’s chilly.”

They traveled up the wooden steps to the little cottage, which sat raised several feet off the forest floor, surrounded by tree branches that shifted gently in the night air.

Murtagh opened the door and beckoned for her to enter, and the warmth of the cottage felt lovely on her skin. It was quiet and comfortable–not too fancy, but furnished with everything a person could need. 

The fireplace was crackling, and there was a small table in the corner with sprigs of fresh flowers on it, as well as several baskets which Nasuada knew contained food—Eragon had seen to it that she and Murtagh could remain up here for days without returning to the keep for supplies. She was grateful for his thoughtfulness—it had been a busy, hectic week, and after all the celebration she just wanted to be alone with her husband.

My husband, She thought, a little wave of giddyness coming over her again. She turned and found him standing with his hand still on the door latch, gazing towards her.

“What?” She asked, touching her hair self-consciously. Murtagh shrugged, his expression soft.

“Just looking at you.”

Nasuada felt heat flushing to her cheeks, and she ducked her head to hide a smile. She then continued to stroll about the cabin, conscious now of his gaze following her as she inspected the little room.

“It’s lovely,” She complimented, imagining Eragon and Murtagh and the students building the comforting refuge.

“Hmm,” Murtagh agreed from the other side of the room, “Only one bed, though… I suppose I could think of a spell to make it into two. Or else I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Nasuada looked up, unable to mask her sharp expression as her mouth opened slightly. She had only a moment of confusion, though, before she saw the mischievous glint in Murtagh’s eye and the corners of his mouth turning up.

“You may sleep outside , if you think you’re so funny,” She retorted, though she had to work to hide her amusement, “Perhaps the wolves will find you humorous company.”

“I beg your forgiveness, milady,” Murtagh said with a little bow, still smirking, “I promise I shall comport myself with utmost dignity from here on.”

Nasuada raised her chin.

“Well. I am the Queen after all,” She reminded him, turning away, and raising her hand to her neck, to undo the clasp of the necklace she wore. She breathed through the tremble in her hands, and removed her earrings as well. 

The dress she wore was not one of the stiff, many-layered garments from Ilirea that she needed Farica’s help to put on, but she still felt incredibly self-conscious when she began to undo the outer laces of her bodice.

She remained turned away from Murtagh, unaware if he was still watching her or not, but reminding herself to be calm. He was her husband now, and she need not be modest around him. She had never been undressed in front of a man before, though—except for during her captivity in Uru’baen, and that hadn’t been her choice. 

Murtagh had seen her then, of course—had been unwillingly present when she was in shackles with only a torn shift to cover her—but nothing about that situation was similar to this. When she’d been in the King’s clutches, all she’d wanted was to hide, and cover herself, and find some safety from the chill air and the prying eyes of her jailers. 

Now she was torn between her instinct for modesty and her desire to take all the layers off and reveal to Murtagh everything she was. She’d felt the heat of desire before, but that was not quite the same feeling she had now—this feeling was more about vulnerability, and the words she had spoken that afternoon in the presence of their friends.

I declare myself yours.

She turned back around when only her thin chemise remained, not bold enough to go any farther. Murtagh had not moved, and he was still watching her, and she felt bashful under his gaze, but she continued to move steadily.

She calmly pulled down the blankets on the soft, four-poster bed, and slid herself into it, but still he was standing there, with an unreadable expression.

“Well?” She said after a moment, “Are you going to join me?”

Murtagh blinked, and shifted his weight, and then he sat himself down on the other side of the bed and leaned down to undo his boots. She was watching him now, and could tell that he felt equally self-conscious about the whole ordeal.

The fireplace crackled quietly behind them as he pulled off his boots and jerkin, removing his belt and placing it carefully on the nightstand, which also held a flickering lantern. He left his trousers and tunic on, and pulled back the blankets on his side as well, sliding into the bed across from her, and lying with his ear against the pillow.

Then he winced.

“Ow,” He said, reaching to touch his left ear, which was still sore and a little red from the piercing. That was all Nasuada needed to chuckle, and rid herself of her nerves, as she lay facing him in the bed, feeling like this was a dream.

“I promised Thorn it wouldn’t hurt that badly,” She said with a smile, “You mustn’t tell him.”

Murtagh tilted his head off the pillow and lifted his left hand to his ear.

“ Weis heil ,” He said.

Nasuada saw a little glow from his palm, and then he lay his head back.

“There,” He murmured, “All better.”

“Good.”

Murtagh reached a hand out to her and brushed a strand of her hair back, and Nasuada smiled, content to lie there for an eternity looking into his eyes. She took his hand before it had retreated, and just held it, resting it between their bodies, tethering them together.

She felt drowsy from the warmth of the cabin and the excitement of the day, and her eyelids were heavy with sleep, even as the sky outside began to lighten.

“I love you,” She whispered to him, feeling his thumb tracing a gentle circle on her hand.

“I love you,” He said back, and she knew she could listen to that for the rest of her life.

***

Nasuada had fallen asleep holding Murtagh’s hand, but when she woke up she found herself close to his chest, with his arm draped over her. She had to take a moment and remember where she was, and who she was with, but after the initial shock, she felt a quiet flush of joy, and pressed in closer. 

The fabric of his shirt was soft, and she could feel the warmth of his skin and the gentle beating of his heart. It was fully daytime—she could see from the light that filtered in through the curtained windows—but Murtagh didn’t stir for a long time yet, and she just lay there content in his arms, running her finger softly down his shoulder.

When the rhythm of his breath changed, and his eyes fluttered open, she met them with a smile, and watched him go through the same process she had—of surprise, and then recognition.

“Good morning,” She whispered, her hand resting on his arm. Murtagh smiled.

“I don’t think it’s morning anymore.”

Nasuada shrugged, smiling back.

They rose after a while, moving softly about the cabin and investigating the baskets of food, sitting out on the balcony with breakfast, and watching the birds flutter back and forth in the surrounding forest. It felt covered and safe here—the trees sheltering them from unfriendly eyes, and waving their gentle branches as if in greeting.

They decided to go for a walk just before sunset, and finally got dressed again, though Nasuada didn’t bother with her hair and Murtagh wore just his light tunic and no jerkin. They wandered through the underbrush, following a small path that had been formed by deer and trampled more by Murtagh and his students while they’d been building the cabin.

The world was green about them, and the afternoon sunlight was gentle as Murtagh held Nasuada’s hand and led her through the soft pine duff. When they spoke, it was low and quiet–a few murmured words sufficing, as though they were loath to break the peace of the woods and each other’s company. Nasuada appreciated the silence, and she and Murtagh seemed to understand each other without words, speaking through their eyes and their breath and their soft touches instead.

When they returned, they cooked up some dinner over the fireplace, and once again ate on the open balcony, feeding whatever birds were brave enough to flutter over. Nasuada couldn’t ever remember a day being so lovely in all her life, and she was disappointed to watch the sun go down.

Murtagh was standing and gazing at the pink sky when Nasuada emerged from the cottage after putting the baskets up. She stood close beside him, allowing herself to be near, to break her usual boundaries, to feel the warmth of him as she leaned her head on his shoulder. 

“What are you thinking about?” She asked quietly, looking out on the forest with him. There was a beat of quiet, and the evening birds were sending their calls back and forth.

“Would you hate me if I said I miss him?” Murtagh asked, apologetic, but Nasuada just smiled, knowing he meant Thorn.

“I could never hate you,” She responded, and then she turned her body towards him, and allowed his arms to wrap around her so she was close to his chest.

“We can go see him, if you want,” She said, and she meant it. She would do anything to make him happy, and she knew he had hardly ever spent more than a day apart from Thorn. She would never truly understand the bond they shared—the way their minds and feelings were sometimes almost one and the same—but she understood what it felt like to miss a part of yourself.

Murtagh shook his head, though, and shifted his arms around her with a sigh.

“He’ll be alright. Maybe he and Firnen can work on getting along for once.”

Nasuada smiled, knowing the dragons’ general dislike for each other. There was a beat of quiet, and she asked,

“Will you miss me ? When I’m away?”

Murtagh nodded.

“Like the sky misses the stars, when they’ve gone.”

“Hmm,” Nasuada mused, running a finger along the softness of his hair, “But the stars are never gone… they’re always there, even if you can’t see them. And they always come back to the sky, when night falls again.”

Murtagh blinked softly.

“Good,” He confirmed, and he kissed her.

Nasuada breathed deeply into his kiss and she let her hands rise to his face, as his arms held her tightly, pressing her close. She felt nothing but his warmth as she tried to melt entirely into him, wishing for more, to be closer, to rid herself of all distance.

She felt herself moving as Murtagh kissed her, and they stumbled from the balcony into the warmth of the cabin, finding their way blindly, without breaking their embrace. Something changed in the kiss, then, becoming more needy and urgent–and his hands were on her waist, and hers were clutched in his hair as she fought for breath and refused to break her lips from his.

She shuddered when she felt her back press against the bedpost, and her skin seemed to be on fire when he stumbled in closer, and his body was against hers.  Her hands moved of their own accord, brushing under his shirt, seeking his skin, and delighted when they found its smooth surface.

But then she stopped for a moment, and broke the kiss, lifting her hands off him, and pulling her head back.

“Is this alright?” She breathed, resisting the urge to press into him. He nodded without opening his eyes and mumbled,

“Yeah,” Before kissing her again; but a second later he, too, pulled his head back and blinked his eyes open, his chest rising unevenly.

“Is this–are–are you alright?” He questioned, and Nasuada nodded shakily.

“Mmmhmm.”

Then she could no longer speak, because her lips were on his again, and her hands were searching for every inch of him, and his touches sent chills down her spine. In that moment, she wished nothing more than to be completely, utterly, irrevocably, his .

Afterwards, they lay for a moment together in the quiet of the summer evening, feeling each other’s heartbeats and catching their breath. Nasuada was lying with her head on Murtagh’s chest and her hand resting on his ribcage, as he gazed up at the ceiling.

She felt his breaths rising steadily beneath her, and she was blushing, and smiling–feeling somehow both exhilarated, and also like she might never be able to look him in the eye again. She was just wondering how a person was meant to break the silence, after all that, when he took a steadying breath and said,

“So…. that’s how it’s supposed to feel.”

Then he looked down at her, and she up at him, and they both burst into laughter.

Chapter Text

Soft days passed on the mountain as Murtagh and Nasuada spent their hours together, talking in hushed murmurs and enjoying the beauty of the woods and the pleasure of each other’s company.

Murtagh had the joy of waking up every morning to Nasuada’s face, and going to sleep with her in his arms, amazed each time he realized it all over again. The weather was warm and breezy, and the summer flowers were in bloom as they explored the woods around the cottage at a lazy pace.

The only thing Murtagh found himself missing was Thorn, though he felt bad for thinking that when all his attention was meant to be focused on Nasuada. Spending time without Thorn’s calm connection to him was like an echoing silence in his brain, an itch that he couldn’t scratch or a buzzing fly in his ear. 

Most of the time the pleasantness of Nasuada’s company kept him distracted from the absence, but when it got quiet he would notice the strange silence, and start to feel unsettled. This was especially true on the third night, when Murtagh woke with a shout in the dark cabin–his heart hammering from a retreating nightmare–and did not find Thorn’s presence immediately there to anchor him.

“Murtagh?” Nasuada said quietly, her hand on his shoulder, “Are you alright?”

Murtagh had only a split second of confusion as the fragments of his dream slithered back into the shadows of his mind—then he recalled where he was and who he was with, and he only had to wait for his heart to slow back to its normal pace. His body was slower than his mind, in recognizing that the danger had passed.

“Sorry,” He murmured in the dark, taking her hand and kissing her palm.

“Just a dream.”

Nasuada sat up, the soft sheets shifting under her as she leaned close.

“Tell me,” She offered quietly, and he felt the comforting weight of her leaning on his shoulder. Whatever the dream had been, it had already slipped away from his conscious mind, and he could not place a finger on why he’d woken up so sharply.

“I don’t remember what it was about,” He said, shaking his head, “Just… shadows.”

He matched his breathing to hers and listened to the sounds of the quiet forest outside.

“I have dreams too, sometimes,” She whispered, “Nightmares, I mean.”

Murtagh tilted his head to look down at her, still holding her close. 

“I’m sorry.”

She turned a melancholy smile to him, tracing the edge of his brow with her finger.

“I can live with the shadows of the past,” She said, “When the present is so lovely.”

Murtagh kissed her gently, and eventually fell back asleep with her steadying weight against him.

The next day, though, the strange silence in Murtagh’s head was louder—as if not being able to touch Thorn’s mind when he’d awoken from his nightmare had drawn his focus back to the emptiness, the lack. He started to wonder if Thorn was okay—if he, too, was struggling with the separation, feeling that painful buzzing, or having dark dreams with no one to pull him out of them.

He tried to push away the anxious thoughts, but as they made breakfast and packed a picnic which they were planning to take up to one of the waterfalls that afternoon, Nasuada noticed his distraction.

“Go see him,” She said suddenly at the small table, and Murtagh blinked up, turning his attention back to her chiding smile.

“You’ve been staring through the window for three minutes,” She pointed out, “Go see him, you’ll feel better.”

Murtagh winced, feeling bad that she’d noticed.

“It’s… alright, I don’t—”

“Murtagh,” She interrupted with loving sternness, “Go meet with Thorn for a little while. Otherwise you’ll be worrying about him all day.”

Murtagh sighed with relief, unable to express his gratitude; she was far more understanding and gracious than he deserved. 

“Thank you,” He said, rising and giving her a kiss on the head as he hurried to put his boots on.

He walked a good way down the forest path until he was close enough to the Keep to find the hum of Thorn’s mind. He touched his partner’s thoughts and bid him come up to a little clearing in the woods, feeling a vague impression of consent.

Thorn, upon arriving to the clearing and assuring himself that no one was in danger, immediately scolded Murtagh for leaving Nasuada alone.

Friend-Saphira has told me that this is not usual for you two-legs-round-ears—to leave one’s beloved during the sweetmoon.

Honeymoon.

Thorn squinted at him, annoyed.

Whatever it is called, you are being foolish. Go back to your wife.

I missed you! Murtagh protested, laughing as Thorn tilted his chin up proudly.

And I missed you, but I do not want Beloved-Nasuada to be angry with me for taking you from her. Friend-Saphira says that it is strange for you–

Oh, well if Saphira says, then by all means, fly off and forget I said anything.

Murtagh crossed his arms as if in offense, but he was smiling, and he knew Thorn was pleased to see him. Thorn snorted, and nudged Murtagh’s hair, relenting his protests.

After the dragon settled down, they sat quietly enjoying each other’s thoughts for a little while, with Thorn telling Murtagh that he had been keeping company with Elva while Murtagh was away.

She has an interesting mind for such a young hatchling; very wide.

What does that mean, ‘wide’?

Thorn shrugged mentally.

Just as I said. Her mind is wide–not like other two-legs-round-ears. She is interesting to be around.

I’m starting to worry you might replace me with Elva if I’m gone too much longer, Murtagh mused jokingly, and Thorn blinked at him.

Perhaps—in any case I don’t believe Elva Farseer would abandon her beloved while on her honey moon.

I did not abandon Nasuada; she told me to go, Murtagh responded, amused by Thorn’s disapproval.

Thorn huffed again, a little trail of smoke swirling from his nostrils, expressing all that he needed to say.

As they sat together for a short while in the clearing, Murtagh eventually told Thorn about his dream the previous night—the real reason why he’d felt the need to come see his partner.

It was just strange, He said, picking at the grass, Not having you there. It felt like the nightmare clung to me, like I couldn’t shake it on my own.

But you have Beloved-Nasuada, and she is good company as well.

I know. But she’s not connected to my mind, is she?

She could be.

Not in the same way. And besides, I don’t want to put that on her; it’s not her responsibility to–to pull me out of that, to comfort me.

Thorn’s great eye turned towards him with a sardonic look.

Beloved-Nasuada has pledged her life and heart to you, and you have promised to let her assist in carrying your burdens. She is more than capable of helping you fend off the shadows, when I am not around.

Murtagh just breathed that in for a moment, and he came to the conclusion that Thorn was right, of course. Hadn’t Nasuada said she would care for his hurts? Hadn’t she pledged herself to be by his side forever? He had given her all of himself, and even now—mere days after their wedding—was starting to understand what that meant, and how it might not be easy to lay bare some parts of who he was.

You’re right, of course, I was being stupid, Murtagh admitted, rubbing the side of Thorn’s neck affectionately, and feeling him hum in response.

Not stupid; just human. I am sure there are wounds that Beloved-Nasuada will find it hard to share with you as well. Perhaps you may help her feel safe to speak of them, by speaking of your own.

Murtagh stared at his partner for a moment, touched by emotion; he was constantly surprised by how wise Thorn could be, even though his partner had been that way since he was mere weeks old. Sometimes the way Thorn saw the world made Murtagh’s eyes so much clearer. He was feeling a lot of things for Thorn, but just that moment he didn’t have any words for them, so he just gave Thorn a hug around his large neck and said,

Thank you.

I love you, my partner, Thorn returned with a nudge, Now go enjoy her company; I will be there when you come back.

I love you.

Murtagh pressed his forehead to Thorn’s brow, and after his partner left, he felt better again, not missing Thorn so hollowly as before, and not so full of vague dread. He returned to Nasuada, and found her sitting on the balcony and watching the trees; he wrapped his arms around her from behind and breathed in her scent.

“Thank you,” He said softly, as he kissed her neck. “I hope you weren’t lonely.”

“Mmm, the birds kept me company.”

He rested his chin on her hair and breathed quietly for a moment..

“What did Thorn say?” She asked.

“He said I should not have left you,” Murtagh returned, “That you would be angry with me. Or angry with him, rather.”

“If I were angry with you I’d tell you,” She said, a smile in her voice, “And I could never be angry with Thorn, he’s too sweet.”

“And I’m not sweet?”

“Mmm,” Nasuada shrugged playfully. 

But after a moment she turned her head up to look at him and her eyes were serious again.

“You never need to apologize for taking care of yourself,” She brushed her fingers gently along his chin, “I know I married a dragon rider; a part of your heart will always be with him, and that’s alright.”

Not for the first time that week, Murtagh thought his heart might burst from thankfulness at the fact that Nasuada had chosen him of all people.

“A part of my heart will always be with you, too,” He said.

She smiled, and kissed him.

***

The next night he was not awakened by the phantoms in his dreams. Instead his eyes fluttered open to gentle sunlight streaming through the window, and Nasuada’s face blinking at him. He was lying with his cheek against the pillow, and could feel her fingers softly tracing lines across his back.

“Good morning,” She murmured.

“What are you doing?” He asked with a smile, enjoying the calming touch.

“Just looking at you,” She returned, her lips quirking. Murtagh closed his eyes softly and reveled in the movement of her hand.

“Sorry, it’s…unsightly,” He murmured, half into the pillow. He meant his scar, which he could feel her tracing back and forth, following the path of the damaged skin from his shoulder to his hip, and back up to the shoulder. He tried not to feel self-conscious with her, but he knew it was ugly.

Before he could get too embarrassed and turn over, he felt Nasuada’s lips touching his shoulder where the scar began, and he became still, as the curls of her hair brushed against his skin. With deliberate, loving movements, she began to kiss the path of the scar all the way across his back, caressing each patch of skin as if it were the beautiful petals of a spring flower.

Murtagh closed his eyes and breathed into the feeling, and she kissed back up to his shoulder, lavishing every inch of the scar with her soft affection. When she reached the end of it, she landed a last kiss on his lips, and leaned her forehead close to his as their heads both lay on the soft pillow.

“It’s lovely,” She murmured, her hand cupping his ear, “It’s you.”

This became their ritual, as they lay together in the soft hours of the morning: she would lavish his scars with kisses and called them lovely–not because what had caused them wasn’t terrible, but because they were a part of him now, and she loved all of him, not just the pretty pieces.

“Tell me about it,” She would whisper to him, her fingers gently tracing whatever scar she found, and he would give her the story–even if it was a painful one. 

When he was with her, somehow the words didn’t get stuck in his throat; he talked of the pain, but it was far away, like it had been with the Eldunari, when they’d guided him safely through the darkness of his memories. The hurt was still there , and sometimes–especially in the dark of night—it would come at him unawares, but in the soft sunlight of the morning, with Nasuada kissing his skin and holding his hand, nothing felt too painful or too dark.

 Some of his scars he’d never told anyone about, but some of them were from silly mishaps in his childhood—the time he’d sliced his pinky while trying to carve a horsehead figurine from an old log, or the time he’d got his trousers caught while climbing over a fence, and a wood shard cut into his ankle. 

Tornac had found him hanging off the fence helplessly almost an hour later, and the older man had helped him down only after a healthy amount of teasing. These memories had a pleasant haze to them, and he enjoyed the opportunity to share them with Nasuada, and expand their understanding of each other.

Nasuada had her own scars, which she spoke of too, and allowed Murtagh to kiss as she had—an acceptance and a blessing. Some of them he knew of—her captivity in Uru’baen had not been without its lasting marks, though they–like most of Murtagh’s–were faded and faint. 

Others were from her childhood in Surda, or her time in Farthen Dur, or from the battles she’d fought in her campaign with the Varden. He listened readily to any story she would tell, though of course he already knew some of her stories from their exchange of letters over the years. It was different, however, to see the marks in person, and to hear Nasuada’s voice as she remembered the moments, both painful and sentimental.

This practice continued until their last morning, when they lingered in bed much longer, knowing they would have to meet Thorn in a nearby clearing that afternoon, and fly down to rejoin the rest of the company. Murtagh was looking forward to seeing Thorn, of course, and he liked Eragon and Arya and the others well enough, but it would be sad to break the spell of these lovely days with Nasuada.

They both lay for a long while with their heads against the pillows, facing each other. Nasuada was holding Murtagh’s wrist, and softly tracing the two scars that crossed over each other–one a brownish burn, and the other a jagged ridge half-hidden by the overlaying mark.

“How did you do it?” She murmured; he’d told her before, of what he’d tried to do in the dungeons at Uru’baen, to escape the pain.

“There was a broken nail,” He murmured, “In the cell.”

Nasuada just breathed, continuing her soft touches.

“Were you scared?” She asked softly, her finger brushing back and forth on the uneven skin. 

“Of dying?”

She nodded just barely; Murtagh didn’t like to see the crease in her brow and the way her lips thinned when she was upset, but he’d promised to give her this—to be open with her–so he shook his head.

“I was… just in so much pain,” He murmured, “I begged them to kill me and they wouldn’t. So…”

Nasuada’s eyes fluttered up towards him.

“Did you ever… did you try again?” 

He felt the movement of her finger waver just slightly.

“No,” He said quietly, “After that, Thorn hatched for me and… and I couldn’t leave him alone.”

Murtagh held her free hand with his, feeling the comfort of her warmth, reminding himself—as Umaroth and the Eldunari often did—that the past had no claws, and his memories no teeth with which to harm him.

“I wanted to, though. Sometimes.”

Nasuada leaned her head close, and kissed the scar tenderly, covering the pain with her love. There was silence between them then, for a while, and Murtagh wanted to enjoy the pleasure of her company, but he was worried.

“If I ask you something, will you tell me the truth?” He asked anxiously, and Nasuada frowned.

“Of course.”

He didn’t want to ask what he was about to ask, but something had been gnawing at him anxiously since Nasuada had gotten out of bed early that morning to go to the outhouse, and he had to ask her about it before they rejoined the others—while they were still safe to speak openly.

He grimaced, but forced the words out carefully.

“W…am I… hurting you? W-when we’re together, am I hurting you?”

Nasuada blinked, and Murtagh found it hard to look at her. What he’d seen had scared him, and he wasn’t sure how to approach this, without hurting her worse.

“Together? Like… together together?”

“Yes. Is it hurting you?” He gritted out, holding her hand, but feeling afraid of the answer. 

“No,” Nasuada said immediately, a confused smile crossing her face, “N–no I… well, I mean the first time it did a little, but it also… you know, it felt nice.”

Murtagh was watching her face carefully, trying to catch any flicker of a lie, any indication that she was pretending just to save his feelings.

“It doesn’t hurt, I promise,” She said again, holding her hands to his face, concern in her gaze, “I… like being with you. I like it.”

She was still smiling, which was a good sign, though she seemed a little embarrassed to be talking about it. 

“You’re sure?” He asked.

“Yes,” She returned, solemn now, “Why… why would think you were hurting me?”

Murtagh swallowed tightly, unable to meet her eyes.

“When you got up earlier… I s—you were bleeding. There was blood.”

He gestured to her side of the bed, and Nasuada looked down towards her feet, at a slight spot discoloring the sheets.

“Ohh,” She breathed, sighing a little, and putting a hand to her mouth to hide a sheepish smile, “Um, no, that’s—I—I just started in… in the womanly way, you know. This morning. That’s all that is.”

Murtagh blinked, realizing. 

He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t actually considered that at all ; he’d had a slight understanding–constructed off of the vague allusions he’d gathered from various women in his life–of what “the womanly way” meant, but he’d never calculated it as a part of his life before.

“...oh.”

He could feel his face reddening. 

“You… do you know what that is?” Nasuada asked then, seeing his unsure expression. 

“Um… yes, I didn’t–I didn’t think about that,” He returned, feeling foolish, but also a bit relieved, because for a moment he’d really thought he caused it—that he’d hurt her enough to bleed, and she wasn’t telling him, because maybe she was afraid to. Because maybe he’d somehow made her feel the way he’d felt, when it happened to him.

“It wasn’t anything you did, I promise,” Nasuada assured, kissing his hands gently, and holding them close to her chest.

“You’ll tell me, though,” He insisted, still not quite able to shake the unsettled feeling, “If I hurt you?”

Nasuada grew solemn then, and held his eyes. Her expression seemed to change, like she was seeing him clearer.

“Of course,” She agreed.

Murtagh nodded stiffly, satisfied that she was telling the truth. He hadn’t hurt her. He was just stupid.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” She whispered, brushing his hair back. 

There was a beat of quiet, and he was watching dust motes swirl through the gentle sun beams that drifted in from outside, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to look Nasuada in the eyes just then. 

“Did it…” She started quietly, “Did some of them… hurt you like that?” 

The air between them was heavy with silence, and Murtagh’s instinct was to retreat, but she was holding his hand, and she was looking at him without an ounce of disgust or revulsion, and she had kissed all his scars and covered them with her love, so couldn’t he let her cover this too?

After a long moment, he nodded slightly, because he’d never said it out loud before–never talked about it in such excruciating detail. The only people who knew everything were Thorn and the Eldunari, but he hadn’t had to tell them himself.

Nasuada squeezed his hands comfortingly.

“And they m… they made you ble–?”

“–we don’t have to talk about this–” He said quickly, because she shouldn’t have to even think about these kinds of things—when they were supposed to be here enjoying their last day, and being happy together. 

He was stupid, and he’d been stupid about the blood, and it had made his mind go to these dark places, and now he was making her go there too, and ruining her morning and making her sad.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” She agreed softly, “But you can , if you want. Whatever you want to talk about, I want to listen.”

She nudged her nose to his, and forced him to look at her.

“You’re not going to scare me away.”

It took a long minute of internal wrestling, but Murtagh could hear Thorn’s voice in his head:

I am sure there are wounds that Beloved-Nasuada will find it hard to share with you as well. Perhaps you may help her feel safe to speak of them, by speaking of your own.

Thorn was right, of course, and Murtagh knew it wouldn’t be the last time that his past—or either of their pasts, for that matter—made things difficult. 

He’d known from the start that it would be complicated for him–being with Nasuada in that intimate way. He’d warned her of it, but had so far been glad to find that being with her did not make him feel sick and shaky like it had with the others. Being with her was joyful, and he wanted more of it, but it was also bringing up echoes of old pains—pains which he’d worked very hard to put in their place, but which he knew would never be gone from him completely. 

He hated that these two experiences were connected—his love for Nasuada and the awful, vile things that the king’s nobles had forced him to do. He wanted to sever the two things completely, make them totally unalike, remove the memory from his mind when he was with her–but he couldn’t. 

The past was still there, and the only thing he knew to quiet it now was to get it out in the open, and let it be blown away like so much chaff. In the past, when he’d felt the encroaching pain of his memories, he would have drowned them in drink until he couldn’t think straight enough to remember anything. But he’d seen where that had led, and he refused to give into it anymore.

So Murtagh gripped Nasuada’s hand tightly, and he began to talk, because she’d promised not to be scared away, and he believed her.

He told her about the man who had made him bleed, and about the woman he’d been forced on because her husband was a sick monster, and about the helplessness and shame and the awful, twisting feeling in his gut. 

He told her how it felt, even though he didn’t want her to have to know, and he told her how the feeling was the same as when Galbatorix was in his mind—tearing through everything and taking it all for himself. The same as when he’d forced Murtagh out of his own body and used his arm to strike down Oromis–inserting himself into every crevice without regard to Murtagh’s existence, like Murtagh was a non-entity.

He’d felt like a thing. Whether it was behind closed doors with cruel noblewomen, or in the throne room with the King’s probing mind—Murtagh had been made to feel like nothing more than a puppet for other people to have their way with.

He even told Nasuada about Demelza—the servant who’d been so kind to him, and who’d done her best to help him when he was falling apart, only to be repaid by his pushing himself onto her. 

Thorn had stopped him, of course, but in truth he didn’t know how far he would have gone, if his partner hadn’t been there. He’d been quite literally out of his mind with pain, but he couldn’t forget how close he had come to causing someone else to feel the as he had—like Demelza was just a thing, a puppet for him to use.

He supposed that might’ve been part of why he was so worried about Nasuada—convinced that he’d somehow hurt her. He knew he hadn’t meant to hurt her—all he wanted her to feel was goodness—but if he was capable of hurting Demelza without meaning to, then what would stop him from hurting his wife? If he was the kind of man who did that sort of thing, if he was like the nobles and Galbatorix, then how could he allow himself to be close to her? 

“And where is she now? Demelza?” Nasuada murmured. They were both sitting up in the bed now, and the sun had risen past the windows.

“Um… Tirendal, as far as I know,” Murtagh returned, “I s–I sent her out of the city before it fell, with enough money to buy her freedom. I checked on her to see that she’d… made it all right. But just the once.”

He was looking down at his hands, picking at the skin along his nail.

“She was trying to… help me get you out, actually,” He recalled, “The plan didn’t work, but… she tried.”

He heard Nasuada breathe heavily next to him.

“Well,” She said, laying her hand over his and clasping it, their arms touching, “I owe her my thanks, then. For… risking herself for me, and… for looking after you.”

Murtagh tilted his head towards her, and Nasuada was looking up at him lovingly, with the same affection as on their wedding day—unchanged by the hideous things she’d just heard.

“Did you and she… care for eachother, in a romantic way?” Nasuada asked.

“No,” Murtagh answered quickly, frowning.

“It’s alright if you did, Murtagh, we were not—”

“No, we… no,” He breathed, “She had a betrothed. She loved him, and I–I don’t think I was capable… I don’t think I could’ve loved anybody then, the way I love you. I was… broken.”

He looked down at his hand again, but Nasuada held his face, and drew him back to her. She gazed into his eyes tenderly, and then she kissed him on the lips, as if to lay a blessing on this, his last scar. 

Not all wounds, he knew, lay on the skin. Some were unseen, and deeply buried. He only hoped that when she needed someone to hold her hand, and listen to her worst moments, and comfort her, that he would be able to adequately return the blessing of her love, and to seal her scars with a kiss.

She pulled back from the kiss to gaze at him again.

“You’re not broken, you’re beautiful.”

Chapter Text

Nasuada’s time at Mt. Argnor came to an end far too quickly. After their lovely days alone up at the cottage, Murtagh and she rejoined their friends for a little over a week, and she was able to observe more of the normal goings-on of the dragon riders’ academy—when they weren’t all occupied by planning a wedding. 

The day came, though, when she had to depart; it had taken her weeks of travel to arrive there with Vanir’s company, and would take her nearly a full week to get back, since she would be flying with Murtagh and Thorn rather than taking the boat back. This meant that she would have been gone for almost two full months, and the kingdom needed her presence. 

 Her guards—who would be taking the long way with Vanir and his companions—were uneasy about allowing her to travel without them, but Murtagh taking her back to Ilirea had always been the plan, and she wasn’t about to change it now that he was her husband. 

The Urgal guards, for their part, seemed to have no problem with her choice, as Kharnine and Shillith would be going along as well, and as far as they were concerned an Urgal dragon rider was by the far the best form of protection a person could have. 

Nasuada was inclined to agree, as she had observed Kharnine in the daily drills and practices the academy students performed, and the young woman was intimidating in both apperance and skill.

She was glad that Murtagh would be accompanying her back to Ilirea—she hated the thought of saying goodbye to him here and leaving on a long, lonely journey, but she knew that no matter when they said farewell, it would be painful. She also knew that once they reached Ilirea they would have to go back to their formal, distant relationship, which was going to be excruciating after the tender closeness they’d experienced up on the mountain. 

Still, Murtagh had asked her to keep their love to themselves for now–a choice which seemed wiser the more Nasuada thought about it—and until he felt safe making their marriage public, she would do what she had to do. 

It might be difficult, putting on the guise of strangers, but it would not be nearly so difficult as the pining she’d felt for him before—unable to act, unsure of his feelings, painfully in love but unable to say so. Now she knew how he felt—now she knew he belonged to her and she to him, and nothing but nothing was going to change that. 

She felt most guilty about lying to Jormundur, Farica, and Trianna—the three people with whom she worked most closely on a day to day basis. They trusted her with their lives and gave her their loyalty, and she would be keeping a very important fact from them. However, when she toyed with the idea of letting them in on the circle of secrecy that they’d formed between everyone who’d attended the wedding, she knew it would not serve any of them for  the better.

Telling Jormundur would put him in a position where he would have to choose between keeping Nasuada’s personal secret, and doing what he deemed was best for her rule and the kingdom. Nasuada was certain that Jormundur would disapprove of the marriage–from a practical and political standpoint at least—and would disapprove even further of keeping it from Nasuada’s subjects.

If Jormundur knew, then he would probably feel obligated to encourage Nasuada to tell the nobles and the people in order to avoid any backlash from the lie. Worse yet–he might encourage her to annul the marriage and pretend it had never happened, since no one of importance from Alagaesia had witnessed it. She couldn’t stand being at odds with him, and she knew that the matter wouldn’t be settled between them until she chose to make the marriage public—an action she would not take until she was certain Murtagh was on board.

As for Farica, the handmaiden answered to Jormundur, and telling her would put her in the position of having to lie to her superiors, and compromise her honor. Nasuada cared for her friend too much for that.

With Triana, it was more a matter of trust—she trusted the sorceress with her life, but not with an interesting piece of gossip like this. She wasn’t entirely sure Triana would consent to keep the secret, and if she did she was certain to be vocal about her disapproval.

So, despite her reservations, Nasuada determined that no one outside of Mt. Argnor would learn of the marriage until they chose to tell everyone, and Murtagh agreed. Elva agreed too–after Nasuada had asked the girl for her insight–and that only made Nasuada more determined. Elva, it was decided, would be joining them on the homeward journey as well, riding with Kharnine–a pairing that amused Nasuada..

“You’re sure you would not like to stay until Vanir’s company leaves?” Nasuada asked Elva as she packed up what things she would take in Thorn’s saddlebags, “Or longer? You are not beholden to me.”

Nasuada had always been cautious–since the end of the war–of putting Elva in positions where she felt she was being used or manipulated. The girl needed to feel that what she did was of her own choosing, or else she would not do it well–and when it came to Nasuada’s protection, she needed Elva to be operating at her best, which meant allowing her the freedom to come and go as she wished.

Apparently Nasuada had no need to worry about Elva feeling put-upon, though, because the girl just said,

“Oh, thank you, Your Majesty, how gracious of you.”

Her sharp purple eyes gave Nasuada a dry look that anyone else would’ve been offended by, but Nasuada knew Elva too well now to take offense, and she just smiled.

“Well then, I hope you like flying.”

Elva did not, as it turned out, like flying. But she dutifully packed her things and prepared for the long journey on Shillith’s back.

As Nasuada herself prepared to leave the academy, she already felt wistful and melancholy, not knowing when or if she would be able to return here, where so many beautiful things had happened, and where so many dear friends resided.

On the morning of their departure, Nasuada gave her thanks and love to everyone she would be leaving behind—thanking Eragon especially for allowing her to come see his home, and giving him her blessing as both friend and Queen.

“I look forward to the day when your new Riders can begin their work in earnest, and bring about a beautiful new age for our people.”

“I hope it will be soon,” Eragon confirmed.

“Hmm, when you say ‘soon’ I can’t help but wonder what ‘soon’ means to one such as you,” Nasuada teased, “You speak more and more like an elf these days. Don’t forget–some of us are still mortal.”

She smiled, and Eragon nodded sheepishly, knowing she was right. 

“Well then, I hope it will be soon by your reckoning,” He clarified, and Nasuada squeezed his hand, thankful for his friendship.

 “Safe travels, dear sister,” He concluded, hugging her warmly before she continued her goodbyes.

“I hope I can request the allowance to write to you, now and then,” Selena said later, holding Nasuada’s hands tenderly as Murtagh and Kharnine finished arranging the saddlebags on the two dragons, “I know you must get many letters.”

“Of course, Selena, it would be my honor,” Nasuada beamed, and the older woman’s eyes crinkled in a smile. Then she hesitated a moment, before saying,

“I just wanted you to know, dear, that–if you’d like–you may feel free to call me mother. We are family now, forever—and I know I shall grow to love you as a daughter even more than I already do.”

Nasuada felt her eyes smart at the unexpected tenderness. She had to take a small breath to steady herself—she’d never called anyone ‘mother’ in her whole life. Her own mother had been gone before she could speak, but to think Selena–who’d been blindsided by her son’s sudden marriage after missing out on most of his life–was so open and accepting towards her. It made Nasuada feel emotional. 

However, Selena seemed to misread the look on Nasuada’s face, because she quickly said,

“You don’t have to–I didn’t mean to imply–”

“No, no,” Nasuada interrupted the apology, sniffling and squeezing her hands tightly, “I’m–I’m touched. Thank you… mother.”

The older woman smiled in relief, and Nasuada gave her a kiss on the cheek, before they parted ways, promising to write faithfully.

It was a sea of color beneath them as Thorn unfurled his wings and took off from the green slope of the mountain, followed closely by Shillith. Nasuada felt a pinch of sentimental sorrow as she waved goodbye–the shapes of her friends and the looming structure of the keep shrinking into the distance–but the melancholy was kept at bay when Murtagh wrapped his arms around her from behind, holding her tightly to himself and pressing his face close to her neck. The skies were dappled with cloud and the sun was beaming, and Nasuada tried to breathe in the fresh air deeply as Thorn settled into a steady rhythm.

“You alright?” Murtagh said in her ear, loudly, because he had to speak over the wind.

Nasuada only nodded, laying her arms over his and leaning into his warmth as they angled towards the west.

***

They camped in wild places, alone in the wilderness for several days, and yet Nasuada did not feel afraid. She supposed that was the benefit of having two fully grown dragons and their riders as your escort.

Kharnine, she found, was pleasant and interesting company. Notwithstanding her intimidating appearance, the young Urgal woman was very charming and surprisingly funny. Shillith, too, had a cheerful disposition, and despite the fact that he was an adult now, he had a bouncing energy to him that reminded Nasuada of the smallest wild dragons at the mountain.

As they sat around the fire each night—wards cast around them to deflect any wild animals that might be mad enough to approach the dragons—they shared stories amongst themselves, and Nasuada was riveted by Kharnine’s recounting of Urgal folk tales. She shared some of her own folk tales in return—those of the Wandering Tribes that she’d heard as a girl—and was surprised to find that many of the stories had overlapping elements. 

Elva had nothing to contribute, as she dryly said,

“I am not yet ten years of age, and have no tribe or people from which to learn tales. I have stories that I could tell you if you’d like, but they are all of them unpleasant, and if I were to tell them, it would only make you wish I hadn’t.”

Kharnine did not seem to know quite what to do with Elva—the girl was unyielding to charm and humor, and had a coldness that was difficult to get used to. Nasuada had gotten over it in their years working and living together, and she could now read the difference between Elva being herself and Elva being mean— this Elva was being quite friendly indeed, by her standards.

 Murtagh, for his part, did not have much to add, and he also left the storytelling to Nasuada and Kharnine.

“Eragon’s the one descended from bards, not me,” He mused over a bowl of stew on the third evening. Nasuada was sitting comfortably next to him on the log, her arm laced through his, enjoying the last few days when they could be together like this–familiar, comfortable, tender. She enjoyed the small company, despite its strangeness, and quietly wished that the journey would have been longer. 

When they entered the populated lands of Alagaesia, everyone in the company became a little more tense and a little more watchful; it was one thing to think of wild animals lurking around their camp at night, but people with minds and magic and malice– that was their true worry, no matter what powers their group possessed. 

They passed over towns at night and kept to the wilderness, following the southern fringe of the Hadarac and keeping their distance from anywhere they expected to find people. 

Of course they could have handled themselves well enough in any conflict, but Nasuada was not making any official appearances as Queen, and she thought it unwise to advertise the fact that she was traveling through the wilderness on dragonback with just a small band of magicians. She was not so proud to think that no one in her whole kingdom would wish ill towards their Queen, and did not want to force Murtagh and Kharnine into a situation where they had to defend her life.

She watched the shapes of the Beor Mountains slowly pass to the south, and thought wistfully of the dwarven stronghold of Farthen Dur, and her friend Orik who resided there. She wished they could take a detour, and stop in to say hello–after all, Tronjheim would be Kharnine’s next stop, after greeting the nobles of Ilirea. But it was impossible, she knew, with Murtagh in their company. 

Despite the white stone that shone on his sword–a symbol of his contrition–five years was not nearly enough for most of the dwarves to forget and forgive. He had gotten lucky, with Duart and Thrivka and the others at Mt. Argnor, but Nasuada had lived among dwarves long enough to know that he might never receive pardon from most of Orik’s people. 

This fact had always saddened her, but now that she was inexorably tied to Murtagh, it was something that she would have to reckon with–her relationship with Orik might not be the same after he found out about their marriage. 

Somberly, she let the mountains pass her by, and promised to have Jormundur begin plans for a state visit to Tronjheim sometime in the next few years; she would see to it that she and Orik were on good terms, so that when the time came, their friendship could withstand Murtagh’s presence. She missed the dwarf’s companionship and wisdom, which used to be always at her disposal.

It was strange, as Murtagh had once said, how spread out they all were now—the people she’d labored and lived and fought with, those she’d spent every waking moment with, wishing she could have just a bit of peace from them—they were now far away thoughts. 

King Orrin she had not seen since the end of the war, and Orik only once, and Eragon just the once and possibly never again. Arya very rarely made visits and the Elves who’d been by her side had returned to Ellesmera. The Varden were all scattered back to the places they called home, and that was as it should be, but it still sometimes made Nasuada ache with longing.

How lucky, She thought, leaning onto Murtagh’s shoulder as they flew over the desert one evening, to have known people worth missing. 

At the last camp they made before they would reach the outskirts of Ilirea, Murtagh prepared Kharnine for what she should expect at the capital—as the third of the new generation of riders.

“Unfortunately, Kharnine, you are going to face some obstacles that Thrivka and Dusan did not,” Murtagh informed her frankly, all of them huddled around the quiet fire.

Kharnine nodded in understanding.

“Some people are not going to like you–ever,” He said, and Nasuada felt bad for Kharnine–that he was being so blunt–but she also knew it was true.

 “However, there are those who have already been won over by the conduct of your fellow Ugralgra, and those whom you will have a chance to win over.”

“Many of the palace guards and servants are friendly with my Nighthawks,” Nasuada put in, trying to balance out Murtagh’s harsh truth, “I am hopeful that they will be receptive to you as well.”

Kharnine nodded, but her expression was proud and unflinching.

“I will represent my people with honor; I do not care who does and does not like me.”

“You should care,” Murtagh countered bluntly, “I don’t mean to say you should waste your time trying to be friends with people who hate you, but you do need their respect.”

Murtagh sighed, his lips thin.

“In the future, the riders will need to act as diplomats in very difficult situations, which means they all need to be looked to for wisdom and guidance—you need people to listen to your advice when you give it, and follow your orders when you make them–and they won’t do that if they don’t at least respect you.”

Kharnine scowled.

“So I should kiss up to the people who hate me because of my horns?”

“No,” Murtagh demurred, “But you should look for ways to demonstrate to all people that you are on their side. Because as riders, we are on all sides and no side. With that in mind… you should try to go into Ilirea with humility.”

“Humility?” Kharnine’s scowl did not lighten, but Murtagh took her resistance in turn.

“Among the Ugralgra, open pridefulness and boasting are welcome and accepted as proper,” He explained gently, “But among humans that is not the case. You are proud of your heritage and accomplishments—rightly so—but when you are in Ilirea, do not seek to announce them to others. Let Nasuada and myself be the ones to praise you; that is the way it is done among humans.”

Kharnine looked annoyed at this.

“So I pretend not to be as accomplished as I am?” She questioned.

“No,” Murtagh answered, and Nasuada saw a little upturn in the corners of his mouth—it was clear he knew Kharnine very well, and that they’d had conversations like this many times before.

“You simply let your accomplishments speak for themselves, rather than making much of them with words.”

Kharnine twisted her mouth, and looked back at Shillith.

“But humans like words,” She returned, a mischievous glint in her yellow eyes, “You are always talking rather than doing.”

“Yes,” Murtagh agreed, smirking now, “We do talk too much. But we are also intrigued by people who don’t use many words, because they are mysterious. In your case, it will be better for the people who don’t like you to think you are mysterious than to think you are overly-proud.”

“I’m not overly-proud, though–I am proud just the correct amount,” Kharnine pointed out with a grin.

“Maybe so, but humans also don’t like to feel that they’ve been outdone, even when they have. So don’t try to prove anything to anyone, and by doing so, you shall prove your strength and superiority.”

Kharnine cocked her head with a smirk. Nasuada loved to listen to this back-and-forth between Murtagh and his student, who was confident and easy-going, despite the pressure put on her as a representative for her race.

“So I should care about what the humans think, by not caring about what the humans think,” Kharnine concluded.

“Exactly,” Murtagh confirmed, and Kharnine snorted, muttering something in her language as she shook her head.

And what of you, Master? Shillith asked then, broadcasting his mind to all of them, Many of the two-legs do not like or respect you; how will they listen to you when conflict comes?

The question was sincere–Nasuada could feel that from Shillith’s mind–but it was also harsh. Murtagh, however, did not waver; he just nodded calmly.

“You are right, Shillith. Kharnine and I have much the same work to do—though for different reasons. Everytime I visit Ilirea, I hope to win the respect of a few more people.”

He glanced at Nasuada and gave her hand a squeeze.

“Nasuada helps that—being seen by her side and having her approval.”

“More than approval,” Nasuada returned with a kiss on his cheek, and Elva rolled her eyes.

“But I still have a long way to go—especially with the dwarves,” Murtagh continued, “So you won’t be alone in your struggle, Kharnine.”

Kharnine nodded.

“The Elves seem to be softening, though,” She offered hopefully, “Perhaps you’ll get to come to Ellesmera when it’s Rhiannath’s turn, eh?”

It was true, at least for those who had come with Vanir and Arya. Those Elves did not seem to be clinging to their hatred surrounding Oromis’s death—but whether that was true for all of those sequestered in Ellesmera, or just for the small segment that had visited Mt. Argnor, Nasuada couldn’t say.

Murtagh just lowered his eyes, picking at the grass between his feet, his expression heavy, as it always was when the matter came up. She knew he still felt the weight of Oromis and Glaedr’s death–even if he had come far enough to acknowledge that it hadn’t been his fault. 

Murtagh had talked to Nasuada about how training his students at the academy often made him think about Oromis, and what kind of teacher he had been. Eragon had freely shared memories and stories—telling Murtagh anything he wanted to know about the Elf—but it wasn’t the same as having known the older rider himself. Nasuada could tell that Oromis’s death was one of those losses that still weighed heavily on Murtagh, even after all this time–like Hrothgar and Tornac—the deaths that had left a mark on him.

“We’ll see,” He said quietly, giving Kharnine a melancholy smile.

***

The next day, Nasuada saw the spire of Ilirea glinting in the sun as Thorn descended out of a cloudbank. She felt a warmth at the sight, and truly did look forward to being back in the palace, back at work, alongside Farica and Jormundur and those among the nobles with whom she felt most comfortable.

She prepared herself, however, to shed the relaxed plainness she’d indulged in over her weeks at Mt. Argnor, and to don the attitude and appearances of The Queen. As they circled to knoll upon which they were to land, Nasuada felt Murtagh squeeze her tightly from behind, and murmur in her ear.

“I love you.”

She leaned her head against his as Thorn unfurled his wings and slowed their descent. 

“I love you.”

Then she felt Murtagh take a breath, and release his hold on her. Nasuada felt a tight hitch of regret as he separated his body from hers, adopting a stiff distance as Thorn touched down on the grass. She understood why, though—from here on they were not husband and wife.

When they had landed, Murtagh swung his leg over the saddle, and reached up a hand to help Nasuada down, maintaining their formal distance. Even as her feet alighted on the soft grass, she saw a group of riders galloping in from the gates of the city. She knew it would be Jormundur and her guards coming to greet her with Farica.

Elva and Kharnine dismounted as well, and waited as the small contingent approached. Nasuada flattened her simple dress, and hoped her hair looked alright, even though it was just Jormundur–who’d seen her in much worse states.

“Your Majesty,” Jormundur bowed after he’d dismounted, followed by the cadre of guards, and Farica, who curtsied.

“Jormundur, it’s good to see you,” Nasuada bypassed his formality and gave him a hug, which Jormundur reciprocated, unsurprised by her break in protocol. She hugged Farica as well, and asked after her family, as the guards began to quickly set up a small tent.

“They are well, milady, thank you,” Farica returned, “I’m glad to see you again.”

“And I, you.”

There wasn’t much time for chit chat, as Farica ushered her into the newly-constructed tent, and helped her put on a more court-appropriate gown. She sat on the small stool that her guards had set up, and let Farica do her hair and don her jewelry.

“Your time at the mountain was enjoyable?” The handmaid asked, and Nasuada nodded with a smile, “Very much so. And productive.”

“Shadeslayer and Queen Arya are well?” 

Nasuada nodded.

“I am envious of you, milady, to get to see such a wondrous place. And so many dragons, it must have been beautiful.”

Nasuada smiled, looking down fondly at the three gold bands on her arm.

“It was.”

“Were they a gift?” Farica asked, noticing the bands, “If you’d like to wear them, I can pin up your sleeves a bit, and we’ll go with the gold necklace instead of the silver.”

Nasuada let her fingers brush across the bands gently, remembering Eragon putting them on her wrist, and the way it had felt to hold Murtagh’s hand and gaze into his eyes in that moment. Then she sighed, and slid them off her hand.

“No, thank you, Farica. Please put them in my personal jewelry cask.”

“Of course, milady,” Farica curtsied, and set the bracelets aside with her usual care.

When Nasuada was ready, she stepped out from the tent into the sun again, and offered the use of the tent to anyone else who cared to get themselves refreshed from the road, but none of her three companions cared to make themselves more presentable.

“I’m meant to be humble, after all,” Kharnine said with a mischievous look at Murtagh, who shook his head with a bit of a eye roll. Kharnine had already become fast friends with Nasuada’s Urgal guards, of course, and she seemed not the least bit nervous for the entrance she was about to make.

“Well, if we’re all ready I suppose we can make for the city,” Nasuada said, and Jormundur launched into the plan for their entrance. It was not an official royal procession, but he expected people to show up along the main street nevertheless, and they had to be prepared. No resident of Ilirea gave up the opportunity to see either the Queen or a dragon, and now they would get two dragons along with their Monarch in one day. It was not an event to be missed.

“I’d like Kharnine to walk at my side, with Shillith behind us, if that suits the both of them,” Nasuada put in, when Jormundur had finished his plan–a plan which involved her at the lead.

Jormundur’s eyes flicked back and forth between Nasuada and Murtagh, possibly waiting for Murtagh to object to the arrangement.

“If… you’re certain, milady,” He managed when Murtagh had said nothing. 

“I am,” Nasuada nodded towards Kharnine, “I want the people to see me standing by her, showing my full support… and respect.”

Kharnine lifted her chin in thanks.

“I would be proud to be at your side,” She returned, but glanced at Murtagh, “But not too proud.”

Murtagh sighed in exasperation, but he was hiding a smile, and Thorn made an amused rumble in his chest. Jormundur seemed to know that there was some joke he was not getting, but he was usually too stressed around Nasuada to indulge in jokes, so he just nodded his agreement, and urged them towards the city.

The streets were a roar of noise as Nasuada strolled up the main thoroughfare with Kharnine at her side. She had dismounted her horse at the entrance and gone forward on foot, ignoring Jormundur’s protests that it was not very noble to be walking in the dust and dirt. She knew no horse could carry Kharnine, and she did not want to be seen as above the young rider, or better than her in some way. 

So she walked–despite the dainty, impractical shoes that Farica had put on her feet–and waved to the cheering crowd, who tossed flowers at her feet and welcomed her back joyfully. She was glad to see that there were not many sour faces in the gathered group, and she heard no jeers or insults. She was used to a mixed reaction, especially in places like Sinderah and Dras Leona, but here in Ilirea, on a fine summer day, it seemed her subjects were pleased at her return, and she was proud to be their Queen.

When they reached the palace, Nasuada gave a formal greeting to Kharnine in the throne room—welcoming her in front of the assembled nobles, as she had with the other two young riders. In this she felt a distinct difference than with Thrivka and Dusan, and noticed that her nobles were much less eager to personally greet this new rider than they had been with the others.

She and Murtagh met each other’s gaze frequently throughout the night, and seeing him calm kept her calm—they had been prepared for Kharnine to face resistance, and if he was not worried about it yet, then she had no reason to be.

It was agony, though, being so formal and aloof with him. They sat next to each other at the banquet that evening, and spoke of benign things, and did not look at each other too long or get too close or even touch at all–except for once, when Murtagh’s hand brushed against hers as he reached for his goblet, and that had made her skin tingle.

It was too similar to the strange tension they’d experienced all the other times he’d visited—both of them pining for the other hopelessly, feeling the draw of their affection, yet denying themselves any expression of it. It bordered on painful.

However, that evening, after Nasuada had dismissed Farica for the night, she felt light with relief when the tapestry that covered the servant’s entrance was pushed aside, and Murtagh slipped into her chambers, quietly closing the door behind him and whispering a spell to lock it. 

Before they’d reached Ilirea, Nasuada had told him in no uncertain terms that she expected him to visit her when they had a chance to be alone, or else she would have to hunt him down. She’d instructed him on how to reach the servant’s hallway, and suggested he use magic to make sure he did not run into anyone or get seen on his way to her.

Murtagh had responded that they really ought not to be around each other at all—if someone caught him in her chambers at night there would be no end of scandal—but Nasuada refused to allow the separation.

“If I am to see my husband only a handful of weeks a year,” She had said pointedly during their journey from the mountain, “And to pretend in public like he is a distant acquaintance, then I am certainly not going to spend my nights away from him.”

“I suppose I’ll tell him that,” Murtagh had responded humorously, giving in to her demands.

She was never so grateful as when she saw him slip into her chambers that night, the candle that Farica had left flickering quietly. Rather than rush to embrace him, however, Nasuada calmly finished brushing oil through her hair–something she often liked to do herself, rather than have Farica complete the task. She was sitting at the vanity and had turned her head only a little to look at Murtagh, who softly let the tapestry fall back and stepped over to her.

“My Lord,” Nasuada said coolly, “It is untoward of you to be in a lady’s bedchambers so late in the evening. One might think your intentions were improper.”

She was smiling at him in the mirror, fingers brushing through the end of her hair as he leaned closer to her and wrapped his arms over her shoulders, kissing her neck.

“Hmm, and if they are improper?” He breathed close to her ear, peppering her with kisses. She closed her eyes, soaking in the feeling of his weight against her, wanting to relish the moment after being apart from him all day.

“Well,” She said innocently, “I’m afraid I may have to call for my guards.”

“Hmm,” Murtagh considered, tilting her chin up towards him and planting a gentle kiss against her lips, “I suppose then I’ll have to keep your mouth busy.”

Nasuada had already been preparing a clever retort, but that statement took her by surprise so much that her head suddenly pulled backwards and she looked up at him in shock.

Murtagh blinked, confused at her sudden reaction, but then his face drained of blood.

“Oh–I didn’t mean–no–I– kissing you–gods–I meant–I was just going to kiss you–blast it–”

Nasuada couldn’t hold in a burst of giggles at the horrified expression on his face. She held her hand to her lips as his cheeks turned bright red, and she laughed laughing–breaking the spell of their quiet moment.

Murtagh hung his head in defeat, still leaning over her, but no longer smooth and in control as before. Nasuada could not stop laughing, and his mortification only made it more funny. She felt a bit bad for making fun of his blunder, but when he finally did lift his face, he was smiling too, so she knew it was alright.

“I’m sorr–I’m sorry,” She managed, gripping his forearm, still fighting laughter as tears threatened to fall. Murtagh was shaking his head, but she could tell he wasn’t really upset.

“You’re going to get us caught,” He pointed out with a smile, noting her loud chuckling. 

“Oh, well–well perhaps,” She stuttered, still suppressing laughter, “Y–you ought to keep my mouth busy–”

“You’re insufferable,” Murtagh rolled his eyes, and Nasuada decided to have mercy on him, and take his face in her hands, and kiss him. It didn’t take long for them to forget about the whole thing, and soon enough Nasuada was kept very busy indeed.

***

They lay quietly in bed together for a long while, and she listened to the sound of his heartbeat, content to stay in the dark with him forever. She was gently tracing a scar on his abdomen—the mark left by Eragon’s sword that day in the throne room—and dreading the moment she knew he would say he had to leave. She kept herself lying against his chest, as if her weight could prevent him from getting up.

“I missed you,” She murmured, feeling the truth of it. A day had never felt so long.

“It was hardly ten hours,” He reasoned, and she raised her head, looking up at him.

“Exactly.”

He gave her a kiss, before resting his head back against the pillow. 

Murtagh had cast a spell of silencing and a ward around the room, so they could be certain that Farica or another servant wouldn’t accidentally walk in on them while he was still there, but even so–it felt different here, compared to the cottage at Mt. Argnor. Nasuada knew there were guards outside her door and people in the courtyard below the balcony, and beyond that a city full of humans living their lives. They were surrounded, and she wasn’t sure she liked the feeling. It didn’t feel as safe as when they had been alone on the mountain.

“Can I ask you something?” She said, her hands now gently sliding across a row of small circular burns along his ribcage–tokens of his torture in Uru’baen.

“Of course,”  He answered, his voice calm and content, so far from the pain of those days.

“Is… Thorn in the courtyard right now?” She asked. She knew Thorn preferred sleeping in the second level courtyard to his own private balcony–a fact which had taken the castle servants some time to get used to, since they had to walk past him to get from one side of the building to the other.

“Um… I think so, yes,” Murtagh frowned.

“And you… you’re close enough to… touch his mind?”

Murtagh nodded.

“So is he–I mean, um… is he aware, when we… you know…”

She gestured vaguely to their position, lying together in bed. She couldn’t see much in the dark, but she felt him smile.

“No,” He answered firmly, “We made a point to sever the connection as soon as I came to see you. He’s not, um, interested in hearing about it.”

Nasuada let out a relieved breath. It was strange enough getting used to this kind of closeness with Murtagh, she was too embarrassed to think about Thorn knowing the things they said and did with each other in bed.

“Good,” She agreed, laughing at her own self-consciousness. As if Thorn would care—dragons were not embarrassed about such things.

“I try not to dwell on it, you know–in my mind–but… some of it does slip through to him sometimes,” Murtagh clarified apologetically. .

“Hmm. Just can’t stop thinking about me?” She teased, looking up at him in the dark, his eyes just visible from the moonlit window.

“Never,” He answered, then he kissed her, and she forgot all about her embarrassment.

***

When Nasuada’s eyes fluttered open, the room was full of light, and she heard an irritating voice somewhere in the distance.

The morning troop reports can wait ten minutes, She thought groggily, imagining she was in her tent in the Varden camp, preparing for another long day of managing her mess of an army, and waking from a lovely dream.

Then she blinked several times, and recognized that the voice was not Jormundur–but Farica–and that she was not lying in her cot in the command tent, but rather, in her bed, in the palace, next to Murtagh.

“Oh, Gokukara!” She cursed, sitting upright as Farica’s worried voice came through the door on the other side of the tapestry.

“Milady?”

“Murtagh–Murtagh wake up,” She shook her husband, who breathed in sharply and grimaced as he came to consciousness.

“It’s morning, Murtagh, you have to go–Farica’s here,” She hissed, willing him to wake more quickly. 

It took him a few seconds more, but then he realized their predicament.

“Blast,” He cursed, scrambling out of the bed as she hurled his tunic at him and ran for his boots. 

“Why’d you let me fall asleep?” Nasuada demanded, whispering even though Farica couldn’t hear her through the wards.

“ Me ?!” Murtagh whispered back, throwing his clothes on haphazardly as Nasuada shoved his boots into his hands and pushed him towards the balcony.

“Tell Thorn to come get you,” She urged frantically.

“Oh now you want him around,” Murtagh retorted, and when Nasuada looked up at him with a sharp glare, she saw the spark of amusement in his eye, and gave him a swat on his arm.

“This whole secret marriage thing was your idea, so you’d best get yourself out of my bedchamber before Jormundur has you hung.”

She turned and quickly snatched up his sword.

“Mmm, and what did I say about visiting you at night? That was your idea,” Murtagh responded cheekily as he did up his belt and finished pulling on his second boot.

Nasuada wanted to look disapproving, but she was caught between laughter and fright, and knew she couldn’t possibly appear intimidating to him, because he simply gave her a kiss on the cheek as he took Zar’roc from her grasp.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” He said with a wink, and she felt a flutter in her chest. He turned to the balcony doorway, and Nasuada took a calming breath, but then she whipped around.

“Murtagh, the wards!” She hissed after him, and as he hurried towards the balcony he flicked his wrist towards the tapestry entrance with a quick murmured word, before giving her another wink, and quite literally disappearing.

Nasuada knew the spells had been removed because Farica almost tumbled into the room, the hidden door swinging into the tapestry and knocking it aside.

“Milady, is everything alright?” The poor woman exclaimed, confused by the apparently locked door, and the fact that Nasuada was standing across the room, nowhere near close enough to have unlocked it. Nasuada herself was stuck for a moment, after Farica had spoken, because she was busy gazing out onto the sunny balcony, wondering if Murtagh was still standing there–invisible–gazing back at her.

She hoped so.

***

Their days in Ilirea passed–lovely but far too fast–and Nasuada tried not to hate all the busyness and work that kept her from Murtagh until night had fallen and he could safely sneak his way into her chambers.

There was a lot to catch up on after her months away, and much of it serious—things with Sinderah were not good, and the situation with the dwarves’ division did not have an end in sight. Jormundur helped Nasuada make the most of her trip to Mt. Arngnor–touting the fact that The Queen had met with Shadeslayer himself at the home of the riders, and counseled with him and Queen Arya. This would please the nobles of Ilirea, who liked to bask in anyone’s success. The trip had fulfilled its purpose—making the statement that Nasuada was just as important to the leaders of the Rider Academy as Orik or Arya.

If only they knew how important, Nasuada thought with a small smirk, allowing her eyes to flick quickly to Murtagh as she sat in a meeting with some of her advisors, one of whom was trying to impress upon her the urgency of setting up a long-term connection with the Rider Academy.

“This is but the first step, Your Majesty; we must make ourselves invaluable to them. King Orik is relied upon for supplies, and Queen Arya is a part of their number—we, too, must make sure to secure your welcome among them for years to come.”

Only years of training in diplomacy helped Nasuada keep a straight face as she said,

“I thank you, Lord Feyerson, and I agree—I assure you I am as close to the riders’ leadership as it is possible to be.”

Murtagh let out an oddly loud choking noise, and Nasuada suppressed a smile as the meeting continued. It bothered her that when her nobles considered the Riders, they did not speak of Murtagh as if he were on equal grounds with Arya and Eragon. To most of them, it seemed, he was simply Eragon’s errand boy–there only to observe and report back to his superior. 

This oversight did not seem to bother Murtagh, but Nasuada was offended on his behalf, wishing that they would acknowledge the fact that he was an instructor alongside his brother, and, in fact, much more directly involved with the academy than Arya was.

“It’s not important what title they give me,” Murtagh dismissed as he got dressed to leave her chambers one night—they were strictly avoiding the mistake they had made the first time, nearly being caught by Farica.

“Maybe,” Nasuada said, lying with her head against her palm, watching him strap on his sword belt, “But you’re my husband, and I want people to respect you as you deserve. You said yourself, it’s important for people to listen when you speak.”

“Respect, yes,” He agreed, “Admiration, no. I don’t need your nobles to like me.”

Murtagh leaned over the bed.

“Besides,” He murmured softly, “I have all the admiration I need.”

He kissed her gently, and Nasuada wished he didn’t have to scurry away in the dark. Their charade was amusing at times, but it was not nearly as lovely as being close to him, holding his hand, leaning on his shoulder. Already it was wearing on her, and it had only been a few weeks of their pretending.

How long will he insist this continue? She wondered impatiently, though she knew the answer—until things had settled down with Sinderah and the dwarves, and that could be a long while.

***

After Kharnine took her leave of the city—having conducted herself admirably and having managed to win over more than a few of the skeptical humans of Ilirea—Nasuada knew it was only a matter of time before Murtagh would announce his departure. 

The summer at the mountain had been full of interruptions, and he had a responsibility to get back to his students. Nasuada tried to enjoy the days without thinking of how they were dwindling, but on their last night together she couldn’t help but feel an ache in her chest.

“I’ll be visiting no later than next spring,” He assured softly, though she could hear his own voice laced with the ache of being parted from her.

“It will be a long winter,” She murmured.

They would write, of course, and Nasuada intended to find a way to scry Murtagh with a bit more privacy than was usual, but nothing would replace the joy of being close to each other. Still, she knew that this was the way things would have to be between them. 

Even if they had not been keeping their marriage a secret, Murtagh had responsibilities at Mt. Argnor—duties that no one else could fulfill—and it was the same for her in Ilirea. Their life and marriage would not be a traditional one, and that was okay; it was worth it, for the blessing of belonging to each other—but it still hurt.

The morning Murtagh was set to leave, they found a moment to step aside with each other in an empty room, and he kissed her goodbye, gazing into her eyes like he could soak up the memory of them, as she did the same.

“Soon,” He promised with a whisper, and she nodded, their foreheads pressed close.

“Soon,” She agreed, breathing in his scent, and trying to remember the feeling of his hands in hers, for those lonely nights when he would be absent.

When they stepped out where other eyes could see, they were but acquaintances, diplomats, comrades. He kissed her hand with a formal bow, and thanked her for her hospitality. He said goodbye to Elva and to Farica and Jormundur, promising to bring another report from the riders within the year.

Thorn gave Nasuada a gentle nudge with his snout.

Until the next season, Beloved-Nasuada, He offered, and she smiled, sending back only her feelings of affection.

Murtagh climbed up onto Thorn’s back and swung his leg over, strapping himself into the saddle with Zar’roc hanging on his hip, his back straight and his hair clean. Nasuada admired the view, thinking how handsome he looked like that—confident and at ease, containing the air of kingliness with none of the pompous pride. 

My husband, She thought, comforting herself with the idea.

Thorn flicked his wings, crouching in preparation to take off, and Nasuada began to step away–but then Murtagh paused, and looked down at her, a faint smile on his lips and love in his eyes.

“What are you doing?” She murmured softly, smiling too, despite herself.

Murtagh’s lips quirked.

“Just looking at you.”

Chapter Text

Elva did not like most people.

“People”, of course, did not mean only humans —of which she was one, though she didn’t quite feel connected to the word—but rather, “people” in the broader sense, which included Elves and Urgals and Werecats and Dwarves and all those creatures who contained enough intelligence to realize that they were one day going to die.

She didn’t like most of them.

It wasn’t exactly their fault–she had come to that conclusion only after much introspection and from being under Angela’s tutelage for some years. It wasn’t people’s fault that they were miserable half the time, and therefore made Elva miserable all the time. It wasn’t people’s fault that she could feel every resentful thought and petty dispute and disappointing thing they’d ever done or had done to them. 

Most people couldn’t feel those things; and that, she supposed, was why they were able to manage things like love and family and marriage. They didn’t know . Ignorance was the balm to all wounds, and she envied people their ignorance. But that didn’t mean she liked them any better.

On the scale of least-liked to most-liked there were some general categories in Elva’s mind. Humans—who tended to wear their emotions close to the surface—were usually the worst. Dwarves had thicker skin, but also seemed to feel more intensely , so they were the second worst to be around. Urgals were similar to dwarves except they didn’t let things like battle wounds and dead friends bother them as much; they saw death in battle as beautiful and honorable, which meant it didn’t pain them in the same way, which meant it didn’t pain Elva in the same way.

 Elves were pretty decent most of the time, because their pain felt calmer and less jagged, flowing through them like a peaceful forest river, present but not all-consuming. But every so often an elf’s pain would explode like a star, devouring everything in its path–and that hurt like nothing else–far worse than the worst pain humans ever felt. Because of this, Elva tried to avoid being around Elves who seemed the least bit unstable.

Werecats and Dragons were her favorite sort of “people” to be around, as they only cared about the big stuff, like dead friends; they were not usually pained by the day to day nonsense that most of the two-legs were involved in. Their feelings didn’t get hurt in the same way, and they didn’t pine after people who didn’t love them back, and they didn’t worry about getting rejected or dismissed or looked-down-upon. 

When they did have pain, it ran much deeper, so it did not feel like a hundred tiny sharp whispers in the back of Elva’s brain whenever she was around them. When a Werecat or a Dragon was in pain, you didn’t need to be magically altered to know it, and Elva preferred it that way: pain that was obvious and easy to walk away from.

Though she was most often surrounded by humans, which was not ideal, Elva had learned to forgive them the silliness of having their hearts broken over a lover, or crying when their pet pig died, or all the other stupid things people felt pain from. They weren’t trying to pass their hurt onto her, it just happened. It wasn’t their fault she could feel it all; it wasn’t anyone’s fault, actually–except Eragon.

Eragon had at one time been her least favorite human. Not only had he been responsible for turning her into a freak, but he was also an exceptionally emotional person, and the littlest things seemed to cause him pain. 

Taking energy from dying animals? Pain. Being disliked by anyone? Pain. Saphira upset with him? Pain. Pining after the hundred-year-old elf who didn’t like him the same way? Pain. Thinking about his father, or his step-father, or his mother, or his uncle, or his brother, or his aunt, or anyone who’d ever died in his whole life, ever? (which, granted, was a lot of people) Pain. And, worst of all—realizing that he was causing Elva pain? More pain.

He had been exhausting to be around. 

However, the last time Elva had visited Mt. Argnor with Angela, Eragon seemed to have evened out somewhat, and his emotions weren’t poking at her constantly. She credited this change to his increased time spent with the Eldunari—who had plenty of pain amongst themselves, but whose hurt did not seem to affect her much at all. They were even more calming than dragons who still had their bodies. They seemed to both be made of pain and to have risen above it entirely—it was a strange sensation for her.

Elva had eventually been able to forgive Eragon his mistake, mostly because he’d repented of the folly, and had given her the choice to undo what he’d done–an opportunity which she’d declined.

Since removing the compulsion to intervene when she felt the pain of others, Elva had been better able to manage the sensation of experiencing their hurt. She had learned to regulate herself, and had acknowledged that it was not fair to resent Eragon for whatever pain she now experienced, since she was the one who had made the choice to stop him from completing his spell. 

If she had accepted his offer back before the war had ended, she would now be a normal human girl—except for her strangely rapid aging, which seemed to be slowing down the older she got. At times she wondered if that might have been better—stripping herself of all her special abilities and falling into obscurity. But then she thought what a life that would be—a strange, parentless child who was considered a witch and had no inherited wealth nor any way of making a living—and she much preferred her existence now, living in Ilirea as the Queen’s watchman. 

Nasuada was a tolerable human, though she experienced the same silly pains and aches that all the others did. She at least respected Elva and behaved honestly with her, and she did not presume to have any claim or ownership over Elva’s existence, like some others attempted to.

Nasuada was alright, and being her protector made Elva feel that she was serving a purpose, so she kept doing it. When she was bored of it, she would stop, but until then she was content to spend her days following Nasuada’s paths, occasionally offering her opinion or insight, and intervening when she thought it necessary.

She had also become a sort of sage for the castle guards and servants—they often came to her for advice and wisdom, or just to talk to someone who might understand what they were going through. At first this had annoyed her–she didn’t like people–but then she realized that most of them were seeking her out because they respected her and acknowledged their own inadequacy. It made her feel good, when a young woman would come to her with some trouble, and later find that trouble amended through Elva’s advice. It made her feel important, and needed—she liked to be needed. 

The Nobles tried to come to her sometimes for the same things, but she didn’t like the upper crust of Ilirea as much as the servants. Too often they were condescending and pompous, and she didn’t care to help them fix whatever stupid problems they thought were worth wasting her time for. Sometimes if they were really mean she would give them bad advice on purpose, and watch the carnage play out with glee, but usually she just acted rudely towards them, or scared them with some dire prediction so they didn’t try again. 

Some of the nobles were nice, but mostly she preferred the servants. She would do what she could for them.

Nasuada’s own disposition had been markedly improved since their trip to Mt. Argnor, and thank whoever for that, because Elva had slogged through four years of hopeless longing and heartache, and she wasn’t sure she could have stood any more of it.

Every bloody time Murtagh had come around, the both of them were just longing for each other and acting as if they weren’t desperately in love. Since they’d refused to just tell each other the truth, they had spent every waking moment together in a confused mix of pain and pleasure, and Elva had to experience all of it. They were exhausting.

Finally, though, they had decided to stop messing about and just get it done with, and Elva had never been so happy to attend somebody’s wedding. Weddings were nice–people were usually happy at weddings, and no one was trying to dwell on their own misery, so Elva could often enjoy the affair with relatively little discomfort. The wedding at Mt. Argnor had been blissful all around, and Elva had thanked her stars that she would not have to endure another year of hopeless pining. 

However, she was realizing that, rather than ridding herself of Nasuada’s discomfort surrounding her beloved, Elva had merely started to experience pain of a different sort. Nasuada was no longer dealing with the pain of wondering if Murtagh loved her and if they could be together—she was now experiencing the pain of being apart from her husband, whom she loved and wanted to be around at all times. 

Elva just could not catch a break.

Somehow she’d known, though–from the moment she’d met that man–that he was going to be a problem for her. She should’ve guessed, since he was Eragon’s brother.

That day in Galbatorix’s throne room, Elva had already been sick from the amount of agony in the city—wading through a battlefield and feeling dozens dying, not to mention Eragon and Arya’s fear and injuries. 

But when Thorn and Murtagh had entered the room, Elva had felt the young rider’s pain radiating outward like the black clouds of a stormfront. It had almost knocked her out with its overwhelming power, and Elva didn’t know how a person could be walking around with that kind of thing inside them.

Unfortunately Murtagh was like most humans, in that his emotions were close to the surface; even if he seemed calm and cold to everyone else, Elva could feel the roiling conflict that was always brewing beneath his skin. She had been inclined to dislike him for making her feel all that, but he was also not like other humans, in that the things he felt pain about weren’t stupid. He had plenty of reason to be hurting, and that somehow made her understand the pain better–she couldn’t blame him for feeling it. 

It didn’t mean, however, that Elva had liked being around him. The first time he and Thorn had come back to Ilirea, Elva had to excuse herself from his presence, because everything was still there, bubbling just below the surface. She much preferred Thorn’s company, as his pain was not sharp and biting. He had plenty to be sorrowful about as well, but Elva could sit next to Thorn without feeling like she’d be suffocated by it.

She’d felt bad for Murtagh—and Elva didn’t often feel bad for people—but she also knew there wasn’t anything she could do. She was glad to discover, then, that his time at Mt. Argnor had quieted some of the screaming pain he used to carry around. He was now a tolerable person, and Elva even dared to say he might be a little happy, since he and Nasuada had cut the crap and decided to get this thing over with. 

All in all, she preferred Murtagh to his brother—partially because she enjoyed Thorn’s company so much—but both of the riders had grown on her over the years, and as far as people went, they were not the worst. 

Recently, though, Nasuada had been testing Elva’s patience—aching with longing for her husband, who had left for the east and would not be returning for some months. Elva didn’t see why a person would waste time being sad about something they had caused to happen themselves. 

“If you miss him so much, go see him,” Elva had said dryly one day that winter, when Nasuada had been dwelling on how much she missed Murtagh, and the discomfort buzzed like a fly in Elva’s ear.

“I can’t, Elva, you know that,” Nasuada said with a soft smile.

“ Can’t is a word that is used too much,” Elva returned with a dull look, “I can’t turn myself into a squirrel; you can’t carry a full-grown dragon with your bare hands. You can go to Mt. Argnor and visit your husband, but you are choosing not to because you have duties as Queen.”

“And are my duties as Queen not enough reason to prevent myself from going to see him?” Nasuada countered, unruffled by Elva’s honesty. 

Elva just shrugged.

“I didn’t say they weren’t a good reason—I only said you could go if you wanted to.”

“Very helpful, as always, Elva, thank you,” Nasuada said with a smile. 

“If you want me to be helpful, ask for my help,” Elva returned, “Until then, could you please try to occupy your mind with something other than how much it hurts to not be in bed with him? I really don’t care to hear about it.”

That had shut Nasuada up, and kept her amused for a while, rather than painfully longing—so Elva got some peace and quiet.

When she took leave of Nasuada’s side, Elva would often go for strolls about the city–covered with a cloak and wearing her plainest clothes, so that she could try to blend in. She would listen to the hurts and aches of the people around her, and sometimes she would do what she could to mend them, and sometimes she would just let them pass her by.

When she was especially overwhelmed, she would take a horse from the royal stables—she had learned to ride a horse just as soon as her legs were long enough—and she would ride out towards a copse of trees by the Ramr River, taking shelter in the woods from all the noise of the city. 

There all she needed to worry about were the squirrels and fish and deer. And they felt pain too, but not in the same way that people did. 

Elva liked most squirrels.

***

“He’s coming!” 

Elva rolled her eyes at Nasuada’s exclamation, which the Queen made upon reading the most recent letter from her absent husband. The look on Nasuada’s face was so obvious; she really had to do better at hiding her feelings if she was intending to keep this whole marriage thing a secret for much longer.

Farica was doing up Nasuada’s hair as she read the letter that had been delivered that morning, but the handmaiden either didn’t notice Nasuada’s over-excitement, or was being what humans would call “polite” and what Elva called “stupid”, by pretending not to notice. 

Elva gave Nasuada a dubious look, and the other woman noticed her mistake, clearing her throat and salvaging what composure she could.

“Well, that will be… pleasant. To see Thorn and him again.”

Elva rolled her eyes again.

Nice try.

“Has there been another hatching?” Farica asked, keeping her tone calm and unconcerned, as if she really hadn’t noticed Nasuada nearly jump out of her chair with excitement.

“No, but Vanir will be bringing the new egg to Ilirea in summer, and Murtagh will be here to help prepare the lists.”

Nasuada didn’t need to explain what lists she meant, because Elva and Farica had both been present for the headache of preparing them the first time the dragon egg was brought around for the young people of the city to touch. 

Basically, Eragon wanted to make sure that everyone who was of the correct age had an equal chance to be chosen, so he’d asked them to take a census of all the young people of the city, in order to ensure none of the poorer folks or orphans were missed or the children of nobles given preferential treatment.

He’d even told Elva that she should present herself before Vanir when the time came, to see if the egg might hatch for her, but Elva had declined the offer. She didn’t need to be more strange than she already was, and had little interest in living forever—not to mention she highly doubted any sane dragon would decide to hatch for someone like her.

“Besides,” She’d said to Eragon when they were at the mountain together, “I’m not even ten years old; I’m too young.”

“I think we can make an exception.”

“That doesn’t sound very fair , Shadeslayer,” She’d said snidely, “What about all the poor orphans who aren’t of age?”

“Well, you are a poor orphan, Elva,” Eragon said with a smile, and Elva had squinted at him. 

“Come to think of it, so am I,” He mused, giving her a mischievous glance. 

Much to her chagrin, Elva had found his attempt at humor to be slightly amusing. He really was growing on her. Damn.

Nasuada was in a very good mood that whole week, after receiving the letter from Murtagh announcing his imminent arrival. The castle was freezing and a winter storm blew in that covered the city in layers of snow, but nothing dampened Nasuada’s spirits. Elva wouldn’t have minded her chipper mood, except that she was doing a very bad job at being subtle, and Elva did not want to see what would happen if she let something slip to the wrong person.

There had been a dwarven emissary who visited the city just before winter, and Nasuada had welcomed him warmly–surprised at the visit–only to find that he had not, in fact, been sent by King Orik, but by the clan leader of Durgrimst Feldunost, who was apparently seeking to solidify a allyship with Nasuada apart from the King—a fact which worried her deeply, and for good reason.

“You do realize,” Elva pointed out one afternoon when they were alone, “That if Orik finds out that you married the man who killed his uncle, it is distinctly possible that he will sever his friendship with you and stop sending aid to the Academy.”

“He knows Murtagh has been teaching at the Academy,” Nasuada countered, her voice strained, “And he hasn’t stopped helping Eragon yet.”

“Yes, but Murtagh is the only person alive who can be a rider instructor–besides Arya, who is unavailable, obviously.”

Elva shrugged, speaking frankly with Nasuada, as she always did.

“It’s a necessity that Orik can live with in order to see the next generation of riders built up–including those of his own race. But there’s quite a difference between allowing someone to train riders, and marrying them.”

Elva sat back with crossed arms.

“Who knows, your friendship might survive the blow, but there is such a thing as pushing a man–or in his case a dwarf–too far.”

Nasuada had sighed heavily, picking at her bottom lip like she did when she was nervous and forgetting to hide it.

“He won’t find out,” She whispered, almost like prayer.

“He’d better not,” Elva warned, “Or you and Eragon will both be forced to turn to Durgrimst Feldunost for whatever aid you need from the dwarves—essentially allying yourself with them, in the event of a clan war.”

“I know, Elva,” Nasuada had said tightly, and Elva could feel that her own words had caused the pain she knew they would. She’d had to say it, though, because Nasuada needed to understand how important it was that her marriage to Murtagh did not become public knowledge right now.

In most cases like this, Elva would’ve said they were being stupid and causing themselves unnecessary pain. A lot of problems in the world would be solved if dumb people would just tell each other the truth. But in this case, Elva had felt a hint of the chain of events that would be set off if they had announced their marriage when it happened—and it wasn’t good. Murtagh had been right—they had to wait; Elva didn’t know how long, but they had to wait.

Thankfully, Nasuada did not have to wait much longer to see Murtagh, as a prolonged delay might’ve driven both women mad.

It was a cold, gray winter day, when Elva gathered in the throne room with those of Nasuada’s nobles who were in the city. Murtagh’s arrival was still quite the event, even though it had been a regular occurrence these past few years. Not many people missed out on the opportunity to see a dragon, even if it was one they’d seen before.

Murtagh swept into the room with a calm confidence, accompanied by his dragon partner, and his eyes never wavered from Nasuada’s face. He was much better at pretending than she was, though, and to an ignorant person, their interaction would appear as nothing more than a formal emissary greeting a monarch.

Elva knew, however, and she could read the way they looked at each other, and the way he kissed her hand, and the way Nasuada’s shoulders shifted and her fingers lingered just a bit too long. It was love. Ugh.

 Elva had never looked at anybody like that, and she didn’t particularly care to. She understood the concept of romantic affection, but her exposure to it had mostly been in the pain it caused, so she wasn’t eager to experience it herself. Not to mention she wasn’t yet ten years old, though she knew that didn’t really count in her case.

That evening she endured a few boring greetings and speeches, and when they dispersed to the banquet hall to have a feast (really she didn’t see why they had to have a feast every time a rider visited the city), Murtagh greeted her kindly, but really she was just waiting for the opportunity to step away and talk to Thorn. 

It came later that evening, when Nasuada and Murtagh were chatting with yet more of the Ilirea nobles and counting down the minutes until they could be alone. Elva informed Jormundur that she was retiring—a practice which she maintained just so that he would know when she was and was not watching out for Nasuada—and disappeared from the crowded banquet hall, shutting out all the noise and the discomfort around her. There was a surprising amount of pain for a gathering of rich people at a party. 

She took off the shoes that she was obliged to wear at formal events, and pattered across the cool stone barefoot, until she found Thorn in the second-level courtyard where he always liked to stay when he was in the city. He didn’t like being inside, and she didn’t like crowds, so they fit well together.

Hello, Friend-Elva, Thorn greeted before she’d come out from the shadow of the archway. Elva smiled, feeling Thorn’s pleasure at seeing her.

Hello, Thorn, well-met.

Elva easily strolled up to the dragon as he nudged his huge head towards her. She leaned her cheek against his snout for a moment, feeling the warmth of his scales.

You are hungry, She commented, sitting herself comfortably beside his head, which he laid down on the bed of straw that the servants had laid out for him.

Mmm, a little. The deer they gave me was very small. I may go hunting tomorrow, if Murtagh does not need me.

I imagine they’ll both be too occupied making eyes at each other to bother with us, Elva said, and she felt amusement from him–a quiet rumble in his throat.

You are jealous of Friend-Nasuada’s attention being taken from you? Thorn asked.

No, Elva frowned, I don’t care who she spends her time with.

Thorn rumbled quietly again, but said nothing.

And what about you? Elva countered, Aren’t you jealous when he runs off with her and leaves you by yourself? 

I am not by myself, Thorn pointed out, one eye cracking open, amusement still threading his thoughts. Elva twisted her mouth, but she was hiding a smile–it was easy to smile around  Thorn.

I have a new riddle for you, She announced, and Thorn wiggled happily. 

I am listening.

Elva closed her eyes, and carefully held back the answer to the riddle in her mind, as she said,

I am the beginning of the end, and the end of time and space. I am essential to creation, and I surround every place. What am I?

Mmmmm, Thorn hummed, and Elva could see flashes of thought spinning through his mind as he worked out her words. She saw the stars, and a sundial—time and space—she saw roads and blocked paths, and plants growing and plants dying, she saw sparks of light and dark caves, she heard the cry of a human baby and the singing of birds and the powerful roar of a dragon. She could’ve sat and watched Thorn’s thoughts flicker by for hours, but eventually she saw the image of a book, and of a human hand holding a quill, scratching out letters across the parchment.

The moment before he answered, Elva knew he’d gotten it:

The letter ‘E’, He answered, inwardly grinning. Elva shook her head in disbelief—it had become their habit to share riddles back and forth, and she had thought for sure this would stump him, since dragons didn’t tend to do much writing or learning their letters.

Friend-Saphira and I have recently been spending time sharing thought with an Eldunari whose rider was a poet, Thorn explained, He likes the writings of the two-legs, and I have been learning much from him about your strange way of communicating with paper. You will have to try harder, Friend-Elva, to fool me.

I will, She promised, not really upset; it had taken him a good few minutes, after all, to work it out. 

And what about Saphira? She asked then, going back to the beginning of their conversation–about being alone and being jealous, Have you been able to win her from Firnen yet?

Thorn chuckled again.

No, Friend-Elva. Greenscales and Bluescales are good as nestmates—I do not wish to change that.

But you could if you wanted to, Elva assured, You’re far more interesting than him, and you’re very strong and probably handsome as far as dragons go. And you’re a better fighter; you could probably beat him in a fight for her.

I do not need to fight Friend-Firnen for anything, He chided softly, I may have thought once of seeking after Friend-Saphira, but that spark is no longer in my heart.

Thorn sighed, his great weight shifting on the stone.

In truth, Friend-Elva, I think that I only had an interest in her because I thought it was the thing I ought to do—seeing as she was the only female of my species. But watching her with Friend-Firnen? That is right. It makes me feel the way I feel when I see Partner-Murtagh with Beloved-Nasuada. They are a fit match. 

But you deserve to have a fit match too, Elva pointed out. She didn’t like how Thorn always seemed to come second in everyone’s calculations, including his own.

Perhaps one day I will have one, He said with a mental shrug, But for now I am content. I do not need a nestmate to be happy.

Thorn turned his great eye on her.

You can feel in my heart that is the truth, He said, and Elva nodded. She did not feel from him the ache of longing that was so common in those who yearned for a nameless love. Common and annoying.

What of you, Friend-Elva? Have you been content these past months? Do you seek a nestmate for yourself?

Elva gave him a smirk.

I’m nine years old, Thorn.

Thorn rumbled warmly.

You are right, I had forgotten. Though I am younger than you—I suppose humans and dragons do not age the same way.

Elva smiled, amused at the thought that she was older than the hulking creature that sat beside her, able to eat her with a single gulp if he wanted. She had never been older than anybody, really—she was always surrounded by people two or three or four times her age, relying on her to get them out of their own troubles. It was nice for a change. 

She felt comfortable around Thorn—he never asked her for anything or needed anything from her, and even though he had some pain sometimes, he never focused on it. Instead he would ask about her pain, which nobody ever did, and somehow it felt alright, talking about those kinds of things with him.

Maybe I am a little jealous, though, Elva admitted, thinking of how Nasuada and Murtagh looked at each other, and wondering how it would feel for someone to look at her like that. Would anyone ever care about her so much? Could anybody? Strange as she was? It was a stupid, little girl thing to think. Who cared about all that. Love was pain—she’d learned that before she could speak—why should she be pining after something so horrible?

It is okay to want something for yourself, Thorn put in, feeling her churning thoughts, It does not make you weak or foolish. And if you wish to find a nestmate when you are older, I am sure you will, but until then—you are not alone.

He nudged his nose against her head, his breath warm in the cool air.

The world is very big, Friend-Elva. And there are many friends to be made, and many riddles to learn… and that is enough for me, I think.

Hmm, Elva leaned back against his warm scales and looked up into the stars, feeling a blissful absence of pain for that little moment.

Maybe you’re right, She offered, letting herself hope a bit—a habit she usually tried to avoid.

Thorn? She asked, her violet eyes on the sparkling sky.

Yes?

What do you think stars are made of?

She felt a soft rumble from his belly, and instead of an answer, Elva received a series of images—a blooming pink flower, a snow-topped mountain, a shimmer of light on the surface of a river, the sound of laughter, the bright colors of a twirling dress, the flickering of orange flames, the face of a young man with black hair, and a smiling, dark-skinned woman in a flower crown.

Elva felt the answer through the pictures, whose meaning went far deeper than the word itself:

Beauty.

Chapter Text

Seeing Murtagh again was like the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm. 

Not until he was at her side did Nasuada realize how much she had missed him. She was already aching with the knowledge that she would have to be parted from him again, but she refused to let that ruin their time together.

That whole day the two of them kept up the charade of formal acquaintanceship—hardly looking, hardly touching, the inches between them like miles. It was enough to be with him and see him again, but at the same time it was not enough, and she longed for the chance when they could just be alone, and stop this pretense. He seemed in good enough spirits, but his eyes were tired, like the long journey had been draining on him.

When Farica finally left her chambers that evening, Nasuada was almost pacing with excited energy. She felt like a giddy young girl, not the Queen of a sovereign nation; Murtagh was the only person who could make her feel like that, and she loved him for it.

When she heard the click of the door latch behind the tapestry, her heart leapt and she smoothed out her nightdress, checking her hair in the vanity mirror—though why she was nervous about her appearance she couldn’t say; Murtagh wouldn’t be concerned with all that. 

Sure enough, he had hardly brushed the tapestry aside when he was striding across the room and pulling her into his arms, kissing her deeply and spinning her around, as he had the day they married. If he was exhausted from the long journey to Ilirea, he wasn’t showing it now.

Nasuada laughed and kissed him back, landing gently on her feet as their lips finally parted. Murtagh was looking down at her with shining eyes.

“I missed you,” He whispered, and she was beaming up at him, feeling his heartbeat against hers and reveling in their closeness.

“I missed you ,” She returned, kissing him more gently.

After a few still moments, Murtagh separated from her and strolled over to the vanity, unbelting his sword and placing it down, clearly relieved to be rid of the formal vestments of his position.

“How is Thorn?” Nasuada asked, sitting herself on the side of the bed, content to just watch him.

“Good, I believe he and Elva are still catching up,” Murtagh smiled, “I sometimes think he likes talking to her better than me.”

“Well, she doesn’t like talking to anyone—so perhaps he just feels honored,” Nasuada returned. 

She’d found their little friendship very charming—the dragon and the purple-eyed girl. They somehow fit together: both a bit strange, a bit scary, but full of depth and wisdom. Nasuada hoped that Thorn’s gentleness would continue to rub off on Elva–she’d noticed the girl becoming less biting and harsh as she aged, and spending time with Thorn seemed to increase that.

“And the dwarves?” Murtagh asked, unlacing his boots and removing them, “Did you decide to tell Orik about Durgrimst Feldunost?” 

Nasuada shook her head. She’d told Murtagh about the Feldunost sending a representative to her without Orik’s knowledge or approval–a tricky political move that put her in the uncomfortable situation of having to choose which clan to align herself with.

“It would feel too much like taking a side.”

Murtagh raised a careful eyebrow.

“And you don’t think keeping their visit a secret will feel like choosing a side too? Once Orik finds out?”

“I am hoping to tell him in person, when we can talk about it like civilized people.”

“Then you are going to Tronjheim?”

Nasuada nodded carefully.

“Or he will come here–it hasn’t been decided yet. And I’m not sure going to Tronjheim myself is the best choice.”

“Because that will seem like choosing a side as well,” Murtagh concluded, and Nasuada nodded with a sigh. 

She hated that their conversations had to include this—political strain that affected the world around them. Nasuada was friends with Orik, but that didn’t mean she sided with the Ingeitum in all things; and when it came to a possible Clan War, she knew better than to get herself tangled up in the political machinations of the Gnurla.

Elva had been right to say that her friendship with Orik was in jeopardy–dependent on how he reacted when he found out about her marriage. The Dwarf King would find out eventually, but Nasuada was hoping she could choose the opportune moment, and avoid wounding their relationship as much as possible.

Of course Murtagh and she had a complicated relationship as well, because while he was her husband and she was open with him about everything, he was also the Rider Liaison, and she the Queen, and there had already been times when they had had to establish strict boundaries between their roles. They’d made a point of being very clear about when they were discussing things as husband and wife, and when they were discussing things as Queen and Rider.

In a way, it helped that their marriage was a secret, because in public they were already playing a role, so it was easier to separate the two parts of themselves—being one thing in private and another when other eyes were watching. But Nasuada hated that it was necessary; she didn’t want to have things lying between them—words they could not say and lines they could not cross. She didn’t want things to be complicated, and she realized that a part of her had thought getting married would fix all that complication–but it hadn’t. 

Still, she was grateful to be here, alone with him—content with just his presence and nothing more. It had been something she’d yearned after for a long time, and even the complicated mess of the world around them couldn’t steal her contentment in that moment.

“I missed you,” She said again, setting aside all talk of war and politics for now, and focusing just on him. 

Murtagh stood from the vanity chair, and walked towards her, his eyes never leaving her face.

“I missed you,” He murmured back, holding his hands on either side of her head and drawing her in for a kiss. Nasuada breathed into his warmth, pulling herself closer to him, savoring the moment. 

She stretched up to meet his kiss and let her arms loop around his shoulders, her skin tingling as his hands slid to rest on her waist. She wanted him closer.

Feeling her heartbeat quicken, she grabbed the fabric of his shirt and pulled it towards her, bringing their hips together and eliciting from him a satisfying grunt as he tried to hold onto the kiss. 

She was hungry for his touch now, and the feeling of his breath against her mouth was exhilarating. She quickly untucked his tunic from his trousers, and brushed her hands against his bare skin, her palms running over his torso, reveling in the now-familiar contours of his body. Still kissing him, she slid one hand down past his waist.

She’d expected him to have a reaction, but just then there was a strange twitch in the rhythm of his breath, and she felt him almost pull away from the kiss. The moment passed quickly, and he tried to lean into her more–as if to make up for it–but something felt wrong all of a sudden; he was tense, he wasn’t breathing right. 

With a great amount of willpower, Nasuada pulled her own head back, creating just a half-inch of space between their lips.

“What is it?” She breathed, but Murtagh didn’t open his eyes, only shook his head and muttered,

“It’s fine,” Before resuming the kiss urgently. She was lost in him for a moment as they stumbled towards the bed, but then she felt the same strange sharpness in his movements, like his body was telling him to get closer and farther away at the same time. 

Nasuada pulled away from the kiss again.

“Murtagh–”

“–it’s nothing–”

“–Murtagh.”

She stopped them both with her hands firmly against his chest, creating space between them. She searched his face, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she could feel the hands that rested on her hips trembling. 

“Talk to me,” She whispered.

“I ca–I can…” He shook his head, “Just give me a minute.”

“We don’t have to do this, Murtagh–”

“I can ,” He said sharply, but his breathing was uneven. Nasuada carefully removed her hands from him, and held them close to her chest.

“It’s okay,” She murmured, swallowing tightly, allowing her heart rate to calm and staying very still.

“We don’t have to do this right now,” She repeated, seeing him wrestle with himself, still not looking at her.

“It’s just you,” He whispered shakily, grimacing down at the floor, “I–I know. It’s–I’m not here. I’m not here.”

She wasn’t sure what that meant, but she understood that whatever had been about to happen wasn’t happening anymore. She carefully took hold of his hands and removed them from her waist, finding them both frozen and shaking, like he’d forgotten how to control his body.

“Let’s just sit down for a minute,” She urged, drawing him to the bench at the end of the bed, and leading him to sit. She anchored him tightly with one hand, but touched him nowhere else, as he sat, his eyes unseeing, and his body swaying unsteadily.

“It’s okay,” She murmured, fighting the urge to hold him or brush his hair back. She just sat there for a few long heartbeats, waiting for his breathing to get back to normal as he grimaced.

After a stretch of silence, Murtagh’s twitching calmed, and she saw his eyes come back into focus, though there was a heavy exhaustion to them. His shoulders deflated and his hand stopped clutching hers so tightly.

“I’m sorry,” He breathed, rubbing his forehead as Nasuada shook her head and held onto his other hand.

“It’s okay,” She assured.

He was wincing, and seemed to be trying to look at her but couldn’t quite manage it.

“You want me to go get Thorn?” She asked, though she wasn’t sure how she’d explain to her guards why she wanted to see the red dragon in the middle of the night.

Murtagh shook his head, and he sighed again, and she could see the last of the unsteady shakiness drain out of him—now he just looked worn.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She whispered.

“No,” He returned, his voice sounding dead. 

Nasuada was trying to think of what to say when he punched his fist against his thigh, hard.

“Blast it!” He cursed angrily, startling her.

His chest rose and fell harshly a few times, and she waited for the moment of anger to pass.

“Sorry,” He managed after a moment, deflating again.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” She assured, wishing she could make him believe it. She gently rubbed circles on his back, and he didn’t seem to flinch at the touch, so she kept her hand there, calm and assuring

“...I just don’t want you to be disappointed.”

His voice came out a strangled whisper, still unable to look at her. Nasuada felt her heart pinch, so full of love for him. 

“Hey,” She said, leaning her head down to try and catch his eyes. When she finally managed to get him to meet her gaze, she gave him a reassuring smile,

“The only thing that would disappoint me,” She squeezed his hand, “Is if you forced yourself to do something that you didn’t really want to do.”

She looked at him with understanding, and gently tucked his hair behind his ears.

“I love you,” She reminded, just in case he needed it. 

He nodded, and they leaned in until their foreheads were touching. She breathed calmly and let him rest in the closeness, let their heartbeats align, not asking him for more than what he could give.

After a beat of silence he spoke quietly.

“I just… thought it was done,” He murmured, not opening his eyes. She could hear the tired frustration in his voice.

“With you it never felt… I thought they wouldn’t… it wasn’t like this before.”

He let out a shallow breath, unable to explain better.

“I’m sorry,” He breathed for a third time, and she wanted to protest, but she knew he couldn’t hear it right now.

After a beat of quiet, she pulled her forehead away, and took both of his hands in hers, gently stroking her thumb across his skin.

“You know, sometimes…” She murmured, “...I come into my chambers, and Farica has the fireplace lit…”

Nasuada looked up at Murtagh and could tell he was listening, even though his eyes were focused downward, on their clasped hands.

“...and I’ll smell the wood and feel the warmth, and I just want to curl up there and sleep, or… drink tea and watch the snow through the window. Sometimes sitting by the fire is my favorite thing to do, after a long day.”

Nasuada swallowed, letting herself breathe as she delved into some memories that stung.

“...but sometimes…” She began again, “Sometimes I come in, and I’ll smell the smoke from the fire…” 

She grimaced.

“...and it’s like I’m… back on the Burning Plains. And the smoke is choking me, and I can hear the screams of dying men, and the smell of blood, and I can’t–I can’t breathe.” 

Now she was gripping Murtagh’s hands, not just for his comfort but for support, recalling the panic she had felt—the first time it happened, the first time the memories caught her unawares. 

She took a steadying breath, remembering her purpose.

“It’s the same fire. In the same place. But sometimes it just… feels wrong.”

She nodded, and pulled Murtagh’s hands so he would look up at her. She searched his gaze for the recognition that he could understand her, that the words made sense in his head right now.

“Healing doesn’t happen in a straight line,” She said, giving him as much love and understanding on her face as she could, “Sometimes the memories are loud. And that’s not your fault.”

She smiled at him softly, picturing the way he’d looked that summer in the clearing, with a crown of leaves in his hair, beaming at her as they’d held hands and declared their love for each other.

“I don’t need anything from you, but you.”

She smiled, and Murtagh nodded just slightly—they were echoes of words she’d spoken before, things that she knew it was difficult for him to believe sometimes. But she would keep saying them, as long as he needed to hear them—and if she had to remind him of her love for the rest of his life, she would consider it a privilege to do so. She just wanted him to feel about himself the way she did.

That night they lay facing each other on the bed, just talking softly and holding hands as they had the night of their wedding–with no expectations–and that was enough. They made an exception, and allowed themselves to fall asleep, after Murtagh had reached out to Thorn to make sure he was awakened before dawn.

In the gray hour just before morning, Nasuada felt him rise and kiss her forehead, slipping away quietly before Farica came to wake her up, and though she wished he didn’t have to steal away, she still felt that she would rather be here in this moment than anywhere else.

***

Murtagh had not expected it to return like that–the panic.

It had been a long time since he’d felt that clenching anxiety, that sudden feeling that the room was shrinking around him and he couldn’t breathe—and he’d let his guard down. 

It had been a concern of his from the beginning, that being intimate with Nasuada would dredge up all the old feelings that Thorn and the Eldunari had helped him work through. But after their honeymoon–when things had felt so right and he’d been so comfortable–he’d thought that he no longer needed to worry about it. Now he’d learned quite abruptly that that was not the case.

When he’d started kissing her, he’d wanted it–at least he thought he had–but then suddenly something changed, and it wasn’t Nasuada who was touching him, and he wasn’t in that room, with her, safe, and he’d felt like someone was suffocating him. 

He didn’t know what had caused it–what had been different this time, or why being with her in that way had never reminded him of all those other people before, and now suddenly it did. 

Perhaps you were simply more tired from our journey than you thought, Thorn offered the next day, when Nasuada was busy and they had a few minutes alone, It may have left your nerves frayed. 

Thorn shifted his weight.

But it is nothing to be ashamed of, He said, echoing the same things Nasuada had said the previous night.

I know, Murtagh sighed, and it was true—a few years ago he might’ve turned these disgusted feelings inward and berated himself for being stupid and weak, or he might’ve started drinking to drown out the feelings entirely. But he’d listened to enough advice from Thorn and the Eldunari and Nasuada to distinguish the true voices in his head from the false ones. 

He had been angry the previous night, frustrated to realize that he still wasn’t free from everything that had happened to him in the past. But in the light of day, after Nasuada had held onto him all night and whispered reassurances to him as the panic passed, he could see things more calmly. And what she had said was true—healing did not happen in a straight line. Nasuada understood that better than most people, and so did Thorn.

I just don’t want it to happen again, He said to Thorn, I don’t want her to feel like she’s doing something wrong. Or–or like I think she’s the same as them. Like I think she makes me feel the same way, because she doesn’t.

Thorn settled his head comfortably on the cobblestone, now big enough that he was still almost at eye-level with Murtagh sitting.

Then say to her what you have just told me, Thorn suggested. As Friend-Elva says, many of our difficulties would be fixed if we would simply tell each other the truth, hmm?

Murtagh smiled.

I’m taking marriage advice from Elva now? I must really be in trouble.

Thorn chuckled.

Even compared to you full-grown two-legs, she is wise.

Thorn sighed, and Murtagh felt the comfortable rumbling of his partner’s belly.

But it does make me sad, Thorn admitted, That a hatchling should have to know so much about the world.

Murtagh rubbed his hand along Thorn’s snout, scratching the place he knew Thorn liked.

You were just a hatchling too, He offered quietly, thinking of Thorn back then in the King’s treasure room—tiny and helpless and still so brave. He could see why Thorn liked Elva. The dragon blinked slowly, and Murtagh felt a thread of melancholy tenderness from his thoughts.

You know, I wanted to go to the banquet last night, Thorn mused, I had a very small deer, and your food smelled good. And you know how I like to listen to you two-legs talk amongst yourselves—it is pleasant, like squirrels chattering in the trees.

Oh, thank you, Murtagh thought sarcastically and Thorn nudged him playfully, before his eye grew serious.

I mean to say… I wanted to go to the banquet… but I did not.

Murtagh could feel Thorn’s disappointment at himself.

I tried to fly down to the garden and head inside but… I got uneasy, and I could not do it.

Murtagh sighed, and leaned his head against Thorn’s neck, gently rubbing his hand over the red scales, understanding what Thorn meant. One of the King’s tortures had been to lock Thorn in a trunk that was barely big enough to fit him–crushing his wings and limbs into the tiny, cramped space and shutting out all the light. He’d been wary of enclosed spaces ever since.

The bigger Thorn got, the smaller rooms seemed, and since their time traveling around Alagaesia alone–sleeping out in the open air every night–Thorn had had a hard time being inside at all. It took great effort for him to enter the keep at Mt. Argnor, or to spend more than a few minutes under a roof. 

I’m sorry, Murtagh comforted, understanding his partner’s fear.

You do not think I am weak and foolish for my failure? Thorn asked, and Murtagh looked up sharply.

Of course not, Thorn—it’s not your fault. It’s hard for you, I know that. There’ll be other banquets.

Thorn’s throat rumbled, and he nudged Murtagh’s chest with his snout.

Indeed, He agreed. And neither does Beloved-Nasuada think less of you, I am sure, for struggling to be with her sometimes. It is not your fault.

Murtagh smiled softly, seeing Thorn’s cleverness.

You know, if you keep spending time with Elva, you’re going to end up outsmarting me.

I already outsmart you, Thorn said, huffing out little plumes of smoke from his nostrils.

***

When Murtagh sneaked his way to Nasuada’s chambers the next night, he was not caught off guard by any feelings of panic or flashes of memory. He’d been fearful that something had changed, and that he would be unable to be close to her without being reminded of everything that had come before. But this was thankfully not the case; the next time they were together, the past stayed in the past, and he was able to feel only her touches, and no one else’s. 

During the rest of his time in Ilirea he stuck as close to her during the day as he could manage, enjoying the time working at her side, making plans for the next egg that would be brought to the city, and finding small, subtle ways to tell her he loved her when he couldn’t say it out loud.

When he was apart from her he mostly spent his time with Thorn, and he made sure to pay Lord Barrow a visit–as he did every time he was in the city. But he sat in on all the meetings he was permitted in, and listened carefully for any news he could glean of the wider goings-on in Alagaesia. Murtagh’s chief desire for being in Ilirea was to be close to Nasuada, but he also had the important task of watching for threats, and alerting Eragon of anything that might affect the academy.

Soon enough, the oldest of the rider students would be ready to start their work in earnest, putting to use the skills they had been learning, and playing an important role in the safeguarding of Alagaesia’s peoples. If they were to be prepared to act as ambassadors, they would need to know everything they could of what was going on.

On a cool afternoon several days into his visit, Murtagh sat through a long discussion about the state of things in Dras Leona—which was proving to still be a flocking place for the country’s most unsavory folk.

When the meeting had dispersed, he lingered in the councilroom a while, looking more closely at the tapestry that hung on the wall. It was a detailed weaving which depicted Eragon’s fight with the shade Durza and the destruction of the dwarves’ star sapphire—beautifully rendered, if a bit romanticized. He had been standing in front of the tapestry with his arms held across his chest, waiting for the room to empty, when a voice spoke next to him.

“It must have been quite a thing, to see it in person.”

Murtagh did not move his arms, as he glanced at the man who had spoken—now standing by his shoulder, gazing up. He was an older man, tall, with gray wispy hair and a not-insignificant scar that cut across his forehead to his temple.

Murtagh didn’t recognize him, but he could tell the man was nervous and attempting to hide it. Murtagh took a breath and returned his eyes to the tapestry.

“Not much time to stop and stare–when you’re trying not to die,” He returned, remembering the chaotic battle under the dome of the mountain—sweat and blood and the screams of dying men—the first of many. 

Murtagh calmly rested his hand on Zar’roc’s pommel, ready for anything, unsure what this man wanted from him or who he was. Most people did not approach Murtagh without invitation.

He heard the old man let out an amused breath, nodding.

“I suppose so. Forgive me, I read too many epic poems.”

Murtagh said nothing, waiting to see what the man was going to ask him–nobles did not tend to speak with him unless they needed something.

“I had… hesitated about introducing myself to you,” The old man said, still looking at the tapestry and not at Murtagh, a movement which Murtagh mirrored, “But I… didn’t want you to think me rude. Though it seems silly, come to think of it. I don’t suppose you would recognize me.”

Murtagh kept his face neutral, feeling the distant thread of Thorn’s consciousness from a nearby balcony, and growing more confused by the second, until the old man said,

“Jeod. Longshanks, is my name,” He shifted, “Well, I–suppose Lord Longshanks, now, but I confess that title… seems ill-befitting of me.”

Murtagh felt a prickle in the back of his head, the name settling into place in his mind and memory. 

“I–I am acquainted with your brother,” The man said with a clearing of his throat, “And I was a–a friend of—”

“–I know who you are,” Murtagh interrupted, working through a sudden mix of feelings. Jeod tightened his lips and nodded.

“Well,” He said, his hands clasped behind his back, “I wasn’t sure if, uh… well if you’d be offended by my greeting you, considering… well, everything…”

“Considering you helped Brom Holcombsson kill my father?” Murtagh offered coolly, looking sharply sideways at the man, taking in his appearance now, in earnest.

Jeod. The name had brought back snippets of a dozen conversations—moments shared with Eragon, stories relayed to him after the fact, things he’d heard from Nasuada and Blodgharm and Glaedr and a handful of others.

Jeod Longshanks was a scholar; he had worked with the Varden for years in secret; he had helped Eragon on his hunt for the Ra’zac. He had been the one to orchestrate Saphira’s egg being stolen from the palace, and to chase after it with Brom—resulting in a final confrontation with Morzan that left Murtagh’s father dead, mere weeks after his mother had met the same fate–or so he’d thought. 

The man had also, Murtagh recalled, been responsible for the Varden’s successful siege on Dras Leona—a siege which nearly resulted in getting Thorn killed.

Murtagh took the beat of quiet between them to wrestle under control an unexpected swirl of confused feeling. He employed his meditation practices, and calmed the waters that were churning within him, so taken by surprise at the sudden appearance of this man.

“...yes, well… that,” Jeod murmured, and Murtagh felt Thorn’s concerned thought reaching out to him, sensing the surprise and turmoil.

It’s alright, Murtagh assured, sending Thorn a quick explanation, Just caught me by surprise, is all.

“I’ll go then,” Jeod said meekly, interpreting Murtagh’s silence as anger, “I didn’t mean to cause offense.”

The old man gave a little bow and started to turn, but Murtagh managed to find his voice and said,

“That’s quite the scar you’ve got.”

Jeod stopped, his eyes curious, and half-consciously brushed his fingers against the mark on his forehead.

“Yes, well… it makes me seem far more fierce than I am, I think.”

Murtagh breathed calmly, observing the willowy man’s unassuming demeanor, the way he shrugged at himself—the soft kindness of his face, and the uncalloused hands that rubbed together nervously. This man was no hardened warrior—Murtagh could’ve guessed that even without Eragon’s stories.

“And did Morzan give it to you?” Murtagh continued, speaking his father’s name for the first time in who knew how long. Thorn was listening into the conversation, and Murtagh felt calm now–in control, but strange, to be having a conversation he’d never expected.

Jeod swallowed tightly, and gave a sort of half-nod.

“Not directly, but… yes.”

Murtagh nodded. There was a beat of quiet between them.

“My brother says you sacrificed much, for the sake of the Varden.”

Jeod seemed to wince, and a heaviness came over his chiseled features.

“Not as much as some,” He said, his voice tired. He met Murtagh’s eyes with a look of melancholy regret—a look Murtagh recognized, as a man who’d wrestled with the guilt of still being alive, when so many were not.

He had no air of pride or pompousness—despite plenty of accomplishments to brag about—and that more than anything helped Murtagh to navigate the feelings which all clamored for his attention. 

There was resentment, of course—even if he knew his father had been monstrous, it was still difficult to look in the eyes of the man who’d caused Murtagh to become an orphan. There was a hollow sorrow, thinking suddenly of moments and events that he had long since put behind him. There was a curiosity, wanting to know what kind of person left their comfortable home to go join a rebel group and attempt the most dangerous raid in history. 

All these and more crossed his mind in that brief moment, but the feeling Murtagh chose to lean into was a sense of respect—for what he knew this man had done and sacrificed, and for his humility in the face of all that.

“Brom was a good man,” Murtagh said quietly, “And a hero.”

He nodded, and took a heavy breath.

“You and he saved many lives that day.”

The day you killed my father.

Jeod was looking at him strangely now—part wary, part thankful, part caught in decades-old memories. The old man nodded, tiredly, and looked down, the grandeur of the tapestry forgotten.

“Murtagh,” Murtagh introduced as he reached his hand out, surprising both Jeod and himself. The old scholar blinked and, after a moment of hesitation, shook Murtagh’s hand.

“An honor,” Jeod said, “Truly.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, before Murtagh left the councilroom that afternoon, he’d received an invitation to Jeod’s house for a meal, and–-to his own surprise–-he’d accepted. 

“I hope it isn’t too presumptuous of me,” The older man had said as they stepped out into the hallway, “But I would love to hear how Eragon and the students are doing—such as you feel inclined to tell, of course.” 

He lifted his hands deferentially, then smiled.

“And Thorn is welcome too! Though there may not be room in our courtyard for him.”

Murtagh had found himself accepting the invitation, whether because of Jeod’s generally agreeable nature, or because a part of him was curious to hear more from this man—who’d had such a profound influence on his life, despite never having met or known of him. 

“I would’ve introduced you sooner if I knew you would like him,” Nasuada said that night, when Murtagh spoke of his strange encounter, “I don’t know him much in a personal way, but I recall he can talk quite a bit when he gets his mind on something.”

“That’s alright with me. I prefer to listen.”

“Well, let me know if he says anything interesting,” She said with a smile, lying comfortably against Murtagh’s chest, “I get the impression that he is a man who knows far more about a great many things than he lets on. He may talk a lot, but he doesn’t say everything.”

Murtagh nodded.

“He is wise, then.”

Nasuada smiled up at him. 

She was busy with a visiting governor the next evening, so Murtagh sent a messenger to Jeod saying that he could come for dinner at the merchant’s earliest convenience. Thorn declined the invite—more out of a worry that he would have trouble navigating the narrow streets than a disinterest in meeting Jeod–and Murtagh found himself that evening walking down a thoroughfare that was lined with fine mansions. 

Some of the buildings were old—still standing from the days when the city was called Uru’baen—but most had been newly rebuilt after the destruction of that last battle.

As he walked—catching curious glances from passersby—he had unpleasant echoes of memory, recognizing some of the homes that still stood, and the shops that lined the road. He hoped that Jeod did not happen to reside in a mansion that he’d been in before, or where some of those unpleasant memories had occurred. He wasn’t sure if he could manage sharing a meal with the merchant and his wife in their home if that was the case.

Thankfully, the mansion that Murtagh finally came to was newly-built—quite fine and decently large, but not the most extravagant of the homes in the city, which Murtagh appreciated. The courtyard was not very large, and he could tell right away that Thorn would have flattened a few ornamental bushes if he’d attempted to land there.

Jeod greeted Murtagh in an elegant entryway and led him to the dining room, where a thin, sharp-browed older woman waited. 

“My wife, Helen,” Jeod introduced, and the woman curtsied. 

“We are honored to have you in our humble home, Lord Murtagh,” She said, her smile self-satisfied—clearly pleased at the opportunity to display her hard-earned finery.

“Just Murtagh is fine,” He demurred, “But thank you. You have a lovely estate.”

She curtsied again, showing off plenty of expensive but tasteful jewelry. Eragon had not mentioned much to Murtagh about Jeod’s wife, but Murtagh knew someone of high breeding when he saw them. If he had to guess, he would say that Helen much preferred the life she had now as a noblewoman in Ilirea to her previous role as partner of a penniless fugitive.

Jeod Longshanks was eloquent, intelligent, and courteous—once they’d gotten past the uncomfortableness of his having killed Murtagh’s father—and Murtagh found the man’s eagerness pleasant as he flitted enthusiastically from one topic to another.

Helen, who at first note had seemed a bit proud and haughty, struck Murtagh as a hard-working, clever woman, who was supportive of her husband’s eccentricities, all things considered. Murtagh was surprised to learn that it was she, and not Jeod, who headed up the trade business that had made them their wealth—a business begun from a gift that Eragon had given them, as appreciation for Jeod’s sacrifices. 

Whenever Jeod mentioned Eragon, it was with admiration and wonder, and Helen’s face remained pleasant enough—but when Jeod spoke of Brom with the same fondness, Murtagh noted a tightness to her lips and the hints of a scowl on her face. 

It was evident that she did not look upon Brom with the same tender sadness that her husband had for his friend. Murtagh could understand that—after all, the way she saw it, Brom had been the source of all her troubles, roping her husband into his work with the Varden and then disappearing for sixteen years. But if she had any ill opinion on Eragon’s father, she chose to keep it to herself, which Murtagh respected.

Helen looked very interested whenever Murtagh mentioned Nasuada’s goings-on, though of course he kept his discussion of The Queen appropriately formal. He grew worried once, when he’d mentioned having shared a meal with Nasuada, and Jeod said,

“Lucky man.”

For a moment Murtagh was afraid that Jeod somehow knew—that he was commending Murtagh on managing to win the Queen’s heart—but then the merchant continued,

“An audience with The Queen is a rare commodity for most of us. I suppose being a rider has its benefits, eh?”

The old man was smiling over his plate, and Murtagh tried to mask his sudden look of worry with a pleasant smile of his own.

“Indeed.”

“You know,” Jeod said as he took a drink, an excited glint in his eye, “This may not seem grand to one such as yourself, but I once had the pleasure of riding dragonback.”

Helen seemed like she might roll her eyes, but she was smiling—clearly this was a story Jeod loved to tell.

“Your brother and Saphira honored me with the opportunity to go flying with her after the war—a memory I shall treasure always.”

Murtagh raised an eyebrow.

“Well. I suppose it’s due thanks—considering you are the reason she was freed in the first place.”

Jeod ducked his head softly, and gave an apologetic smile, but Helen looked pleased.

“Yes, well… I’m only sorry we weren’t able to rescue…you know—your partner and Firnen as well.”

Murtagh nodded, but the thought gave him pause—what if Jeod and Brom’s mission had been more successful, and they’d managed to snatch Thorn and Firnen’s eggs from the King’s treasure room? 

If Thorn had not been in Uru’baen, if Murtagh had not been brought into the egg’s presence after weeks of torture, he was certain he would have soon been dead. Would Thorn have picked a different rider in his stead? Or would he have languished in his egg forever, having lost the other half of his soul before even they had gotten the chance to meet each other?

Suddenly Murtagh was brought back to those moments in the treasury room, when Galbatorix had mocked him and left him chained on the floor—mere feet away from the two creatures that were the hope of Alagaesia, and yet helpless to do anything about it—until the red egg had started to crack. 

That evening would not be the last time that his conversations with Jeod brought up old memories. It was odd, and unexpected, but Murtagh found himself visiting the merchant’s house frequently during the remainder of his visit—in those moments when Nasuada was otherwise occupied. 

Jeod was knowledgeable and personable, and he had an excitement for life that was rare, especially among those who’d lived through war. Murtagh had found very few people who appreciated literature and scribe work more than this man, and despite his own extensive education, Murtagh was certain he could glean much knowledge from the merchant, given enough time to listen to his ramblings. 

Thorn, too, liked to listen to Murtagh’s recountings, and when Jeod loaned him several books that he thought Murtagh might find interesting, Thorn asked Murtagh to read them aloud for him to enjoy as well. Thorn was beginning to get quite bookish, so far as dragons went, and had even wondered if he might learn to read properly—though Murtagh wasn’t sure how he would go about turning book pages with his talons. 

The more time Murtagh spent around Jeod, the more he was forced to think about Brom—another man who’d played an incalculable role in his life, though they’d met only twice—once when Murtagh was hardly more than a toddler, and once when Brom had been slipping towards death and utterly unaware of Murtagh’s presence. 

It was strange, to hear Jeod speak of the rider as an old friend, and to recount his own perspective of the meeting in Teirm, when Eragon and Brom had shown up at his door for the first time since Morzan’s death. 

Murtagh didn’t sense any bitterness on Jeod’s part, for Brom having kept the truth about Eragon’s parentage a secret. This fact was significant, as Jeod had trusted the rider with his life and might have expected the same trust to be returned. Jeod, however, struck Murtagh as a forgiving person, who made a choice to believe the best of people, and didn’t hold on to old resentments—his willingness to befriend Murtagh was a clear example of this. 

Considering his history with Morzan, and the fact that they had been on opposite sides of a war, Murtagh would have understood if Jeod had been cold and distrusting of him—most people were. But this was not the case; if anything, he seemed eager to show Murtagh that he considered him equal to his brother. Or perhaps he was simply trying to assure himself that Murtagh did not hate him for the role he had played in Morzan’s death. 

Over the weeks spent talking with Jeod, Murtagh found himself wanting to ask more, to know more, to learn more about how things had been before—about who Brom had been, and how he had won Selena away from Morzan’s darkness. 

Though years had passed since he’d learned who Brom was and the role he’d played in all their lives, Murtagh had never quite known how to feel about the old rider—his brother’s father, the man who’d killed his father. He and Brom had been like two arrows passing each other in the air, just barely missing each other, but coming close enough that the ripples from each affected the trajectory of the other.

Though he would never get the chance to speak with Brom, Jeod was a suitable substitute, and possibly the only person to whom Murtagh could ask some questions that had been sitting on his heart for years—questions that would be wrong to ask of Selena, or Eragon, or even Glaedr—who had known Brom back then. Selfish questions. Childish, perhaps, but still there—still whispering in the back of Murtagh’s head whenever the subject of Brom the Dragon Rider Hero was brought up.

“You know I met him,” Murtagh said one evening when they were sitting out on the quiet balcony that looked over Jeod’s modest garden. He was almost surprised to hear his own voice—he hadn’t remembered exactly deciding to tell Jeod about this, but it seemed natural, after Jeod had shared the story of the first time he’d met Brom. 

“Before, I mean,” Murtagh murmured, “When my mother was alive… the first time.”

Jeod looked up at him strangely.

“I was very young—and I didn’t remember it, until… later…”

Jeod was watching him keenly, and Murtagh thought he understood. 

Until Uru’baen, until they tore through my mind and plucked memories out of my head like weeds and forced me to relive them.

“But I remember him being there; in the gardens with my mother,” Murtagh said quietly, the vague shadows of the memory dancing at the edge of his mind—the kind face of a gray-headed man.

This is mummy’s friend Neal…

Jeod’s eyes were glistening, a melancholy half-smile creasing his face.

“She told me I could trust him,” Murtagh murmured, his finger tracing the rim of the goblet that he held, “That I could go to him for help, if I needed it.”

Jeod sniffed, and nodded his head.

“It is a shame… that he did not live long enough to see your mother returned,” The old man offered, his voice heavy.

Murtagh continued to trace the goblet, unsure how he felt about that. His mother being alive had been both a joyful and a painful revelation for him—for Eragon, too, he didn’t doubt. 

But Brom ? Would he have wanted Brom to come back, if it was possible? Would he have been happy for that? Happy for his mother to be reunited with the man she’d loved? For Eragon to have his parents back together? For their little family to be whole and complete without him?

He should have wanted that; it would be the noble thing to want. But he had to admit that there was a part of himself that didn’t like the idea, outlandish a daydream as it was—a part that was grateful that Selena’s love belonged only to him and Eragon.

“You know she wrote to me from Ellesmera,” Jeod continued, surprising him, “About two years past. I was astounded to get the letter, and didn’t believe a word of it, of course, until I received Eragon’s letter saying that it was true—she was alive.”

Jeod shook his head with a smile.

“Truly the great poems cannot measure up to the strangeness of reality.”

He met Murtagh’s eyes, and his own softened.

“She is a lovely woman, your mother. Brilliant mind. I can see why Brom fell for her; I hope to meet her in person one day.”

Murtagh kept his face carefully guarded, breathing through the feelings that were now once again fighting for dominance inside of him. Talking with Jeod was always informative, but it was never simple.

A question then danced on the edge of Murtagh’s tongue—a selfish question that he’d silenced for years. He wanted to ask it, but he wasn’t certain that he would like the answer, if there even was one.

Still, Jeod was probably the one person he could ask without risking their hurt. So he took a breath, and removed his hand from the goblet, his fingers fidgeting in his lap.

“May I ask you something—of Brom? Since you knew him.”

Jeod looked hesitant, a bit confused.

“Of course. Though anything I could tell you, I’m sure your mother could tell better.”

Murtagh took a breath.

“Yes, well… it would be… unkind of me, to ask my mother this.”

Jeod frowned, but then he nodded.

“Certainly.”

Murtagh took a breath, unsure if he ought to open his thoughts to this man he’d only recently met, but feeling all of a sudden like he had to get it out. Like this question that had been lying dormant inside him for years was trying to claw its way up his throat.

“He came back… after Gil’ead, he came back…” 

Murtagh began, trying to keep his voice steady, remembering only glimpses of the terrible night. He’d run through the garden in the torrential rain, calling for a stranger named Neal to come and help his sick mother, and feeling very small and very alone.

 “...and he saw my mother… was dead. And… he left.”

Murtagh looked at Jeod, trying to fit the pieces together in a way that wouldn’t ache.

“Why didn’t he take me with him?” He asked, his voice hollow, “If he loved her so much… and if she trusted him with me… why didn’t he take me with?”

Murtagh was controlled, and calm, but there was a heat behind his eyes that he couldn’t deny. He felt very childish and very selfish for asking such a thing. What did it matter now? What would it change? He had been left behind—that was that. Unchangeable.

The fact was he was not Brom’s son, and Brom had had no responsibility towards him. Brom had left that night, to go and find his real son, and why should Murtagh think that the old rider would spare a second thought for the child of the man he’d just slain?

Because I was her child, He thought achingly, looking down at his hands so he didn’t have to look Jeod in the face, And he said he loved her.

“He knew my father was dead,” Murtagh continued dully, “No one would have been able to stop him… no one…”

Murtagh swallowed—in control, but feeling very strained. When he spoke, the words were slow and precise, a laying-out of the painful facts.

“He was going to Carvahall… and he knew I had… a brother there…I had… an Uncle, and family. And he knew that.”

Jeod’s face was somber as Murtagh lifted his hands in question.

“Did it even cross his mind? To bring me to them? To think that maybe I… should have a family, after he’d taken mine?”

Jeod sighed, and for a long stretch of time the air was filled only with the comfortable murmur of the city beyond, as lanterns were lit and stars began to peak through the clouds.

“I could give you a dozen conjectures,” Jeod finally said, “Reasons why I think Brom might have… left the child of the woman he considered to be his wife in all but law.”

Jeod opened his palms.

“It may have been that he was unaware of your mother’s extended family, or that he doubted his guess about Eragon’s existence. It may have been that he thought the journey too dangerous, or the risk too great for your safety, or that he didn’t know you were still at your father’s estate. Or it may have been simply that he was stricken with grief, and was not thinking clearly.”

Jeod gave a sympathetic shrug.

“But those would be no more than theories—and not satisfying ones at that.”

Murtagh felt the merchant watching him with melancholy understanding.

“Unfortunately the only person who could give you the answer you seek… is no longer with us. But I imagine you already knew that.”

Murtagh nodded solemnly, looking down at his folded hands, allowing himself to feel the heaviness, and not hiding from it as he might have in the past. He wasn’t surprised; he hadn’t really expected an answer.

“It wasn’t fair to you—the way things happened,” Jeod said, “And if Brom had told me about your mother—about Eragon and you and all of it—then it would have been my honor to share the facts with you. But I don’t know the facts, and though conjecture has its place, I do not think that conjectures can give you the satisfaction you seek; that you deserve.”

Jeod took a breath, and his voice was firmer.

“However, I can tell you this fact—Brom would have respected the man you’ve become. He would have been honored to know you, I am certain. And because I know the kind of man he was, I can confidently say that if he ever pictured any kind of future with your mother… it would have included you.” 

Murtagh met the merchant’s eyes, feeling a strange mix of sadness and resentment and affection—he pictured the face of the dying man in the sandstone cave, of the smiling man in the garden.

“As you said—he was a good man,” Jeod concluded, “And as someone lucky enough to have counted him a friend, I know he loved fiercely, and fully. So if it brings you any comfort, you may trust that his love for your mother would have extended to you. No question.”

Jeod sighed, nodding.

“He had a lot of regrets—and losing your mother was one of his worst, though he hid it. It may be that he also regretted leaving you behind; I’m sorry, I can’t tell you for certain.”

They sat in quiet for a long moment, and Jeod sniffled. Murtagh could tell that the merchant had become emotional in his reminiscences, and he gave the man time to grieve in silence. 

For himself, Murtagh felt a tightness in his throat, but his heart was quiet. The question had been asked—put out into the world, after being trapped in his head for so long. And if Jeod didn’t have an answer, then no one did. And that was okay. Because if things had gone differently back then—if he had been brought back to Carvahall and raised up alongside Eragon—then he never would have met Tornac, he never would have been there to save Eragon from the Ra’zac, he never would’ve gone to the Varden with him and met Nasuada. 

And sure, he probably never would’ve been kidnapped and tortured by the vengeful King, but then he also would never have met Thorn. And though Murtagh didn’t subscribe much to the sentiment of fate and destiny, of all the things in his life, he was certain that being joined with Thorn was fated to be. 

So he was content to believe that—had things been different—perhaps he could’ve been a part of their little family: Selena, Brom, Eragon. Perhaps Brom could’ve been like a father to him, but even his own son had never known him as a father in life, so Murtagh could not complain.

He liked his life, now. And though the past held many regrets and much pain, he would not waste the present pining after what might have been. What had happened, happened—for good or ill. And he was grateful for it, insomuch as it had resulted in who he was now, and all that he had gained.

“Thank you,” Murtagh said with a quiet nod, and Jeod nodded in return, his face at peace, his eyes glistening with memory as the lights of the city flickered to life.

***

Towards the end of Murtagh’s visit to Ilirea, he and Nasuada strolled in the gardens together as they often did, taking the opportunity to speak freely since they were watched only by Nasuada’s guards, who stood at a distance. 

Some of her retinue, of course, had been at Mt. Argnor and knew of the marriage, but they had sworn themselves to secrecy, and none of the others were yet the wiser, so she still had to guard her speech when her guards were close by. 

This meant that the only time she and Murtagh could speak without worry of listening ears was at night in her chambers, so she valued the time to be outside and talk openly amongst the trees, where their voices did not travel.

Murtagh told her of his time visiting with Lord Barrow, and getting acquainted with Jeod Longshanks—who apparently had already established a bit of a friendship with Barrow, which Murtagh took as a sign of his good character.

“I am glad–that you’ve found him so agreeable,” Nasuada complimented.

Murtagh nodded.

“He is a good man.”

She knew what that meant, coming from him. They walked in quiet for a moment, and Nasuada listened to a pair of arguing birds that sat on the courtyard wall.

“I didn’t want to say anything before we had decided on it for certain,” Murtagh said then, ducking under the branches of a citrus tree as they strolled, “But Thorn and I have decided to head west after leaving the city, and visit the Carvahall Valley before returning to Mt. Argnor.”

“Really?” Nasuada asked, surprised, and he nodded.

“Eragon had some gifts he wanted to bestow on Roran—to celebrate the birth of their third child—and we figured we could deliver them sooner than the dwarf caravans.”

Nasuada smiled, thinking of Eragon and Murtagh’s brash, stubborn cousin—who had been equal parts maddening and invaluable to her during the war.

“I had heard they were expecting again,” She nodded, “Roran mostly keeps me appraised of official business, but he is much less forthcoming in his letters than you or Eragon.”

She gave a wry look.

“Sometimes I think the village would prefer to pretend they did not have a Queen at all; which I don’t blame them for, of course. They are so withdrawn from the rest of the kingdom–and in the past, their experiences with Monarchs have not been positive ones.”

“I’m sure his brevity has nothing to do with you,” Murtagh returned, “If I struggled with the pen, I might be less forthcoming too.”

Nasuada frowned.

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her, and she could tell that she was missing something.

“You were speaking of Roran… writing letters.”

“Yes…”

He frowned.

  “Eragon’s–our–uncle never taught them their letters,” Murtagh explained, seemingly surprised that she didn’t know this already, “He only just learned since the war. Eragon too–Jeod taught him.”

Nasuada blinked. 

“You didn’t know that?” He asked, not unkindly. 

“Hmm. No I guess I didn’t…” 

Now she was frowning, and going back over the experiences she’d shared with the two men, trying to remember if she’d ever seen Roran write anything down. The concept sounded familiar to her—that Eragon had been illiterate before becoming a rider—but she couldn’t remember if it was something that she had been told outright and simply forgotten, or if she had come to understand it through mere observation.

“Well, then I’m all the more impressed,” She concluded, “At how Roran managed to lead his village to become what they are now.”

Murtagh nodded. 

Nasuada knew it was a foreign concept for the both her and Murtagh—to think of not being able to read books and write letters. Literature had been a part of both their upbringings since before they could remember, and it was the reason they had first connected, when Murtagh was in the cell under Farthen Dur. The way their education contrasted with Eragon and Roran’s was another example of how the lives of disparate people may converge and overlap, and yet be very different.

“I was considering, if it would be alright by you,” Murtagh continued, “Telling Roran and Katrina–about us. I know we weren’t planning on telling anyone who wasn’t at the mountain—”

“–of course,” Nasuada said without hesitation, pulled from her musings by his sudden offer, “Yes, you should tell him if you want to. I know Roran and Katrina are capable of keeping secrets. They’ve proved their trustworthiness time and again, and… they’re family.”

She saw Murtagh’s eyes crinkle in a smile, and risked a quick squeeze of his hand, aware of her guards’ watchful eyes. She liked the idea of them knowing—of growing her family by a few more.

“We have to be careful,” She said, bringing herself back to reality, “With Orik especially, and what’s going on in the clans, but… but yes, I think Roran deserves to know.”

It was settled, then, and Nasuada wished she could go with Murtagh to Carvahall, to see the place where Eragon had grown up, where Selena was from, where Murtagh might have begun his life, if fate had been kinder. But she had her duties, and he had his, and this was the life they had chosen—a life of meetings and farewells, of precious time spent together in secret. This was the life she had to find contentment in, at least for now.

All too soon, of course, the time came for Murtagh to leave Ilirea, and the two of them bid each other a quiet goodbye that morning over breakfast on the balcony. 

“Give Katrina and Roran my best,” She said, handing him a small parcel to deliver, “I figured if you were delivering Eragon’s gifts you should have something from me–or, us –as well. I penned your name on the note, I hope that’s alright.”

Murtagh took the package with gentle hands.

“Of course. I suppose it’ll help me start the conversation, once they see a gift from the both of us,” He gave a soft laugh, and Nasuada did too.

“Yes, I suppose so. It’s nothing extravagant,” Nasuada promised, “Just a few baby’s clothes and a doll; Farica picked them out.”

She knew Roran and Katrina were proud people, and wouldn’t like to receive lavish gifts of gold or jewels from the Queen.

“I’m sure they’ll love them.”

There was a stretch of silence between them, and Nasuada could feel Murtagh looking at her, as if trying to see into her feelings. She understood what he was looking for—that pinch of regret, that sadness at the knowledge that she would never have what Katrina had.

He was kind enough, though, not to ask her, because if he had asked, then Nasuada would have been obliged to tell him the truth—which was that yes, it did make her heart ache to think of new life and children and a family, when that was not in her future. And she didn’t want to do that to him. She had made her choice, and would make it again a hundred times over, but it still hurt to think on, when she was holding a parcel of baby clothes in her hands.

Murtagh kissed her on the cheek—saying with feelings what it would not do to speak aloud, and they treasured their last few minutes together before he had to meet Thorn in the courtyard. 

He left as he had many times before, with a few words that meant more than they said, flying off into the growing day, and taking a piece of her with him. And while Nasuada felt the melancholy of saying goodbye, she also had the assurance of seeing him again, of knowing that would always return to her—and that was enough.

Chapter Text

Murtagh’s boots pressed into the muddy lane as he loped towards the two-story farmhouse, the evening damp and cool against his skin. 

He took a deep breath of the refreshing air, feeling the scent of spring in it. He knew winters in the north were deceptive—they would slip away quietly for a time, only to return with a vengeance—but when he’d been in the woods with Thorn the previous night, he could sense the life of the plants just beneath the surface of the soil, eager to burst through.

Thorn was in the Spine hunting after their journey from the capitol. They had both decided it was probably best for Murtagh to arrive at Roran’s house alone—even friends of dragon riders would be startled by the sudden appearance of a fire-breathing beast.

Murtagh couldn’t help but smile to himself as he raised a hand to the familiar door and knocked sharply. He would’ve been content to wait there in the fading light for a long while, but it was mere seconds before he heard the scuffle of feet, and the door was abruptly yanked open.

For a moment he thought it had blown open of its own accord, because no one was there, but then Murtagh looked down and saw the large, blinking eyes of a girl about seven years of age. 

Murtagh smiled.

“Hello,” He greeted, and for a moment the girl tilted her head, frowning. But then her eyes lit up, and her mouth opened in amazement.

“Uncle Murtagh!” She exclaimed.

Then the girl immediately turned, and ran away.

Murtagh chuckled to himself as young Ismira stormed back through the house, leaving him on the stoop with the door open as she called,

“Daddy, daddy Uncle Murtagh’s here! He brought his dragon! Daddy it’s Uncle Murtagh!”

After Ismira disappeared around the corner, Murtagh had expected to see Roran or Katrina return, but the next person who greeted him was a chubby boy around three or four. The boy ran into the hall, froze, and stared at Murtagh with a petrified expression, before turning heel and running away.

Murtagh was just debating whether he should let himself into the house, when he heard the rumbling of Roran’s voice from the other room,

“Don’t be playing tricks on your brother, Ismira, it’s not kind.”

“But I’m not! It’s Uncle Murtagh for real, really!” Her squeaky voice responded, and finally Roran appeared, dragged into the entryway by the hand. Ismira stopped and gestured proudly to Murtagh, who was still waiting on the threshold.

“See!?”

Roran froze, looking up, and his expression changed to one of surprised pleasure.

“Skies above, Murtagh, why didn’t you tell us you were coming?” He said with a grin, reaching a hand out to Murtagh and drawing him into a tight hug.

“Sorry,” Murtagh grunted as the air was crushed out of him for a moment, “I would’ve sent a letter but I’m afraid we’d have arrived long before it did.”

“Thorn’s outside?” Roran peered into the dark, but Murtagh shook his head.

“Hunting; but he’ll be back.”

“You really have a dwagon?” The little boy asked, having appeared at Roran’s leg, “You in our painting with a dwagon,” He pointed back to the hallway where Murtagh knew there was a collection of fairths from Mt. Argnor.

“Ismiwa says she met you dwagon before but I think she trick me.”

Murtagh smiled down at little Garrow—who had been hardly more than an infant the last time he saw him.

“I do have a dragon, Garrow. He’ll visit soon, and if you’d like… you could say hello.”

Garrow’s eyes went wide, that same petrified look crossing them, as he clung to Roran’s leg.

“Garrow’s a bit more cautious than our Mira,” Roran said, ruffling the boy’s hair as Ismira bounced behind him, her excitement not deflated by the fact that Thorn wasn’t there yet

“But come in, it’s a chilly night,” Roran gestured, “Katrina’s upstairs with the baby, I’m afraid we’ve just got a simple supper tonight…”

Katrina was full of surprised joy when she found who had caused all the ruckus in her home, and she apologized repeatedly for the state of the house, though to Murtagh it seemed as lovely and comfortable as ever. 

She had given birth to their third child—a girl named Mariannah—mere months earlier, and both her and Roran seemed to have the bewildered exhaustion that Murtagh recognized as typical of new parents.

Dinner that night was loud and full of chatter, as Murtagh caught his cousins up on anything they hadn’t shared in letters, and Ismira and Garrow broke in every few seconds to ask questions—what color was the newest dragon? How big was Saphira now? Did Elves speak a funny language? Did dwarf ladies have beards? How old was Murtagh? Could Eragon come with him next time? Could he do some magic for them?

Roran kept chiding them for interrupting, but Murtagh found their excitement charming, and he welcomed the questions, losing track of the main thread of his tale, and freely letting the conversation go wherever the children seemed inclined to take it. They would have time enough for getting the details straight.

“Are you married?” Ismira asked, her mouth half-full of bread, “My friend Hope says she wants to get married to a handsome nobleman with long hair and a dashing sword; that’s like you, but she can’t marry you even if you aren’t married because you’re old and she’s my age–I’m seven—which isn’t little but isn’t as big as mum and dad and you–are you old like mum and dad?”

“Ismira, mind your manners,” Roran put in, “If you’re going to ask someone a question you’ve got to stop chattering long enough for them to answer.”

Ismira giggled and nibbled more bread, but Murtagh nodded.

“I am old like your mum and dad,” He allowed, “And no, I’m not married. But you are correct—your friend Hope would do best to look for someone closer to her own age, perhaps when she’s a bit older.”

Murtagh felt bad at the deception, but he knew that the children could not be trusted to keep a secret like that. Later that night, however, when Roran had put the older children to bed, the three of them were sitting around the fireplace as Roran worked on mending a pair of boots and Katrina rocked the baby.

With the children gone, Roran spoke more openly of the governance work of the valley—his position as Earl came with its hardships—and of the troubles that various families had faced that winter. Things were far better for the residents of Palancar Valley than they had been before the war, but it had been difficult that growing season and they’d had a harsh winter; life in Carvahall was still one of hardiness and toil. 

“I must be honest with you about something,” Murtagh began when Roran had mentioned something about Ismira.

“I’m afraid I lied to your daughter earlier,” He said, as Katrina gently placed the sleeping baby in her bassinet, “When she asked me if I was married or not.”

As he’d expected, Katrina’s eyebrows shot up, and Roran raised his head from the boots—frowning like he hadn’t heard quite right.

“I, um…” Murtagh cleared his throat,  “I am married, actually. And have been so since last summer.”

Katrina’s expression of surprise did not change, but she quickly tried to cover her shock with politeness.

“Oh; oh, that’s–that’s lovely, congratulations to you.”

Roran was still frowning.

“Aye, happy returns,” He said with a nod.

“You would’ve been invited to the wedding,” Murtagh continued, feeling nervous, “But it all happened very fast, really, and… we… we are intending to keep it quiet for now.”

“Quiet?”

Murtagh cleared his throat.

“Yes. It would be… risky… to make the marriage public. For her especially.”

Roran’s brow was knit.

“Who’s… I mean… it’s someone at the Academy? One of the Elves?”

“No! No–” Murtagh almost laughed at the idea. He could not picture himself being romantically interested in any of his fellow workers on the mountain.

“You don’t have to tell us, we understand,” Katrina said graciously, putting a gentle hand on Roran’s arm, as though to talk him down.

“No, we–we want you to know; you’re family,” Murtagh insisted, “We just have to ask that you not speak of it to anyone else, until the time is right.”
Roran’s face was increasingly guarded.

“You’re starting to worry me,” He admitted with a raised brow.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean—it’s just a… difficult situation.”

“Well if you love each other and you’ve pledged yourselves… then it’s very simple, really,” Katrina affirmed, giving an encouraging smile.

Murtagh nodded, holding onto the arms of his chair tightly.

“If her family will give you trouble–”

“–no, no it’s not that.”

Murtagh was getting nervous, he wished Thorn was there, or Nasuada—they were better at this sort of thing.

“Whatever the conflict is, you have our support,” Roran said, standing and reaching for the stoker to stir up the fire.

“We look forward to meeting her someday,” Katrina added.

“Well, I… you’ve already met her, actually,” Murtagh said, rubbing his hands together.

He let out a breath.

“...it’s Nasuada.”

Roran’s arm suddenly jerked forward and sent a spark of cinders swirling into the air. The blood drained from Katrina’s face, and they both looked at Murtagh with expressions of utter bewilderment.

“N–Nasuada… the Queen , Nasuada?” Katrina stammered, as though any of them knew a different Nasuada.

Murtagh smiled apologetically as Roran stood blinking, the fire poker held half-way in the air.

“Aye, her,” Murtagh confirmed. 

There was dead silence for a few seconds.

“You can see why it would cause some strife, if the news were to be known.”

“Y–yes, I… can see,” Katrina said distantly.

“ Some strife ?” Roran asked, “It’s bloody mad!”

“Roran–”

Roran shook his head, but Murtagh could tell he wasn’t angry–just bewildered.

“And she called me rash,” He scoffed, still shaking his head, “Marry a dragon rider? The Queen ? Marry you ?”

  “That’s what I said,” Murtagh agreed with a lamenting smile, “But she insisted.”

“She’s mad,” Roran confirmed, but he was finally smiling, “It’s no wonder you like her so much.”
He reached down his large hand and pulled Murtagh up from his seat, giving him a firm hug that knocked the air out of him again.

Murtagh was finally able to relax then, seeing that his cousins’ reaction was not one of suspicion or anger.

“Congratulations, Murtagh, we’re so pleased for you,” Katrina offered when Roran had released his squeezing hug.

“Aye,” Roran agreed, “But I’m not about to start calling you ‘your highness’ or anything like that.”

“Please don’t,” Murtagh agreed with a laugh, as the baby woke up again, disturbed by all the noise. Katrina leaned down to pick her up as Murtagh went to the saddlebag he’d taken from Thorn.

“Nasuada wanted me to bring you this–from us,” He said, handing them the gift she’d prepared.

He was relieved when things carried on as normal, and once Roran and Katrina had recovered from their initial shock—asking all the reasonable questions, like who all knew and when they had married and how they were managing things—they both concluded that they were pleased to welcome Nasuada to the family. 

“I am glad your mother was able to be there,” Roran said the next day, when Murtagh and he were chopping up a felled tree for firewood, “I’ve told her she’d be more than welcome to stay with us if she ever wanted to visit Carvahall. I look forward to meeting her–or, well, seeing her again.”

Murtagh nodded, collecting the pieces of wood that Roran had cut. 

“I think she wants to, but… it’s hard, you know.”

Roran nodded in return, sighing and taking a long look out over the field.

“I do know. It was a lot of work, getting this place back to something like what it was… before.”

He set up another log on the tree stump, and chopped.

“Even more to feel like there wasn’t a ghost ‘round every corner.”

Murtagh nodded, knowing the feeling. 

In the late morning Roran suggested that they make a trip into town—to let people know that Murtagh was there, so that they wouldn’t be frightened when a full-grown dragon flew overhead.

They took the two family horses, and Ismira rode in front of Roran as they made their way to the village in the crisp air. It was a much different journey than the last time–when Murtagh had been wounded and hiding, and Roran was suspicious of him. 

Murtagh was glad to be visiting the village again under better circumstances, and when they rode into the town square he smiled to see the newly-rebuilt tavern, with a sign hanging over its doorway—though the wooden plaque oddly had no words on it.

“Morn hasn’t named the place yet,” Roran explained with a chuckle, “He threw out a few options but nothing seemed to stick. We’ve all just been calling it ‘The New Place’, which Tara hates.”

Murtagh smiled and admired the building, which was newer by only a few years than the rest of the village, since it had burned down the last time Murtagh was there. Earin—the man whose daughters Murtagh had saved by putting out the fire—had done a fine job of rebuilding the new tavern.

“Run off to Hope’s, Ismira,” Roran bid his daughter as she slid easily off the horse, “And tell Horst that Murtagh and I are at the tavern.”

“Okay daddy!” Ismira said, bouncing excitedly, she grinned at Murtagh, “Daddy said I’m big enough to go to Hope’s house on my own, but only just because it’s up the hill; it’s that house there, you can see it–do you see it?”

“I do see it,” Murtagh confirmed, having visited Horst’s home outside of town twice before, “Enjoy yourself.”

Ismira took off at a heedless run, and both Murtagh and Roran watched her as she shrank in the distance, until she’d knocked on the door of the house and been welcomed in.

When the two men ducked into the tavern, it was light and open, with a row of glass panes across the front that allowed sunlight in and seemed to be cleaned at least semi-regularly, so they were not covered in soot. 

“Afternoon, Morn,” Roran bid as he loped towards the bar.

“Lord Stronghammer,” Morn bid, his eyes flicking to Murtagh in a way that Murtagh recognized—the appraising of a stranger. But the old tavern keeper quickly did a double take and blinked suddenly.

“My lord!” He exclaimed, “Oh, welcome sir, welcome,”

He shuffled quickly out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a cloth, and gripped Murtagh in an eager handshake.

“An honor to have you here, sir.”

“Hello,” Murtagh returned, amused at the old man’s eagerness. He had been less exuberant the last time Murtagh was around—even after he’d saved him from losing everything he owned to a fire. It seemed that Murtagh’s good-standing with the riders and Ilirea was changing opinions after all.

“Glad to see your tavern up and running again,” He managed.

“Oh, it is but a humble serving establishment, but we do our best,” Morn said with a little bow. It was clear that he did not feel humble about his establishment at all.

“Two ales, please, Morn,” Roran said, “And some stew, if you have it on.”

“Just the stew is fine for me,” Murtagh interjected, receiving a quick look from Roran, before the bubbling innkeeper bowed again and scurried into the kitchen.

Roran and Murtagh had just sat down at a table near the crackling fire, when the door opened and two men walked in—Horst, the town blacksmith who had helped Murtagh repair Thorn’s saddle, and one of his sons. Murtagh had to think a moment before remembering his name—Albrecht, the older one. 

“Well, I thought Ismira might be playing make-believe,” Horst said, lumbering towards the table and reaching out a thick hand, “Saying there was a dragon in town.”

Murtagh stood and received the blacksmith’s handshake.

“Not in town,” Murtagh corrected good-naturedly, “We thought it best he not catch anyone by surprise.”

“Just as well. My Hope won’t be satisfied ‘til she sees him, though.”

Murtagh was glad that the town seemed much more accepting of Thorn—he’d had his worries, returning after several years, but it seemed their sentiment towards him was positive.

Albrecht and his father joined them at the table and ordered their own ale, sitting down and exchanging news, eager to hear of Eragon and the riders and Ilirea, and giving Murtagh a summation of all the important events that had happened in the village since the last time he’d been there.

The tavern began to fill up in the afternoon, and Murtagh was able to greet some of the townsfolk that he’d met the last time he was there, like Jaffe and Waylar. Word had spread quickly that Murtagh had returned to the village, and he suspected that those who’d had no plans to visit the tavern that afternoon quickly changed their minds—to Morn and Tara’s delight.

When Roran was satisfied that enough people had heard the news of Murtagh’s arrival—so as not to flee in terror when a dragon descended on the village—they accepted Horst’s invitation to come see the new smithy that he and his sons had recently finished constructing next to Horst’s home—a replacement to the one that had been destroyed after they’d fled Carvahall with Roran.

“Albrecht, why don’t you run ahead and make sure your brother’s finished up there,” Horst said as they stepped out into the cool gray day. Albrecht nodded with a bit of an uneasy look in Murtagh’s direction, and trotted off. 

Murtagh recalled that Horst’s other son Baldor had maintained a particular dislike for him, even after most of the other men in the town had grown to at least tolerate him. 

“I don’t want to cause any trouble,” Murtagh put in, thinking it might be better that he not darken the doors of the forge if it would cause them strife in the family.

“Don’t worry about Baldor. He’s got his own home to run off to if he don’t wish to see ye,” Horst acknowledged gruffly.

“How is Chrisayne?” Roran asked, and the old blacksmith shrugged.

“Same—Gertrude says she should be alright if she can make it another week. Elain is seeing that she sticks to the bed at all times; drivin’ the both of them crazy.”

Roran explained that Chrisayne was Baldor’s wife, and she was with child—not due to give birth for another two months about, but experiencing worrying symptoms that might cause the babe to come early.

“Katrina hopes to visit before the week is out,” Roran returned.

“Aye, that’ll lift the girl’s spirits I think,” Horst said with a smile, but Murtagh could see that it did not meet his eyes—the older man hid it well, but he was clearly worried.

The forge was an impressive place—well-built, well-maintained, clean and full of an assortment of tools that Murtagh could not guess the purpose of. He’d never taken to craftsmanship of that sort, and would have been woefully ignorant in a smithy’s shop.

“Should’ve seen the collection I had before the war,” Horst commented, watching Murtagh’s eyes wander along the wall of tools.

“Been a toil, rebuilding it; but we did manage to find a few pieces we’d left behind—whatever the thieving bastards didn’t manage to dig up.”

Horst spit on the ground—a curse to the imperial soldiers who’d destroyed their town. 

Murtagh nodded, recalling Eragon’s story of how his neighbors had had to flee for their lives in the face of an occupation. Roran’s feat in leading the villagers of Carvahall to the Burning Plains had become a legendary tale in Alagaesia—full of elements so fantastical that it was hard to separate truth and exaggeration. Having heard much of the story first-hand, Murtagh knew that some of the most outlandish pieces were, in fact, the most truthful.

He was reminded again of the many thousands of lives that had been affected by the war—by the madness and tyranny of Galbatorix. Though he and Eragon and Nasuada and Orik had been the figureheads in the great conflict, it was the small, every-day people like Horst and his family who had sacrificed everything, and risked everything, for what they believed in. No one wove tapestries or sang lays about Horst the Blacksmith, but seeing the way he spoke so affectionately of his humble home, Murtagh thought perhaps they ought to.

After giving them a proper show of the forge and their most recent project, Albrecht asked if Roran and Murtagh would come for dinner, but Horst grimaced a bit.

“I’m afraid Baldor’s going to be over tonight, and… well, considering what’s going on with Chrisayne and the baby, I don’t want to be causing strife there.”

He looked apologetically at Murtagh.

“It’s alright,” Murtagh dismissed.

“We were meaning to stop by Earin’s on the way back anyhow,” Roran offered.

“I mean no offense,” Horst said to Murtagh, but he looked relieved at their dismissal.

“None taken. I thank you for showing me your excellent forge. You and your sons should be proud.”

Horst smiled through his beard, and nodded gratefully.

When the sun was close to the horizon, Roran collected Ismira from Horst’s home, pulling her away from her friend Hope, and they mounted their steeds again. 

Earin was delighted when Roran knocked on the door of his quiet farmhouse. He embraced Murtagh warmly and exclaimed what a delight it was to see him again,

“Girls, you remember Murtagh,” He said to his daughters—who were around Ismira’s age, and who Thorn had helped rescue from the tavern fire. Earin had become Murtagh’s most vocal advocate in the town after the incident, and Murtagh suspected it was chiefly due to veteran that the villagers of Carvahall seemed to be so accepting of Murtagh’s presence.

It was dark by the time they’d left Earin’s house—promising to visit again before Murtagh left—and before they pulled the horses up to the house, Ismira had fallen asleep against her father’s chest, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the trodding animal.

“You mind taking her in?” Roran whispered as he slid his daughter off the horse and held her in his arms.

“I’ve got to see the horses fed.”

“Of course.”

Murtagh took the sleeping girl from Roran–one arm tucked under her knees and the other cradling her back–and he slid through the doorway, careful not to bump her head on the way.

Katrina beckoned him upstairs when he’d entered, and he cautiously carried Ismira to the little room at the end of the hall, letting her down onto her bed–still asleep, as Katrina shuffled in with a lantern.

“Thank you,” Katrina whispered with a smile, and Murtagh nodded, looking down for a moment at the sleeping child and feeling a pinch of melancholy, before he slipped out of the room and closed the door softly behind him.

The farmhouse was quiet, and soft crickets chirred outside as the wood of the house creaked and settled in the cooling air. Murtagh closed his eyes and breathed in the calming scent of the earth, which somehow seemed always present out here, even inside—nothing like the paved streets of Ilirea or the cold stone of the dungeons. 

It reminded him of the little cottage on the mountain where he’d spent those first soft days with Nasuada, and it made him miss her with an ache. From the other side of the door he heard Katrina singing softly to her daughter as she put her to bed, and for a moment he let himself imagine what it would be like to have what Roran had—a family, a home, a piece of land, a village of dear friends... 

Of course Murtagh did have some of that—Mt. Argnor was the closest thing to a real home he’d ever known, and he was grateful for it. But none of it belonged to him—no one owned anything on the mountain. The Keep and the rooms and the land and the crops belonged to everyone in the Academy, and to no one. 

That was as it should be, he knew, but as Murtagh crossed the creaking floors of the farmhouse, he thought of how satisfying it must be to live in a place of one’s own—to build a home for your children with your own hands, and to pass that home on to them when you were old and graying.

It made him a little melancholy, to think of Roran and Katrina growing old, and yet it was a warm kind of sorrow—the kind that came along with fond memories that have long since passed. 

It was the way of things, with humans—to grow old and pass on, and let the next generation rise up—the rhythm of life, every man’s fate. It was a fate that Murtagh had shared too, until the day Thorn had hatched for him. Now he would never know what it was like to be old and gray. He was outside of the rhythm—a stranger to it—but most days he didn’t mind that too much, because he knew he would not be facing the long years alone.

Today, however—with Thorn gone and Mt. Argnor far away—he felt a little regretful to be immortal. Today he felt the heaviness of the fact that all the people he had seen that day—all the men in the tavern and the old acquaintances from the village, even the little girl being sung to sleep by her mother in the next room—they would all be gone one day.

And he would remain.

Chapter Text

When Thorn landed at the Stronghammer farm after he’d finished his hunting, little Ismira was bouncing with excitement and immediately began climbing all over Thorn, chattering to him like he was an old friend. Her brother, however, burst into tears and fled for the house, and it took Roran most of the afternoon to coax him into saying hello.

Thorn was patient with the little boy, and stayed very still, and it helped that Ismira was so comfortable around him—encouraging her brother to join her up on Thorn’s back and try fitting his whole head in Thorn’s mouth—a trick which she found endlessly amusing and made Katrina go a little pale.

Thorn, for his part, loved children, and would have agreed to anything Ismira asked him—this included when she begged him to open up his wings and fly while she was sitting in the space where his saddle would go.

Mmm I am happy to take Roran-Daughter-Ismira for a flight with me, He said to Murtagh, But I think it may alarm her dam and sire.

I agree, Murtagh thought, holding onto little Garrow’s hand as he nervously patted Thorn’s nose, Perhaps ask their thoughts on the matter first.

Many dragons might have thought it undignified or humiliating to let children crawl all over them and take them for rides like one might a pony at a fair, but Thorn loved it when people were comfortable with him. He liked to make them happy, and saw it as a chance to show that he was friendly, and not prone to eating people or burning them alive, as some people thought..

When Murtagh passed Thorn’s offer onto Katrina and Roran, he was surprised when—after only a few moments of looking like she might throw up—Katrina agreed, on the condition that Murtagh would fly with Ismira, and that he would cast wards of protection around her to prevent her falling. That had been his suggestion.

Little Garrow looked on with longing, but didn’t seem to be able to work up the courage to join in, as Ismira held tight to the front of Thorn’s saddle and the dragon unfurled his great wings, buffeting the grass as he leapt into the air.

Ismira shrieked with delight the whole time, bouncing in the leg restraints and telling Thorn to go ‘Faster! Faster!’

Murtagh was glad for the wards—the child really had no fear.

They floated lazily in the sky, hovering over the woods and skimming the edge of the Spine at an easy pace. Thorn had promised Katrina that he would not to any “tricks”—no matter what Ismira asked—but he did consent to fly low over Carvahall so that she could see the houses from the air, waving to them and shouting hellos down to anyone who might be within earshot.

Murtagh could tell that Thorn was delighted by the girl’s exuberance—no one but Murtagh had ever been excited to fly with him before. Nasuada had started to become comfortable enough in the skies after a while, but it was nothing to Ismira’s eagerness. 

With their flyover of the town, they successfully announced Thorn’s presence in the valley, and the next day Roran had several more visitors than usual—most coming to say hello or bring over baked goods of some kind, but some passing by on the road just to gawk, not friendly enough to actually talk to the visiting rider and his dragon. 

That part sort of irked Murtagh—Thorn was not some animal at a traveling fair for strangers to stare at, and if these strangers didn’t have the nerve to come introduce themselves, they should stay home and mind their own business—but Thorn told him not to be bothered.

I am majestic, He said with a shrug, It is no wonder they should want to catch a glimpse of me.

Murtagh smiled; he was glad that some of Saphira and Firnen’s self-possessed confidence had rubbed off on Thorn over the years. It used to be that Thorn felt awkward in his body, and homely–so far as dragons went. Now Murtagh could feel that he was comfortable with people looking at him—proud, even, when his scales were sparkling in the sunlight.

Several days after their arrival, Katrina surprised Murtagh by asking if he and Thorn would be able to take her to Carvahall to see her friend Chrisayne, Baldor’s wife.

“I would go by horse, but I expect she’ll need me to stay quite late, and I figured Thorn could make an easy trip of it–if the two of you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Murtagh agreed, knowing that Thorn would be delighted to be of help.

They landed in the town center and helped Katrina off, but they did not go to Chrisayne’s home with her, as Murtagh knew he would not be a welcome guest there.

Instead Murtagh visited the town’s book merchant—a new addition, according to Roran, run by a family that had moved to the valley from Gil’ead after the war—and he browsed the pamphlets, scrolls, and tomes for a while. He found mostly refurbished copies of common texts, since no one in this area was likely to be rich enough or well-read enough to buy the expensive new prints that could be found in the larger cities.

Murtagh didn’t mind, though; he’d once had access to the finest human library in all of Alagaesia, before it was destroyed, and he much preferred this place—with its narrow, overfull shelves and the smell of dust and paper. 

He found a book of folktales from the Wandering Tribes, and purchased it from a jittery young man who seemed equal parts delighted and terrified to be selling to him. He then made his way back to the hill where Thorn was relaxing—surrounded by what must have been half the children in the village—before sitting in the grass with his back against his dragon, and reading the afternoon away.

Katrina stayed late with her friend, but rather than travel back and forth from the Stronghammer farm, Murtagh stopped into the tavern for dinner, and ended up eating a meal with Waylar and his son Avin, whom he’d become acquainted with the last time he’d been in Carvahall.

It was a bit strange, to be spending the day in a village where he was known and where people would go out of their way to talk to him. Not since his days of wandering alone with Thorn had he lingered anywhere but Mt. Argnor and Ilirea, and back then he’d used Tornac’s name and kept to himself as much as possible, to avoid any potential conflict. 

He was trying to relax, and to allow himself to be at home among these people. After all, as Eragon and Roran and his mother had all said—this was his ancestral home, and he had as much right to be present there as any. Convincing himself of this was a difficult task, though, as he was in the habit of being wary anywhere he went, and could not easily shake his cautious instinct.

When they returned to the farm, he spent a quiet evening with Roran and Katrina and the children, reading aloud some of the more child-friendly stories from the volume he’d purchased. Ismira was fascinated by the book, and Murtagh could tell that she had learned some letters already, despite the fact that her father had not been raised to read. This made him glad to see.

Each day he spent in Carvahall was warmer than the last, and Murtagh was able to help Roran with many of the chores for spring preparation, though he had to rely on his cousin’s intruction for most of it. 

He still did not quite have the instinct for this kind of work, despite his recent years at Mt. Argnor when he’d learned to assist in the farming and tending of animals at the Academy. Eragon often made good-natured fun of him for his lack of knowledge about planting and harvesting—very easy things to master, in his brother’s mind.

At the end of his first week in Carvahall, Earin and his daughters came to Roran’s home for a supper, and the children put on some kind of acrobatic performance for Thorn’s amusement, as he peered in through the window, which was now far too small to fit his head.

Murtagh was sitting comfortably at the table with Roran, Katrina and Earin, when they all heard the thumping of horse hooves coming up the lane. Murtagh straightened, and quietly reached for the knife at his belt as Katrina said,

“Are we expecting someone?” To Roran. 

Murtagh’s nerves were on alert, but he told himself to be calm—none of the others seemed concerned by the unexpected visitor.

It is a male two-legs, Thorn said to him from outside, I have seen him before.

Before Murtagh could ask which two-legs it was, there was a sharp rapping on the door and Roran was standing up and slipping out into the front hall. Murtagh was very still as Katrina rose with the baby; he heard the urgent murmuring of voices.

The next moment, Roran returned, followed by one of the blacksmith’s sons—Albrecht. The young man’s hair was soaked, which meant he’d been riding a long while, as it was barely misting outside; he was also breathing heavily, and had an expression that Murtagh had seen before, on men who were facing a matter of life and death.

“Chrisayne’s having the child,” Roran explained quickly, but his voice was strained.

“It’s not well,” Albrecht breathed, “Mum says the babe ought’ve come already, it’s turned the wrong way, though, and Chrisayne’s faint.”

There was silence in the room, the faint crackling of the fireplace the only thing breaking through. Even the children had gone quiet, like they sensed that something solemn had happened.

“Baldor’s being a fool,” Albrecht continued, trying to catch his breath, “I t—I told him….  I told him to come here and get help. But he…”

Albrecht shook his head, swallowing tightly, and when he looked up, he was looking at Murtagh.

“Please, could you help?”

Murtagh blinked, and he felt Thorn’s confusion.

“...me?”

Murtagh looked from Katrina to Roran and back to Albrecht.

“We know what Eragon did for Albrecht’s sister,” Roran reminded cautiously, “I think he was hoping… maybe you could do something…”

Roran gestured vaguely, but Murtagh could see he was skeptical.

He wants me to help her with magic, Murtagh said to Thorn, putting things together. He remembered something about a baby—about Eragon helping a baby—he hadn’t realized it was Horst’s daughter.

“I wouldn’t ask,” Albrecht put in, “But she could die—they could both die…”

“Of course,” Murtagh swallowed, standing up quickly. There was no need for debate; if there was a chance he could help, then he would.

Use caution, Thorn said from the window, If you try to help this woman and her hatchling, and they pass into the void anyway—the family will blame you.

But if I refuse to help and they die… 

Hmmm.

“I’ll fly with Thorn, we’ll get there faster,” He said briskly, knowing there was no time to waste. 

“I’ll come,” Roran stood, snatching a jacket from the wall, and Murtagh saw a cautious look pass between Roran and Katrina. Albrecht nodded, the young man’s eyes wide with fear and his breaths still haggard.

Murtagh rushed out into the misty night, Thorn’s saddle hung over his arm and Roran following him as Albrecht jumped on his horse and rode off at a gallop. When they had climbed onto Thorn’s back, he took off into the dark sky, angling towards Carvahall as bloated clouds covered the light of the distant moon.

As they flew, Murtagh’s heart was already pounding, a feeling of urgency in him that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. This was life and death; the choices he made tonight would alter the course of people’s lives. He hadn’t had that burden on his shoulders in years, and the suddenness of it left him shaken.

Murtagh went over all the spells of healing and mending that he knew, trying to anticipate what he might need to help Chrisayne and her baby.

How am I supposed to help a woman give birth? I’ve never even seen anyone give birth; I don’t know anything about this.

  He was getting more worried as the dim flickering of lights came up from below and Thorn began to descend towards Carvahall.

At the mountain you have helped tend to four-leg-horn-goats and four-leg-spotted-cows with their litters, Thorn encouraged.

But this is a human .

And? Are they not similar enough? You are all non-egg-layers, that is all that matters.

Thorn’s confidence did very little to assuage Murtagh’s worries as he and Roran dismounted next to a modest home on the other side of the knoll from Horst’s house—the home of Baldor and his wife.

“Let me try and calm him,” Roran said as they hurried up to the door, the rain pattering more heavily around them, and Murtagh didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. His skin was prickly and hot, and blood was pumping through his veins too quickly, leaving him feeling like he was about to go into battle.

Thankfully, Baldor didn’t answer the door; instead it was a thin woman with sharp cheekbones and a tight black hair.

“Lord Stronghammer,” The woman said with a curtsy, “Come in out of the rain, please.”

Roran and Murtagh ducked into the living area of a warm home, which was abustle with activity despite the late hour. Murtagh could hear murmured voices and the occasional groan of pain from the other side of the door. The fire was lit and a pot of water was hung above it–a second woman bent over, boiling rags.

“We heard about Chrisayne’s troubles, Calitha,” Roran said before the woman who had let them in could ask, “We’re here to help, if we can.”

Both the women in the room blinked at them, and the one by the fireplace frowned.

“Help, my lord?” Calitha asked.

“This is my cousin, Murtagh of the Riders,” Roran gestured, and the woman nodded—of course she knew by now who Murtagh was, but he’d never met her before, “Albrecht says that Chrisayne is in trouble, that the babe is… not coming easily. He may be able to help save her, if it comes to that…”

Roran looked between the two women, who still didn’t seem to be grasping.

“...with magic,” He clarified, and Murtagh could see that they understood, but they still looked uneasy. Before anyone could say anything more, there was a sharp cry from the other room, and the woman at the fire resumed her cleaning with urgency.

The door to the bedroom opened and Horst’s wife Elain slipped out, startling when she saw the two men. Murtagh’s nerves were on edge.

Hurry up, hurry up, He thought at them all.

“Roran, what is it?” Elain asked sharply, “Is everything alright?”

“Albrecht came to us,” Roran said, and Muragh saw a wary look flicker across Elain’s face, as she met his eyes briefly.

“It was foolishly done,” She murmured, “I’m sorry, I know he meant well—and I know you do too—but it will cause strife.”

There was another pained sound from the other side of the door, and Murtagh was tempted to say that strife was the least of their problems at the moment, but then Elain began to nod.

“Let me fetch Grelea, Chrisayne’s mother.”

Elain quickly ducked back into the room, and Murtagh tried to keep still as the other women continued to busy themselves. 

I hear someone in pain, Thorn said from outside, What is going on?

They’re taking too long, Murtagh returned, his leg bouncing as he waited, uneasy. 

He closed his eyes a moment, and stretched his consciousness out to the other room; it was not hard to find which mind was the woman in distress—her pain was loud, and Murtagh struggled not to stumble back as it hit him like an icy wave. 

Just then, the bedroom door opened again and a stern-faced older woman followed Elain out, her lips pinched.

“My lord,” The woman said with a small curtsy to Roran, her eyes barely flicking to Murtagh.

“We’re here to help, Grelea,” Roran said meaningfully, “Your daughter and grandchild are in distress.”

“I—I appreciate your kind offer,” The woman said, “But Gertrude is coming back, and we… we have hope that the babe will right itself soon.”

Murtagh felt a boiling anger start to churn in his chest, frustrated by the time they were wasting with this nonsense. He was still connected by a thread of thought to the agony of the woman on the other side of that door, and he could see that Grelea did not believe her own words. The mother and child were in trouble—if nothing was done, they would be lost soon.

“Murtagh is my family, and he is of the Riders,” Roran began softly, pleading their case to the wary woman, “He is Eragon’s brother, and I trust him—”

“–I beg your pardon, my lord, it is not a matter of trust,” Grelea interrupted, her voice sharp and strained, “It is…”

Her eyes were flicking to Murtagh, and her wrinkled lips pinched.

“She is in her labor pains,” The woman said, almost at a whisper, like she was afraid someone would overhear, “It is not… proper for a man to be present.”

Murtagh felt the anger flare inside him.

“Do you want your daughter to be improper or do you want her to be dead ?” He demanded sharply. What were they wasting time for? Why was this even a discussion? 

“Murtagh…” Roran raised a warning hand.

“The birthing room is no place for a man,” Grelea returned crisply, her chin proud but trembling, “It would be uncouth. It would bring shame upon her.”

“Your daughter is in pain , and I can help her,” Murtagh gritted out, trying to keep from shouting at the old woman, “This isn’t about shame or propriety ; this is about her life .”

“It is obscene,” The woman insisted, her own emotions clearly uncontrolled. 

I could subdue them all and force my way into the room, Murtagh thought furiously at Thorn.

But you know that is not the way. You would never be forgiven—no matter the outcome.

Murtagh’s fists were clenched and his shoulders hunched, his nerves grated by the thread of pain he was feeling from Chrisayne. He wanted to sever it, but he needed to keep watch on her, to know if she was close to death and if he would have to take drastic action.

Roran had just begun pleading with Grelea to see reason—putting himself in between her and Murtagh like a barrier—when the front door opened and a cold rush of air filled the room.

“You get him the blazes out of my house!” A furious voice shouted, and Murtagh turned to see Baldor marching in, followed quickly by the old healer Gertrude.

“Baldor, wait–” Roran turned quickly as Murtagh backed away from Baldor’s forward charge, cornered by the furious blacksmith.

“Get out!” The young man hollered, as Roran now tried to block the way between him and Murtagh.

“He’s here to help, Baldor, please…”

“I don’t bloody care Roran, you get him out of this house now! ”

Gertrude gave them all a harsh look, but hurried wordlessly to the bedroom, slipping inside, followed by Grelea. 

“Chrisayne and the baby are in trouble,” Roran reasoned, “They might need someone who knows magic to help Gertrude—”

“You won’t touch her, you hear me? You so much as lift a hand to her and I’ll bloody kill you–” Baldor was pointing at Murtagh furiously, blocked from attacking by Roran’s stance. They had been in a similar situation before—the day the inn had burned down—only this time Baldor’s foolishness was risking his wife’s life.

Another distressed cry echoed through the house, and Calitha slipped out of the birthing room to grab more rags.

“Get out,” Baldor snarled, pointing to the door, his eyes wild with fury. Then there was a scream, and they all started, and Baldor’s face seemed to turn gray.

He must see reason, Thorn worried from outside, as silence followed the harsh noise.

He can’t.

Then make him. The woman does not have time.

“Baldor,” Murtagh said, keeping his voice calm but urgent, “Whatever I did to you, whoever I took from you… I’m sorry. Truly. And if it’s pain you want me to feel, then know that I do. I feel it every day. I think about them every day, all the people who died because of me.”

Murtagh was speaking quickly, trying to hold Baldor’s attention. The young man seemed to have been frozen by his wife’s scream, his fury turning into fear. 

That was okay; fear could be useful.

“You can hate me for the rest of your life, Baldor, that’s your right; I won’t fault you for it,” Murtagh said, his breath shallow.

“But right now your wife and your child need help, and I can help them. And if you don’t let me into that room, she is going to die, and you are going to hate yourself for the rest of your life.”

Murtagh could see Baldor’s fear working through him, the thought of losing his family suddenly so clear in his head; but there was a grimace, a resistance—something was holding him back

“Just let me by,” Murtagh pleaded, “Just let me into the room. You don’t have to make the choice—let her make the choice. It’s her body; it’s her life that’s at risk. Shouldn’t she decide? Shouldn’t she choose if she wants my help or not?”

Baldor’s face contorted, a mix of indignation and distress. There was something stopping him—even in the face of losing his family he couldn’t say yes.

“I promise you, if she tells me to leave I will leave,” Murtagh gritted, a last resort, “If she doesn’t want my help, I will leave your home. Just let me ask her. Let her decide.”

Baldor’s breaths were uneven, and he looked like he might either faint or scream or both. Murtagh was just about to make a choice without him, when the door opened and Gertrude’s sharp voice said,

“If you are going to help, we need you now.”

Without a second thought, Murtagh hurried past Baldor, who was still standing frozen, and slipped into the room alongside Gertrude.

The bedroom was comfortable and modest, and right now lanterns and candles flickered all about it, and half a dozen women seemed to all be busy and all know exactly where they needed to be.

“The babe–” Gertrude began, but Murtagh lifted a hand.

“Just a moment.”

He hurried to the side of the young woman who lay in the bed, sandy hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, her feet propped up on the end of the bed. Murtagh knelt quickly next to her, and took her hand.

“My lady, my name is Murtagh,” He breathed, “I’m here to help you; I can try to take some of your pain away, and help your child. But I will have to use magic—is that alright? Would you let me help you?”

The young woman’s face was contorted with a kind of pain that Murtagh was familiar with; she was heaving unsteady breaths and her gray eyes were filled with tears, but she nodded fervently and said.

“Just save my baby…. please… please save my baby,” She whimpered, groaning as another wave of pain rolled over her.

Murtagh stood up quickly, and turned back to Gertrude, catching an uneasy look from Chrisayne’s mother, though the woman kept her peace.

“What do you need from me?” He said to Gertrude.

“The child is turned the wrong way,” The old healer said quickly, her voice dropped low so only the two of them could hear, “If we can get it to turn its head down, it may come out easily. If not, I will try my best, but even if I can safely get the baby out, there may be much bleeding. She is likely to die, unless we can do something to stem the blood.”

Murtagh thought a moment, worried that he wouldn’t be able to heal an internal wound.

You have fixed yourself before, Thorn assured, And you have fixed me. You can do this.

Murtagh nodded to himself, before lifting his eyes back at Gertrude.

“I will do my best, if it comes to that. But we should try to turn the baby.”

Gertrude did not ask for anything more certain than that, for which Murtagh was grateful. She seemed to understand that they were at a desperate point; a slim chance was better than no chance, though, and she had exhausted all mundane means of helping the woman.

Gertrude gave Chrisayne a tea to stall the labor pains, hoping to give them more time, and she helped the trembling young woman hold her neck up to sip it. Murtagh had cast a spell to guard Chrisayne from some of the pain, but he couldn’t take it all away or she wouldn’t be able to tell them what was going on inside her.

How the blazes am I supposed to get a baby to turn itself around with magic? Murtagh thought, staring down at the nightdress that covered Chrisayne’s round stomach. 

Ask it nicely? Thorn suggested, and for a moment Murtagh thought he was trying to make a joke—very unlike him in such a serious moment—but then he realized Thorn was being serious, and it gave him an idea. 

He closed his eyes, and reached outward with his mind, feeling the flickering consciousnesses of the people around him—the women in the room, purposeful, concerned, urgent; Baldor and Roran pacing outside, fearful, panicking. 

Then quietly, dimly, like the gradual lightening of the sky just before dawn, Murtagh felt the fluttering consciousness of a small being, vague and indistinct. He pushed gently towards it, trying not to frighten the child—if a child in the womb even could be frightened. He felt its presence, felt it sense him, and felt a glimmer of what he thought was curiosity. The consciousness was not as clear as other minds, and it was hard to tell.

Murtagh kept his thoughts steady, quieting his own nerves and speaking reassurances to this thing, this entity, this person that did not exist yet but was about to. He let their consciousnesses meld together easily, sliding into the baby’s thoughts, foggy as they were.

When he knew all of the child’s limited attention was focused on him, Murtagh began to press into it the urgency of one thought:

Move.

He could not use words—this thing did not know words. It did not understand words or people or thoughts or anything outside of the dark watery world in which it lived. So he sent it sensations:

An eel twisting, the sun climbing across the sky, a ball rolling, a pair of hands forming a piece of clay, a child doing a summersault, a person swimming.

Move.

Murtagh felt a glimmer of excitement from the consciousness, seeing all these things–these strange outside things for which it had no context or words. 

Move.

Murtagh tried to remain calm, forming himself into a tranquil sea, and picturing a wheel, rotating, spinning, moving. He felt the presence reaching for him, where was he? Where was he outside this dark, watery world? What was there on the outside? Was it nice and warm and dark?

Murtagh carefully placed his left palm against Chrisayne’s stomach, and with a thread of energy he reached out to the baby inside, and whispered the word out loud in the ancient language:

“Move.”

There was a response. Murtagh blinked his eyes open and Chrisayne inhaled sharply. He could feel the mind moving, feel the babe wriggling, feel it rotate, and when he sensed that its head was facing downward, he murmured in the Ancient Language,

“Stop.”

The child stilled, and the room was quiet except for Chrisayne’s labored breathing. Murtagh looked up at Gertrude, who was sitting poised at the end of the bed, watching him.

Murtagh nodded, feeling a bit light-headed.

“It’s there.”

He swallowed, and stepped away to allow Gertrude to take over as the women surrounded Chrisayne and continued their ministrations. For the better part of three hours he stood out of the way and watched silently, as Gertrude coached the young woman through her pain. 

He stayed in the corner to let Chrisayne retain her modesty, but remained tethered to the mind of the mother and child—not intruding, but keeping a careful watch on both of them, and wincing at every pulse of white-hot pain. All his muscles felt clenched, and he was taut with anxiety, trying to employ meditation exercises to calm his thoughts, but interrupted every time Chrisayne shouted in pain.

The atmosphere was taut with nerves and hardly anyone spoke as Chrisayne labored, but finally Gertrude was reaching forward, and telling the screaming young woman to push, and she was speaking encouragements and holding out a cloth, and then Murtagh saw a glimpse of a head, and of limbs and…

It was silent.

Chrisayne was breathing hard, and her mother was holding her hand and stroking her sweat-drenched forehead. Gertrude was cradling a baby boy, whose limbs were hanging limply, and she was rubbing his chest as he lay over her knees, and the room was holding its breath, and it was silent.

No…. no, no, no….

Murtagh’s heart dropped, and he reached out to the consciousness–the baby–it was here–he was here–but there was now only a vague flickering, a weak pulse of life, and Murtagh recognized it as the fading of the mind just before death.

His eyes snapped open.

“Give him to me,” He demanded, not waiting for Gertrude to decide as he swooped down and picked the child up carefully, blood coating his hands. Gertrude was looking grim, and all the women were very still, and Chrisayne was whimpering, and the baby was silent, and its consciousness was like the faint embers of a dying fire.

It is fading, Thorn said sorrowfully, as Murtagh carefully sat on an open stool, bending over the child in his hands, his heart thudding against his ribs.

Taking a deep breath, Murtagh placed his left hand on the baby’s tiny chest, feeling the fluttering of its own heart beneath his gedwey ignasia. He reached out to the consciousness, which was just barely hanging on, and he began to pour at it a flood of sensations:

Running, swimming, smiling, taste, dancing, breathing, water, pain, song, fire, scent, warmth, wind, laughter, hands, sky, sun, kiss, eyes, voice, reading, riding, blood, trees, color, light, joy, grass, soft, love…

All these disparate images and feelings he pulled together into a swirling, shaking mass of power that reverberated out from his hand into the consciousness, and the tiny body it had just entered the world in. 

There was one word connected to this mass of swirling power: 

LIVE.

There was a sudden rush of energy out from him, flowing into the child that lay cradled in his hands. He felt Thorn supporting him with his own energy. His gedwey ignasia glowed, and the air was sucked from his lungs for a moment, and there was a sudden ceasing of all noise.

And then in the silence, he heard a cry.

Murtagh opened his eyes and lifted his head, as the tiny thing in his hands began to wail—hearty and loud and insistent, its limbs flailing in protest of the ordeal it had just endured. He felt like laughing, sitting on a stool bent over this helpless thing, feeling its flickering consciousness grow in strength and come to life. 

He looked up at Gertrude with wide, dazzled eyes, feeling not only his own elation, but that of Thorn and of the baby in his hands. Gertrude had a far off expression on her face, staring at the crying baby, a mix of both great wonder and great sorrow. But when the old healer met Murtagh’s gaze, she nodded, and her lined face seemed to be seeing something more in that moment.

Murtagh allowed Gertrude to scoop up the now-wailing baby from his hands and place him on his mother’s chest, as Chrisayne laughed and cried, and the women tended to her. Murtagh stood shakily, and stepped back into the corner again, washing his hands in the basin and trying to return himself to his own body, feeling that he’d breathed too much air all at once.

You have done well, Thorn commended.

Thank you, Muragh breathed, drying his hands, and checking once more to be sure that Chrisayne and the baby were healthy, before severing his connection with them.  He had the desire to look at the child again, to see the color of its eyes and feel the strength of its new heartbeat, but he knew his task was completed, and it wasn’t his place to linger.

So he quietly slipped from the room as the women gathered around Chrisayne, and he closed the door behind him calmly, meeting a front room now much more full than he’d left it. Baldor was looking at him with a terrified expectancy, and Roran was there holding his friend steady, but Albrecht had made it back from the farm too, and Horst was there with a man that must have been Chrisayne’s father, and a few others. 

Murtagh found that they were all staring at him, and he realized what they were expecting. 

He cleared his throat, which felt tight.

“She’s alright—Chrisayne.” 

He blinked at Baldor. 

“...you have a son.”

The room erupted in celebration, as Baldor embraced first his father and then his brother and the older man. Murtagh stood aside quietly, as the townsmen offered their congratulations to Baldor, and one of the younger boys ran off to spread the news. 

Roran was beaming, and shaking Baldor’s hand, and someone had brought a bottle of wine to celebrate. In the hubbub of the room, Murtagh slipped out onto the porch, welcoming the cool night air after the heat of the birthing room. 

Thorn was sitting on the nearby grassy knoll, but their minds were connected, and neither of them had to say anything more. Murtagh sat down heavily on a porch chair, and let out a shaking breath. An ache lingered around him and his nerves felt unsettled from the hours of worry, but there was relief, too, that his skill had been enough, that he’d been there at the right time, that he hadn’t failed. 

Murtagh waited on the porch in the dark as news spread among the houses and visitors came and left. He was exhausted, but he wanted to linger—just to be certain that the mother and child did not take a turn for the worse. The misting rain from earlier cleared, and the clouds soon drifted off to the west, leaving the moon’s light to bathe the town in a gray glow and cast midnight shadows along the moist ground.

The night sky always made Murtagh think of Nasuada, and he wondered what she was doing now, if she was asleep in her bed in Ilirea, or if she was perhaps standing out in the gardens, and looking up at these same stars and this same moon. He hoped so, but the thought somehow made him ache, too.

When the door to the house creaked open again, and a rectangle of yellow light blinked to life on the porch, Murtagh was unsurprised to hear Roran’s heavy footfalls. He remained seated with his back against the house wall, gazing up at the sky as Roran stood next to him and followed his eyes.

“Rain’s cleared up,” Roran commented, “Should be good for planting soon.”

Murtagh smiled. They both appreciated the evening stars, but Roran’s reasons were far more pragmatic than his own.

“Y’alright?” Roran asked after a moment, still standing with his arms crossed, only glancing down at Murtagh. 

Murtagh took a breath, and nodded.

“The… spells, or what have you…they drained you?”

“I’m not exactly sure they were spells,” Murtagh said, thinking on the moment he’d held the infant in his hands. It had not felt like normal magic, not flowed through him in the same way. 

His throat felt tight just thinking about it; he’d never held something so small and helpless, and yet strong in its resolve to live—it reminded him of Thorn when he had just hatched. 

He wished he could hold the baby again, just to assure himself that it had worked—that the dimming consciousness he’d been connected to had not sputtered out, that the life had found its way. He knew that was stupid, though.

“After three children you’d think I’d be used to it,” Roran’s voice said above him, and Murtagh noticed that his cousin was watching him closely, as though reading his thoughts.

“But it’s still a wonder, when they take that first breath.”

Murtagh’s hands fidgeted, but his eyes were distant as he leaned against the house. He was exhausted, but not from the magic—more from the strain on his nerves, and the fear, and the hours of waiting and watching and hoping. 

“What of you and Nasuada?” Roran asked, and somehow Murtagh had known he was going to ask before he’d opened his mouth, “Do the two of you wish for children?”

Murtagh picked at a loose thread on his sleeve, smiling softly.

“We do, but… it’s not going to work out for us.”

“Aye, I suppose you’re right,” Roran agreed amiably, “But the marriage won’t be a secret forever, and you’re both young yet. You’ve got time—a Queen needs heirs, after all.”

Roran gave him a smirk, and Murtagh winced. He felt Thorn’s consoling nudge in his thoughts, as his partner understood the sting that Roran’s words had inadvertently brought.

“What will you do, if she comes to be with child before your marriage is known?” Roran continued, not realizing that he’d misunderstood.

“That’s not going to happen,” Murtagh returned quietly.

“Well, these things come by surprise sometimes,” Roran said with a shrug, glancing back towards the house, “Katrina and I know firsthand.”

He gave Murtagh a knowing smile.

“It’s not something we have to worry about,” Murtagh said abruptly, his voice coming out a little sharp.

He wasn’t angry with Roran—it wasn’t his fault and he wasn’t trying to be unkind—but Murtagh was exhausted and his nerves were unsettled from the events of the evening, so it was hard to mask his feelings.

Evidently his tone of voice finally got Roran to see that they were not having the same kind of conversation, because he cleared his throat and looked back out into the night, running a hand along his beard.

Murtagh knew what the obvious next question would be, and he could see it on the tip of Roran’s tongue, but his cousin quickly hid the expression and remained quiet, letting the murmuring from inside the house fill the silence between them.

Finally, Murtagh relented, not wanting to keep talking about this, but also not wanting Roran to think he was angry with him.

“I… am unable to have children, is all,” He murmured, “So.”

The silence resumed, but Murtagh saw Roran’s reaction, and knew that he immediately felt bad for his joking.

“Oh,” Roran said softly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Murtagh managed a half-smile, “It’s alright. I’ve known since… the war.”

He shrugged, not wanting to explain any further, not sure he was quite ready to tell Roran about everything. He heard his cousin take a breath, clearly calculating what he could say that wouldn’t be more hurtful.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Roran managed finally,  “I think you’d make a fine father. I see you with the children, and… well, some men just have it in them, you know?” 

Roran gave him a regretful smile, and Murtagh was grateful, taking the words in the spirit in which they were meant. He had never thought much of himself as a parent, since the only father he’d known had been cruel and unfit, and his memories of his mother were all tinged with sadness at her loss. It was only after meeting Nasuada that he’d cared—that he’d started to wonder what it would have been like.

“I suppose I never expected to live long enough for it to matter,” He admitted to Roran in the quiet night, “Or to love anyone enough that I would want to have a family with them.”

He sighed, feeling Thorn’s silent encouragement from the grass beside him.

“But I do. Love her. And I do wish I could have that with her. Have a family.”

Roran was staring down at him, understanding in his eyes. 

He nodded.

“It can’t have been easy… tonight.”

Roran gestured with his head to the house, and for some reason that one little statement hit Murtagh hard—that Roran had somehow understood immediately the feelings that had been lingering around Murtagh all evening; that his pragmatic cousin had instinctually caught on to the nameless ache that had been pulling at Murtagh’s heart for the last few hours.

He’d felt exhilarated after saving that baby—felt the new life pouring into it, and radiating out from it, felt like he’d just been filled with energy from an Eldunari, like his lungs were overfull with air. 

But then the boy was taken from Murtagh’s hands and given to his parents—the people whom he had come from, the people who would raise him and care for him and love him and watch him grow up and be proud of the man he became. The people he would learn from, and work with, and call mother and father.

And Murtagh would never have that.

Somehow Roran had understood what he was feeling before he did.

Murtagh was horrified, in the next moment, to find that he had started crying, realizing it only when he took a shaking breath and felt dampness on his face.

Suddenly Roran’s firm hand was on his shoulder, and Murtagh was holding his head in his hand, squeezing his eyes shut to try and stop the sudden, unexpected flow of tears.

“I’m sorry,” He choked, knowing he was being stupid. He was just tired, that was it. Tired and worn out from the strain of the evening; he wasn’t like this—emotional about nothing. Especially not here, especially not in front of Roran .

“It’s alright,” Roran assured in a gruff voice, his hand never wavering as Murtagh’s shoulders shook. Thorn was quiet, but his presence remained steady, not tamping down Murtagh’s feelings, but quietly offering comfort through them.

“You did a good thing tonight,” Roran said, “You should be proud. And if you’ve got to mourn too, then you mourn. No shame in it.”

Murtagh took a shaking breath through his fingers, his chin trembling and his stomach clenching with a tight ache.

“And you do have a family,” Roran murmured, his hand squeezing Murtagh’s shoulder tightly.

“Never forget that.”

Chapter Text

It was the blackest part of night when Roran left; Murtagh had told him to go ahead with Thorn, he wanted to wait through the night, just to be certain that the child was going to make it to dawn. Thorn promised to return quickly, and took off from the grass down the hill, blocking the moonlight for a moment with his bulk. 

Murtagh was just drifting off to sleep with his head against the side of the house, when he heard the door open and the old healer slipped out. When she saw him waiting there, she paused a moment, appraising him with her sharp eyes. Then she said,

“I’m heading home to have a cup of tea and a rest. Join me.”

Murtagh hesitated gesturing inside and saying,

“I just want to make sur—”

“They’re well-tended. I assure you, I would not be leaving if they were unwell.”

He hesitated a moment, still, but it had been calm for some time, and Gertrude was an accomplished healer; she knew her craft and if she said they were safe then he could trust that.

“Alright,” He said with a short nod.

Gertrude said nothing, and merely turned to the quiet mist of the night, tromping away down the muddy path.

Gertrude’s home was modest and warm, half of it occupied by an area that was clearly prepared for the tending of the wounded and sick. Herbs and medicines lined the walls, all neatly labeled in jars and vials, and plants hung drying from various spots around the ceiling, lending a forested sort of look to the whole room. 

Murtagh followed the old woman through a doorway to a separate room where her own home was set up—neat and simple—with a bed of smoldering coals in the fireplace. 

“I set some stew on before I left to tend Chrisayne,” The old healer said as she shuffled to the embers and stoked them, lifting the lid of the pot and giving its contents a stir, “They say a stew that is brewed as long as a woman’s labor will give increased energy and life.

Murtagh smiled tiredly.

“I’d never heard that.”

“Mmm no I don’t suppose you would have—city folk are rather above the old beliefs.”

Murtagh wasn’t sure if that was meant to be a jab or merely a comment, but he was not offended by Gertrude’s bluntness. He appreciated that she was neither afraid of him nor eager to impress, as most people were.

“I’m not sure how you convinced Horstsson to let you help his wife,” Gertrude said as she reached for the kettle and hung it next to the pot, “But if you hadn’t, I don’t think we would be celebrating a birth this evening. I’ve been a healer a long time—and you begin to have a sense of when things are not going to get better.”

Murtagh nodded heavily; he’d had that sense too, just from touching the minds of Chrisayne and her baby. 

“It was strange, watching you with the child,” She continued as she shuffled about her little kitchen, gesturing for him to sit.

“At first, of course I thought of your brother—I suppose you know what he did for Baldor’s sister?”

Murtagh nodded.

“It crossed my mind; seeing you with your magic and your hand,” Gertrude gestured vaguely to the silver mark on Murtagh’s palm, before dishing out bowls of stew.

“But that is not what I thought of first.”

The old woman sliced thick pieces of bread and began slathering them in butter. After a moment, she spoke.

“I suppose you might have heard this from many folks, but you look very much like your mother.”

Murtagh blinked, his arm resting on the table, and he had to laugh a little.

“No, actually… I don’t know that anyone’s ever said that.”

Gertrude looked at him strangely. 

“Hmm. Well you do. Tonight when you were standing over Chrisayne, and then holding the child, I was reminded of a night decades ago—when I was newly become a healer—one of my first times helping a woman in her birthing.”

Murtagh frowned.

“Your grandfather’s name was Cadoc,” Gertrude said with a sigh, setting the food down on the rough-hewn wooden table, while Murtagh tried to understand what he was hearing.

“And the night your grandmother Idrina went into labor,” The old woman continued, “Cadoc came to get me–even though I was merely a healer’s apprentice at the time. Whenna was the old healer, but she was in Therinsford with a family who had the fever, so your grandfather came and got me and we rode back to that little farm in the rain and dark—a night just like tonight.”

Gertrude poured steaming water into the two mugs as she spoke, her voice lulling and distant, rough with age, but still with a comforting softness to it.

“I came to that farm and was barely there twenty minutes before Idrina gave birth to a baby girl; only Idrina was faint with fever, and could not feed the child. So your grandfather held his daughter on his knees and hand fed her goat’s milk all night long.”

Gertrude sighed, sitting down heavily with her hand on her tea.

“I thought I was going to lose both of them that night—and I might have, if your grandmother hadn’t been so strong, and your grandfather so diligent in caring for the child. By the time Whenna made it to the farm, it was nearly morning, and your grandmother was sitting up in bed feeding the baby.”

Gertrude stirred the tea and gave him a significant look.

“Of course that baby was your mother, Selena.”

Murtagh nodded, feeling strangely unmoored, caught in the story, seeing the images as if he’d been there. Gertrude watched him a moment, before taking a preparing breath.

“When you held that child on your lap tonight, I was reminded of your grandfather Cadoc—leaning over his daughter, feeding her goats milk to keep her alive until morning.”

The old woman sighed, and her eyes lowered with heavy memory.

“Little did I know that that baby was going to alter the lives of everyone in this village.”

Murtagh could hear the fire crackling and water dripping from the eaves outside, and even though he’d been up for nearly a full day, he didn’t feel tired; he was hanging on the words of the old healer, yearning for more. 

Despite having had his mother back for several years, it wasn’t often he was able to hear about her childhood, about Carvahall, about the way things had been and might be now, if things had been different.

“At the time I saw my life stretching before me exactly as it was,” Gertrude said distantly, “Living in the village, tending to the sick, watching the seasons come and go. And for most of my life that was the way things went…. But then Selena returned here with your brother, and then Brom, and then everything that followed them.”

Gertrude sipped her tea quietly, her face caught in the distant past.

“Strange, how one life can alter the fate of so many,” She murmured, “I think of what might have happened, if your mother hadn’t made it through the night—if Cadoc hadn’t done what he did.”

The old woman sighed, and her eyes glinted with melancholy amusement as she looked at him.

“There would’ve been no war and no… Ra’zac and no destruction of our village. But then I guess there would’ve been no freedom either, from the Empire. And you would not have been here tonight to save Baldor’s son.”

She smiled softly.

“Strange,” She confirmed again, looking at him closely.

“Strange,” He agreed.

Until the sun rose that morning, the two of them talked over cooling mugs of tea and stew.

Gertrude did most of the talking, answering any questions that Murtagh asked, and he had many—about Cadoc and Idrina, the grandparents he’d never met, about what Carvahall had been like back then, and about his mother when she had been a child—stories she either didn’t remember or couldn’t yet bring herself to tell. He imagined that many memories of his mother’s home were too sorrowful for her to share, too strange and otherworldly, after everything she’d endured. 

Gertrude had her own questions for him too, especially about Selena’s life and return. She echoed Roran’s sentiment, and said that she would greatly look forward to seeing Murtagh’s mother again.

“You know we are distant cousins,” The old woman said, having taken out some knitting as the night wore on, “Though I suppose most people in the town are related someway or another—those of us what have been here since before the bones of the mountain, at least.”

Some of the stories Gertrude told were about Eragon as a child—embarrassing things that his brother hadn’t bothered to recount, but which amused Thorn when he heard them the next day.

When it was nearly light out, Murtagh said he ought to be getting back to Roran’s farm—Thorn had long since returned, and was waiting on the grassy knoll for him to come. He thanked Gertrude for the food and the company, and she thanked him in return.

“I don’t know what you riders get up to out in the wilderness,” She said as he stood, “But you might think of taking up the study of healing. Magic or no magic—it’s a vocation that takes a certain instinct, which I see you’ve got. And it will keep you busy learning for the rest of your life—even if your life is set to be a few hundred years longer than us normal folk.”

Murtagh left the old healer’s home in the mist of the morning, feeling tired in a pleasant sort of way. He met up gratefully with Thorn, who had been resting as the dew covered his scales.

They flew back to the Stronghammer farm and shared in the breakfast that was being made, before Murtagh was finally able to lie down and sleep away the events of the night.

The next few days were quiet and cool, the mist hanging in the valley without letting up, and casting a pleasant grayness on the comfortable farm. 

Murtagh took Katrina back to the town several times to see Chrisayne and the new baby, and every time they flew, she seemed just a little less petrified to climb onto Thorn’s back, which Thorn was pleased by. 

Word had spread throughout the town of what Murtagh had done for Baldor’s family, and though he’d had a bit of worry that the villagers would be suspicious of his magic—as if he’d altered the babe or cast dark spells over him—it seemed that their experiences in the war had given them a bit more appreciation for magic. 

People shook his hand and commended him, and tried to buy him drinks in the tavern, which he had to figure out how to turn down without offending them. No one spoke a word about how shameful or improper it had been for a man to be present at the birth, which Murtagh was glad for—he didn’t want Chrisayne’s mother’s worry to come true.

“You keep saving people’s lives every time you come to visit,” Earin said one day in the tavern, “And we’re going to have to build a statue to you.”

Murtagh laughed, but made it clear that under no circumstances was anyone to erect a monument in his name.

I think I would make a fine statue, Thorn returned with a sniff, All great art needs a worthy subject.

Saphira really was rubbing off on him.

Murtagh kept his distance from Baldor’s home, and let Katrina visit her friend by herself, knowing that it wasn’t likely he would be welcomed with open arms just because of what he’d done.

Horst, however, invited him to dinner, or to sit in the shop and observe his work–which was masterful to behold. The old blacksmith took a look at Thorn’s saddle—which he had fixed the last time they’d been in Carvahall—and admired the fact that his handiwork had held up.

“Didn’t go for any of that fancy elf-made stuff?” The older man said with a grin, running his hands along the leather, barely able to reach it even though Thorn was laying down flat.

“Can’t think of any way to improve on your work,” Murtagh returned, knowing that it would please the blacksmith. 

When Horst was finished working in the evening, Murtagh sat with him for awhile at the edge of the forge, watching the sunset as he waited for Katrina to finish up at Chrisayne’s. He could’ve flown back to Roran’s farm, but Roran was busy at the keep and the children were with Katrina, so the house would’ve been empty, and he didn’t mind Horst’s company.

Like Gertrude, Horst had a whole host of interesting stories to share—stories that, to anyone else, might’ve seemed mundane and unimportant, but to Murtagh were like little gems in the dirt—surprising and precious. Even if they had nothing to do directly with his mother, or Eragon, or his grandparents, he loved to hear the history of the valley and the life Horst had lived in it with his family. 

There was a sadness, of course—a heaviness that Murtagh recognized from all men who’d been in war and lost something, but it was clear Horst was thankful for what he had, and understood how he could’ve lost so much more.

When they heard footsteps on the dirt path up to the forge, Murtagh expected to see Katrina round the corner with Ismira at her side. Instead, Baldor loped into view, and Thorn lifted his head, tensing at the same time Murtagh did.

Horst didn’t move as Baldor approached, and noticed who was sitting with his father in the shadow of their forge. Murtagh kept up the appearance of calm, not wanting to instigate anything if he could help it, and for a moment Baldor just stared at the two of them.

“Evening, son,” Horst greeted, his voice carefully calm, “How’s things?”

Baldor swallowed tightly, and nodded.

“Good. They’re good.”

There was a beat of quiet, and crickets chirped in the damp air. Baldor cleared his throat.

“Came to get my gloves,” He gestured, not quite looking Murtagh in the eye. 

His feet thudded across the stone floor as he loped into the darkness of the forge. Horst cleared his throat, and pushed up from his seat with a creaking.

“Your mother prepared some things for you to take to Chrisayne,” He said, shuffling towards the house, “I’ll get them.”

Murtagh wanted to protest, but he could sense that the old man was leaving him and Baldor alone for a reason. Baldor seemed to understand this too, because he didn’t say anything as he found the thick leather gloves he had been searching for, and stood folding them over in his hand.

Thorn slowly lowered his head back to the ground, blinking and waiting to see what the young man would do. 

Baldor stood at the edge of the forge, looking down on the slope of the hill and the quiet town below. Both of them were keeping their eyes forward, not on each other, as the evening filled the silence around them.

He is heavy with thought, Thorn commented with a blink of his eyes, and Murtagh said nothing, waiting for Baldor to speak. Clearly he was lingering, clearly there was something on the edge of his tongue, otherwise he would’ve found his gloves and followed his father up to the house. 

Murtagh had learned to be comfortable with silence, and so he waited, until finally the young man took a breath, and looked down at the gloves in his hands.

“Never thanked you properly,” He murmured, “For what you done.”

A beat passed, and Murtagh nodded slightly.

“I’m just glad I was able to help.”

Quiet stretched between them again, and Baldor glanced up at the house, as though hoping his father would come down to relieve him of his obligation.

“See, I’ve been… sort of turning it over in my head, trying to figure out how I could still hate you, like I promised I would,” He said in a gruff, low voice.

Murtagh’s brow creased just slightly, but he did not turn to look at Baldor; he only listened, as the young man’s voice murmured in the quiet evening.

“It’s hard to be indebted to a man. Harder still to be indebted to a man you swore you’d hate forever.”

“You’re not indebted to me,” Murtagh said quickly.

“Aye, but I am though,” Baldor returned, crisp and factual, “And that’s all the worse, isn’t it? That you should try to set me free of my debt. See, ‘cause that’s the kind of thing a good man does. And I want you to be a monster.”

Murtagh felt a soft humming from Thorn, a flicker of understanding in his thoughts. The crickets resumed around them.

“I meant what I said, you know,” Murtagh murmured softly, “Whoever I took from you, whatever I did…  I’m very sorry. Every day I’m sorry.”

Baldor twisted his lips.

“That’s the thing, though…” He said, squinting, “...I didn’t lose anybody. Went into war with my brother and my father, and by some miracle we all three made it through. And when my mother looked like she might not live past her pregnancy, she did. And when my sister looked like she might die before she made it to childhood, she didn’t….”

Baldor’s shoulders shrugged, his face pained.

“I fled Carvahall with my whole family, and I came back with all of ‘em, when some folk came back with none.”

He sniffed and looked down at his hands.

“Didn’t even have the decency to get wounded, and when I lost a hand in that last battle, a magician bloody fixed it.”

Baldor scoffed humorlessly, lifting one of his hands and turning it in the soft light. Murtagh could just make out a faint scar that wrapped around his whole wrist.

“How’s it right… that I should get to keep my family and my hand… and some men lose their lives?”

He lowered his hand with a heavy sigh, shaking his head at the ground.

“You didn’t take anybody from me,” He said again, “But I wanted you to be a monster, so that maybe I could feel a little less like one.”

“I’ve met monsters,” Murtagh said evenly, “And you don’t strike me as one of them.”

The young man took a long breath, and for a moment it seemed like he might be finished talking, like that was as far as he could go and all he could say. But then a horse and rider trotted by on the road below, and he seemed to follow them with his eyes, brought back from the depths of memory.

“We were in the city—in Uru’baen, in that last battle,” Baldor began in a hushed, weighty voice, “And you and your dragon were fighting with Eragon… or you thought it was Eragon.”

He swallowed.

“We were trying to get to the citadel, just–just running through the streets like mad,” He shook his head. “It was chaos, and…. screaming, and the stones were shaking.”

Baldor squinted out over the hill, still not looking Murtagh in the eye.

“And some of the people… the humans, the people who lived there, they were fleeing, in the streets. They hadn’t gone to hiding. And we came across a family, and they were terrified of us more than the Imperials, more than you… but I knew if they didn’t get out of the streets they were going to be killed.”

Muragh waited, keeping very still; he heard the strain in Baldor’s voice, and he could guess what was coming.

“And so I ordered them to get into the nearest house—I forced them; they wanted to keep running up towards the citadel, but I knew that they’d get cut down if the soldiers thought they were with us. I forced them into that building and I told them to stay put, and I shut the door behind them. But we weren’t hardly thirty feet down the street, when…”

Baldor’s voice faltered.

“When you and your dragon swooped overhead, and blasted a wall of fire on that row of houses.”

Murtagh felt a terrible sinking in his stomach, and Thorn’s reaction was much the same. He had been expecting something bad, but to hear this made him ache, and he was brought back in his memory to that terrible day—the panic and the helplessness—desperately trying to save Nasuada, without any hope that they could be freed, that the world could have any light in it anymore.

“I tried to run back, even though Roran was telling us to move up…” Baldor twisted the pair of gloves in his thick hands, “But… his tail—your–your dragon’s tail—it swiped one of the roofs and there was rubble everywhere and the door…”

Baldor’s voice choked, and there was silence for a moment. Normally Murtagh would’ve been bothered by someone not using Thorn’s name, but he couldn’t fault Baldor right now.

The young man took a shaking breath and looked back out into the night, and Murtagh could see the glistening in his eyes.

“I heard them screaming for help and I couldn’t move the rubble. It was too heavy. I couldn’t move it.”

He swallowed, shaking his head.

“You didn’t know there were people in those houses. There shouldn’t have been. Your dragon couldn’t have known, but…”

Baldor sniffled, his finger tracing a line on the scar around his wrist.

“...I guess it was easier to blame you. Because if it was your fault then–then maybe you were the monster… not me.”

The crickets filled the quiet as the two men sat there under a rising moon, and Murtagh could feel so many of his own feelings reflected in Baldor’s speech. The young man was close to Eragon’s age, but he had the stooping shoulders of a man weighed down by too much in his short life. And Murtagh understood now why Baldor’s anger had always been so sharp towards him, when most others in the village had forgiven and moved on. Baldor’s hatred had been a shield—and that was a concept that Murtagh understood intimately.

“You’re not a monster, Baldor,” Murtagh said quietly, staring down on the town, “You couldn’t have known either. You were trying to help them.”

Murtagh sighed.

“I know what it is to have regrets you cannot atone for,” His fingers fidgeted together, “And I can’t say I know how to live with them any better than you do. But if it helps at all… you don’t owe me for your son’s life. It was a gift to Thorn and I… to be able to do something good. And I thank you for it.”

Murtagh turned his gaze on the young man, who stared at the dark grass for a long moment, before lifting his head and meeting Murtagh’s eyes.

He gave a curt nod, and then he reached out a hand, and Murtagh took it.

“Thank you,” Baldor said, his chin raised, “For saving my family. I won't forget it.”

Chapter Text

Murtagh left Carvahall as the first of the wildflowers were blooming along the roadside. He said a melancholy farewell to Roran and his family, and began the long journey east with Thorn, promising to return as soon as circumstances allowed.

As always, he enjoyed the quiet time with Thorn in the wilderness, traveling at their own pace, without any threat or urgency. Alagaesia was beautiful in the spring, and there was no better way to see it than on dragonback.

By the time they’d made it back to the mountain, most of the spring crops had been planted and the ice runoff had left the river bloated and wild. Murtagh scryed with Nasuada as often as he could, letting her know that they had made it back to the mountain, and filling her in on everything that had happened in Carvahall.

He fell back into the rhythm of the mountain, training and testing his students on the skills he had requested they work on while he was gone. Things felt much the same at the academy, but as always, there had been change and growth during the few months of his absence. 

A new wild dragon had hatched sometime in late winter, but the lavender-scaled hatchling was born with a deformed wing. The leader of the wild dragons—whose name in the human tongue was Deggreshalasbanha (actually a simplification of the name that Saphira had managed to coax out of the dragon)—had brought the hatchling before Eragon in early spring and asked if the Riders would be willing to adopt it as part of their “nest”.

This hatchling’s dam and sire believe that it will live a better life among the two-legs and your partners than among our nest, Deggreshalasbanha had said through Saphira,

 We are not inclined towards gentleness and coddling, and though we may make some allowances for sickness and aide each other when in need, we do not think that a hatchling of this condition will thrive among us.

Eragon had offered to attempt to fix the dragon’s deformity with magic, but Deggreshalasbanha had declined the offer, saying,

Our very bodies are magic; any change done to her by the words of the two-legs would only make her more other. No, it is better she live among gentle folk such as yourself and Saphirabjartskulareldestofdragons; here she will live a worthy life. With us, her life may be harsh and unkind.

Eragon had accepted the responsibility gravely, clarifying that if the hatchling’s dam and sire wished to change their mind, they would be allowed.

We are made from the bones of the earth, Deggreshalasbanha had said, We do not change our minds.

This was why, when Murtagh first made his way up to Eragon’s study after his return from the west, he walked through the door to find his brother sitting at a desk with a tiny lavender-scaled dragon sitting on his head, her tail curling over his shoulder.

The lavender dragon followed Eragon around everywhere that summer, as Saphira and the other older dragons tried to teach her their ways. Her wing deformity made Eragon uncertain if she would be able to fly when she was older, but other than that she seemed strong and vigorous. 

It wasn’t long before she was too big to sit on Eragon’s shoulder, and learning to communicate with her was a bit tricky, since she was not bonded to a human mind. Eragon received more than a few accidental claw marks and Murtagh lost a pair of boots when the young dragon decided to try the taste of leather.

But Finanua—the name Kharnine had given her, meaning beautiful find—soon grew accustomed to the rhythms of the academy, and between her two-leg friends and her dragon counterparts, she was able to navigate life on the mountain with relative ease.

Murtagh wasn’t certain which of the wild dragons were her dam and sire, but whenever they visited the academy, they were kind enough to Finanua, and Murtagh supposed that Deggreshalasbanha had been right—Finanua would have a better chance at thriving among the tamer dragons and the two-legs, who would not expect her to hunt her own food and defend her own nest. 

The mountain leaves had not quite turned their colors, when word came to the academy that another dragon had hatched—the egg that had been sent to Ilirea had hatched to a human boy named Kellan. 

Murtagh was happy for the news, not only because their numbers would be growing and another dragon had come into the world, but because it meant he would have a good reason to head back to Ilirea early in the next year.

Vanir would escort the boy and his dragon to Ellesmera to start their training with Arya, and after a few months they would travel to Mt. Argnor to begin the work in earnest. Eragon put the suggestion out that perhaps Murtagh might be the one to escort him back.

“From where?” Murtagh said with a frown as they sat over the evening meal.

“From Ellesmera,” His brother returned, and Murtagh’s chewing paused.

“I talked to Arya,”  Eragon continued, looking down at his plate, “And she says she thinks things are at a good temperature. That it’s been… you know, l—”

“It hasn’t been long enough, Eragon,” Muragh interrupted, “You think—what–six years? They’re elves , for Angvar’s sake you think they forget that easily?”

“No,” Eragon returned tightly, “I don’t think they’ve forgotten. But they’ve seen your conduct, since the war; they’ve seen how you’ve worked and sacrificed for us, and they know the circumstances under which everything happened.”

Murtagh was quiet, staring at the wood grain of the table.

“It wasn’t you, they know that.”

“Even if it wasn’t my mind that killed Oromis, it was my hand and my sword. And Thorn killed Glaedr,” Murtagh said softly, “He was awake, he was conscious and no one was controlling him. ”

“And Glaedr would have killed both of you if he hadn’t—he’s said as much himself. And he’s forgiven you, so why can’t the Elves?”

Murtagh took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his arms resting on the table, his morning suddenly unsettled.

“If you’re not ready, it’s okay,” Eragon said with a shrug, “But Arya and I think it would work. Think it would be good, to move forward.”

The distant sounds of clanging swords echoed through the dining hall, like ringing bells. The students were having a morning sparring session, waiting for Eragon and Murtagh to join them.

Murtagh wanted to say no to his brother—he didn’t want to go to Ellesmera, and face all that, and look the Elves who’d known and cared for Oromis in the eye and see their pain and their anger. But he could acknowledge that his hesitance was not because it was the wrong thing to do, but rather because he knew it would hurt, and that it would bring back things from the past that he’d rather leave buried.

Burying the past had never worked well for him, though, so after a long while, he nodded carefully.

“I have to check with Thorn. But if you and Arya are sure,” He murmured, “Then I would be willing.”

Eragon had been pleased, he could tell, but from the day of their decision, Murtagh grew nervous whenever he thought of the upcoming journey. On the one hand he felt like days were flying by and he wanted more time, on the other hand he wished they could hurry up and get the journey over with—the anticipation made it all worse.

“If Eragon says it’s a good idea, then I trust him,” Nasuada said when he scryed her on a cold fall evening, “But if you’re still unsure, talk to Glaedr about it. If anyone has the right to decide, he would.”

Nasuada’s confidence helped Murtagh feel calmer, and he took her advice the next time he went into the Eldunari chamber—a practice which he tried to keep up regularly, though Eragon was better about it.

They say time heals, Glaedr rumbled, as Murtagh sat on the quiet chamber floor with his eyes closed and his mind open, But I do not think this is true. Time quiets, perhaps—old pains that were once very loud—but if it heals then I have yet to experience such a thing. 

Time alone cannot do the healing, Another dragon interjected; it was the mental voice of Dilau’ah, an older female dragon whose scales had been close to the color of Thorn’s scales.  

Time, She said, Needs the companions of wise council, good company and renewed purpose to do its healing work. 

The other Eldunari flickered with thought–some agreeing, some offering opinion, some whispering a scrap of verse or a proverb or a memory that Murtagh didn’t quite catch amidst the flurry of sensations.

Six years is too long and not long enough, Glaedr concluded when the murmuring had died down, But if you wait until every two-legs-pointed-ears has forgotten the pain of losing one as wise and valued as my rider was, then you will be grayer than the mountains before you see the forest city. Go now, and accept what comes. Those who forgive, will forgive, and those who resent, will resent, and there is nothing you can do to change that.

After that, Murtagh felt much calmer about the prospect of visiting Ellesmera, and Thorn echoed his feelings.

If Glaedr can forgive me for my deeds, Thorn said, Then there is hope—perhaps even for the two-legs-short-beards to put away past wrongs.

Murtagh didn’t quite share that confidence, but he thanked Nasuada for her advice, and he began to look forward to the trip—knowing he would stop at Ilirea before entering the forest, and also that he would have the opportunity to see his mother in the home she had made for herself among the elves. Time with Selena was infrequent, and valuable to him.

After receiving Glaedr’s blessing, he had a positive outlook on the whole thing, until one day just after the first snow of the year, when Eragon asked to meet with him in his study alone—a bad sign. They were together almost every day, and Eragon had plenty of opportunity to tell Murtagh anything he needed to know, so a formal private meeting was not likely to be good news. He was already dreading the conversation when he knocked on his brother’s door, and Eragon’s expression did not relieve his worries.

“What happened?” Murtagh asked immediately, fearing the worst—perhaps there’d been an attack, perhaps they’d lost the dwarves’ support, perhaps their mother…. No, Selena couldn’t be hurt, could she? Sick? Or worse?

“I just scryed with Arya this morning,” Eragon said, setting his quill up with a pinched look, “Kellan and his dragon—who has taken the name Tilyah—arrived safely last week and have been settling in.”

“They’re not hurt?” Murtagh clarified, still concerned about Eragon’s demeanor. His brother didn’t usually drag things out like this, he knew Murtagh hated it when he danced around the point.

“No, they’re both in good health.”

Eragon sighed, and sat back.

“But unfortunately Arya has learned…” Eragon cleared his throat. 

“Well, the boy was telling her about himself… and, um… and he admitted to her that his father… was killed during the war.”

There was a beat of silence, and Eragon gave Murtagh a regretful look.

“Killed by you, he says.”

Murtagh felt a terrible sinking feeling in his chest, like a hook caught in his throat, dragging downwards.

Eragon put up his hands.

“She hasn’t verified it with anyone else, and he would’ve been quite young at the time, so he might be mistaken, but…”

He shrugged, his gaze sympathetic.

“It’s what he says.”

There was quiet in the room for a stretch, cold air rattling through the cracks in the windows and causing the candles to splutter. Murtagh sighed heavily, maintaining his calm despite the clenching in his gut.

He looked out the window for a long moment, before nodding, and turning back to Eragon.

“Well. We knew it was bound to happen to one of us, right?” He said somberly. 

They had talked about this very thing—him and Eragon and Arya—the possibility that one of their future students might very well have lost a loved one by their hands. They’d all killed; they’d killed their way through Alagaesia, and, all told, they were responsible for thousands of deaths—directly or indirectly.

The odds were not favorable, then, that no dragon should ever hatch for a daughter or nephew or grandchild or cousin of a man one of them had slain in war. Unfortunately it had fallen to Murtagh to accept this first blow.

“He was in the Varden?” Murtagh asked, and Eragon shook his head.

“I don’t know for certain. The boy didn’t give many details to Arya.”

Murtagh nodded.

“Well.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” Eragon continued quickly, “And I still think you should go to Ellesmera.”

Murtagh grimaced.

“Eragon, we want him to feel comfortable—”

“It’s going to come up, one way or another. It’s a…. situation that will have to be addressed, and it may be better to address it between you and him and Arya in Ellesmera, not here in front of the rest of the students and the whole academy.”

“If he doesn’t want to train under me, I won’t force him,” Murtagh said strongly, “It’s his right to refuse my teaching; I might do the same if I were in his shoes.”

Eragon twisted his mouth.

“And what happens when an Urgal whose sire I killed joins our number? Or an imperial soldier’s daughter? We knew this would happen—we knew it was a reality, and we can’t…”

Eragon sighed, and spoke with deliberate calm.

“It would be a dangerous precedent to set, if we allowed students to pick and choose their teachers.”

“I killed his father, Eragon, how can you expect him to overlook that?” Murtagh pleaded.

“You overlooked it with Brom,” Eragon pointed out, and Murtagh frowned. “You never said a bad word about him, and you tried to help him and you gave him a respectf—”

“That’s different–”

“Why?”

“Because my father was a vicious bastard, and Brom did everyone a favor by ridding the world of him.”

Murtagh’s voice had raised sharply, and immediately he recognized his outburst in Eragon’s carefully set expression.

“Sorry,” Murtagh muttered, and his brother nodded.

“All I’m saying is… we don’t know the circumstances,” Eragon concluded softly, “And we don’t know… what Kellan wants. So… go to Ellesmera, take some time to let him get used to you, meet you, meet Thorn. Let Arya be an intermediary if you need to, and perhaps when he gets here we can start training and learning with less delay.”

Murtagh twisted his lips, picking at the hem of his tunic.

“And Arya supports the idea?”

Eragon nodded.

“She’s the one who suggested it.”

Murtagh squinted out the window, where the world was newly blanketed in white. Suddenly his impending journey was complicated again, tangled in the webs of the past. 

Will it ever be enough? He thought tiredly, Will it ever just go away?

He knew the answer already, but that didn’t keep him from wishing.

“We’ll think about it,” He said finally. 

Eragon nodded.

“Of course. Take the time you need.”

***

In the end, Thorn and he decided to go ahead with their planned trip to Ellesmera. Eragon and Arya were right—there was no avoiding this conflict; they would have to deal with Kellan’s feelings about his father’s death one way or another, and it was likely best to do it without the rest of the students looking on.

Murtagh prepared to leave the mountain once again, and instructed his students on practices they should maintain in his absence. Rhiannath had begun studying more complex healing magic, and was already excelling at it, but one day after they had been working together in the library, the young girl said,

“Master, I was hoping I could ask you something about my training.”

“Of course,” Murtagh returned, putting away the books that they had been studying over—old records on the anatomies of the various races. Rhiannath was fascinated by healing and medicine, and had been riveted by Murtagh’s account of the baby born in Carvahall. She was also one of the students who loved to ask questions—reminding Murtagh of his brother with her constant curiosity. This time, though, she seemed a bit nervous to be asking him, which gave him pause.

“Well, um, it’s about my training with Master Eragon, really… or, sort of.”

“Then perhaps you should be asking Master Eragon about it,” Murtagh returned calmly. 

“Yes, but… well… you see he’s been training me in swordplay, and I’m not so good at it, you know.”

“You’ll get better.”

“Yes, I–I know and Everenne says she thinks I’ve improved a lot, but…” The girl grimaced, “Well the thing is, when Master Eragon teaches me, sometimes I can’t quite keep up. I mean… the way he shows us how to do things, it works for Dusan and Kharnine, because they’re–they’re strong like him, and for Thrivka he’s taught her a totally different way of fighting that works better for her. But I’m not built like her, and I’m just a human, and I’m not as fast as Master Eragon since he’s… well, different. And I just feel like…”

The girl looked nervous, but she stammered through.

“I just feel like if maybe I could receive my sword training from you instead, maybe that would work better. Because you’re… well, just a human, like me.”

Murtagh nodded, finally understanding the point of the girl’s long story.

“I see. Have you talked to Eragon about this?” He asked gently. 

Rhiannath grimaced.

“I thought he might be offended—but I don’t mean it in a bad way!” She said quickly, “I mean, he’s a great teacher, but… it’s hard to find someone to spar with, is all. Someone who’s a good match for me.”

Murtagh nodded, his hands clasped behind his back as they stood between the library shelves.

“Well, the first thing I would do is talk to Eragon. If he knows you’re struggling, he can adjust things to help you succeed. And he won’t be offended, I promise. You are our first human student, after all—he’s learning too.”

Rhiannath nodded uncertainly.

“And if it helps,” Murtagh offered, “You can look forward to having a human sparring partner once Kellan and Tilyah get here.”

She nodded again.

“But the fact is, Rhiannath, that in a real combat situation you will not be able to choose an opponent that is a good fit for you,” Murtagh concluded, “You should learn how to defend yourself against people who are stronger and faster—in fact, that is most of what you should be learning. If you are to face a real fight, you won’t be able to set the terms.”

The girl looked a bit downtrodden, a flicker of worry on her face. There was a beat of quiet while he waited for her to form her thoughts—he’d learned that giving a student time to decide what they needed to say was better than trying to say it for them.

Rhiannath surprised him by saying,

“You think I will? I mean… you think we’ll have to fight some day?”

She looked up at him with a mixture of hope and fear, and Murtagh felt sympathy for her. He also felt suddenly very old. He had barely been of age when the war had broken out and fighting had become a regular part of life for many Alagaesians, but Rhiannath was probably only seven or eight at the time.

“It is my hope, that you and Everenne will be able to live your whole lives without drawing your sword once,” Murtagh returned softly, “But I’m afraid the world is not so kind as that. And you have to be ready—to defend yourself, and your partner… and those around you who are too weak to put up their own defense.”

Rhiannath nodded somberly, clearly feeling weighed down by the prospect. 

Murtagh had noted over the years that each of their students had places they excelled— parts of being a Rider that seemed naturally suited to them. Dusan was diplomatic, Kharnine was fierce, Thrivka was strong and uncompromising. But Rhiannath—being the newest and youngest of their number—seemed unsure about her own role. 

Murtagh could tell she was gifted in the gentleness and empathy that were—in his opinion—among the most important attributes for a Rider to have; without them, a Rider would be only one wound away from becoming Galbatorix. 

Murtagh wanted to encourage her with this notion, and to remind her that while sword fighting did not come naturally to her, she was excelling at healing and meditation and nature magic. He knew, however, that it was not his place to tell her who she was, neither was it what she needed. 

Rhiannath and her dragon would have to discover their strengths together, and grow as a unit—without him or Eragon trying to insert themselves overmuch. Growing together would result in them being stronger in all areas.

“So you don’t…” Rhiannath said quietly, “I mean, if Master Eragon doesn’t mind… would I maybe be able to work on swordplay with you? Sometimes?”

Murtagh took a deep breath.

“I don’t teach combat; that’s Eragon and Blodgharm.”

“But you’re really… I mean you’re good, I’ve seen you doing your exercises in the clearing. And Kharnine says you’re like, one of the best human swordsmen ever.”

Rhiannath looked sheepish.

“I just thought maybe I could get better if I worked with you, and maybe be able to keep up with Kharnine and Dusan.”

“I understand,” Murtagh confirmed, “And it’s good that you want to improve. But Thorn and I don’t teach fighting for a reason. It’s a choice we’ve made.”

Murtagh knew that Rhiannath was the type of person who wouldn’t be satisfied with a half-answer, so he pushed forward.

“You’ve noticed that Saphira is the one who trains Everenne on her aerial combat?” He asked Rhiannath, and she nodded.

“That is on purpose. It’s because Thorn does not want to teach Everenne and the others how to use their claws and teeth and tails to kill. He doesn’t want to show them how to hurt people, how to fight. Because when we had to fight… it wasn’t for those who couldn’t defend themselves. It wasn’t for our loved ones.”

Rhiannath’s eyes drooped. Murtagh knew she understood—she had been young during the war but she still knew what had happened to Thorn and he; whose side they had been on.

“Fighting, for me, is different than it is for Eragon. Even if it is just training—for Thorn and me, it means something different. I work on maintaining my swordsmanship because I need to stay ready for whatever comes, but it is my hope that I also will never have to draw my weapon against someone again. Do you understand?”

Rhiannath nodded.

“Of course, Master, I’m sorry.”

“You do not have to apologize. You made a reasonable request, and you’ve received an answer. And you will get better; the fact that you care this much is proof of that.”

Rhiannath gave a small smile.

“Thank you, Master.”

The next time Murtagh saw Rhiannath training with Eragon on the hard-packed ground outside, he noticed in her a grim determination that had been lacking before—a resolve that replaced her former timidness. 

Well done, Thorn said to him, as they floated down towards the keep, eyeing the group below, The hatchling knows a little more of her strength. You are a good teacher.

I only told her what I thought you would say, Murtagh returned with a smile, and he felt Thorn rumble in amusement.

Mmm, an admirable attempt. But you did not use any metaphors.

Chapter Text

Thorn and Murtagh left Mt. Argnor covered in a blanket of snow, just after winter solstice. Eragon wished them luck, and tried to be reassuring.

“I wish I could be with you to see Ellesmera for the first time,” He offered.

“You could come with,” Murtagh reminded, “Prophecy or not, your will makes your way.”

His brother had looked at him with something somber behind his eyes, and nodded.

“Maybe someday,” Eragon agreed, lowering his gaze to his desk, “But I am needed here for now.”

Their journey was cold, but calm, and Murtagh’s excitement to see Nasuada again helped him get through the long, tedious days of flying through gray skies. Ilirea was sparkling with frost as they circled down towards it, swooping low over the streets and seeing children pointing and jumping in excitement and old men peering up towards the sun to catch a glimpse of the ruby dragon.

They landed in the second-level courtyard of the keep, and were met by a contingent of soldiers lead by Jormundur—a greeting party which was unusual for their solo visits.

“Lord Murtagh,” Jormundur said with a stiff bow, and Murtagh nodded, his eyes flicking warily to the stern expressions of the soldiers. He noticed that the sorceress Triana was also among their number, looking wary.

“Hello, Jormundur,” Murtagh said carefully.

“I’m sorry, Murtagh but we have to ask that you allow Triana to examine you for spells.”

Immediately Murtagh’s hackles were raised, but he kept himself very still and his voice deliberately calm.

“What… spells?” He said in a clipped voice.

“Just before I take you to meet with the Queen,” Jormundur said, somehow both stern and apologetic at the same time, “I would ask that you let Triana make sure that you are not under any enchantments, and that you are yourself.”

“Why?” Murtagh asked, his voice hard.

“We have had had some security issues recently,” Jormundur said briskly, “Which The Queen can tell you more about once we have assured ourselve—”

“Is Nasuada safe?” Murtagh cut in sharply, anger and worry mixing in his gut.

“The Queen is well-protected,” Jormundur returned, “We have been examining every person who has an audience with her. It is not particular to you.”

The older man’s eyes were sharp and gauging, watching Murtagh’s reaction, trying to de-escalate things quickly. But Murtagh didn’t like the suspicious way Triana was looking at him, the way her hands clenched and her eyes squinted. Particular or not, Murtagh hated having people suspect him. 

It cannot hurt, Thorn said quietly, lowering his head and watching the gathered group carefully, If something has happened to make them wary, then we should be thankful that they are so thorough in their protection of Beloved-Nasuada.

I shouldn’t have to be examined before I can speak with my wife, Murtagh mentally snarled, his shoulders hunched.

And I’m sure if you inform Sharp-Eyes-Triana and Tall-Grey-Jormundur that you are her husband, they will quickly be distracted from their mission.

Murtagh made a non-committal huff, before saying,

“Fine,” And taking his hand off Zar’roc’s pommel, “Get it over with.”

Triana’s chin was raised as she stepped forward with rolled sleeves; clearly nervous but trying to hide it. Murtagh quickly lowered his wards with a whispered spell, and met Triana’s gaze sternly. He didn’t like this woman—she was suspicious and proud and not entirely agreeable—but Nasuada trusted her with her life, even if she didn’t enjoy her company much, so Murtagh was content to let her do her examining. If she did anything he didn’t like, he could simply use The Name and dismantle her magic immediately. But he hoped he wouldn’t have to resort to that.

Murtagh didn’t look away from Triana as she closed her eyes and lifted her hands in his direction, whispering under her breath words of magic. He felt the spell pass through him—a simple spell of detecting and revealing. He took a calming breath and resisted the instinct to push back against her magic. He was glad they had not requested to search his mind—that he would have had to refuse, and then there would be problems.

Triana’s eyelids fluttered as the magic flowed through her, but very quickly she clapped her hands shut, and stepped back coolly. She met Murtagh’s eyes for just a moment, before nodding to Jormundur.

“Apologies, sir, we had to be safe,” Jormundur said with a small bow, and Murtagh just nodded, eager to get to Nasuada already and find out what had caused all the worry.

He was lead through the castle to her private study, another strange occurrence, as he usually greeted her formally in the throne room with her nobles looking on. When he stepped into the quiet study, drapes drawn and candles flickering, his heart leaped to see her standing there, but he could tell immediately that she was not at ease.

“Your Majesty,” He greeted formally with a bow, meeting Nasuada’s tense gaze, and saying with his eyes what he could not say out loud. 

“Rider Murtagh,” She returned with a soft smile, “It is good to see you again.”

Nasuada quickly dismissed Jormundur and the guards, leaving only she, Murtagh and Elva in the room. The girl was lying on a window seat with her feet up on the wall, reading a book and ignoring them.

Murtagh’s gaze flicking to Elva. Normally Nasuada would dismiss the girl so they could have private conversations, but Elva remained in the room, clearly guarding her. They could still speak freely enough, since Elva knew of the marriage, but Murtagh was unnerved by the change.

“Hello, Elva,” He greeted calmly.

“Hmm,” Elva grunted in response, not taking her eyes off her book.

Murtagh his eyes to Nasuada.

“What’s going on?” He asked, seeing the tense way she held herself, and knowing that all was not well.

“Things with the dwarves have worsened,” Nasuada said tightly, taking a deep breath, “I was informed just weeks ago that Durgrimst Feldunost has made an official declaration before the council of clans, that King Orik must discontinue all support of the Rider Academy, and all friendship with the human kingdom. If he does not, they say they will secede from the dwarven nation.”

Murtagh gripped the pommel of his sword, his heart sinking.

“And of course Orik and the Ingeitum cannot allow one clan to secede, else others are sure to follow their path at the slightest disagreement. So there will be a civil war.”

Nasuada leaned heavily on her desk.

“I am set to meet with Orik in a month’s time, and last week a dwarven messenger came to the city and gave me this.”

Nasuada pulled out a scroll and stepped around the desk, handing to him wordlessly.

In neat letters, it advised Nasuada that Orik had canceled the meeting was withdrawing Nasuada’s invitation to Tronjheim, saying that if she attempted to enter the Beor Mountains she would be repelled.

Murtagh felt a rush of fury and fear.

“Why would he do this?”

“That’s the issue,” Nasuada said in a clipped tone, “He didn’t do it. I had Triana reach out to one of Orik’s magicians and ask to scry with him to talk things out. Orik was equally as surprised as I was by the missive. He did not authorize any such thing, and it is the exact opposite of his sentiments. He welcomes my support at this tenuous hour.”

Murtagh’s frown deepened.

“We believed the letter to be authentic, because it had his seal and was brought by his official ambassador to Ilirea, a Knurla who has met with me on numerous occasions.”

“Then the ambassador is a traitor.”

“No,” Nasuada said with a sigh, “It is even more complicated. When we tracked him down on the road we found that he was under an enchantment, sent here by parties unknown to mislead us into thinking that Orik was breaking his alliance with us.”

“Durgrimst Feldunost sent him,” Murtagh concluded, and Nasuada nodded.

“That is what I believe. But there is no proof. If the magicians who were using him as a puppet were in the city, we never saw them. I informed Orik of what happened and he agreed that it was the doing of Durgrimst Feldunost, to sow resentment among us and prevent Orik from maintaining an alliance.”

“So that’s why you are checking for enchantments,” Murtagh concluded, and Nasuada nodded apologetically.

“I am sorry.”

“No,” Murtagh raised a hand, “I understand. You need to protect yourself, and using me to get to you would be a perfect plan.”

Nasuada breathed tightly, but nodded. Murtagh could see that the recent weeks had been heavy on her, and he regretted that he had not been around to support her—to protect her. Perhaps he might’ve seen immediately that the dwarven messenger was not himself, and they might’ve caught the people controlling him. Murtagh took her hand and kissed it, drawing it close to his chest and pulling her close, trying to take all her worry and stress and cover it over with his love.

“I’m here now,” He assured, brushing her hair from her forehead and kissing her, “Let me help.”

***

Nasuada was starting to figure that maybe six years was a good run—a respectable length for a Queen to hold power. If things continued to go as they had the last few months, she didn’t expect her rule to last much longer.

She had thanked Gokukara that Murtagh had arrived when he did—not that he could fix the way things were, but his presence was like a calming hand on her shoulder, and he lent her the strength she needed to put away her worries.

She was to leave for Tronjheim in four weeks’ time, and desperately wished Murtagh could come with her, to act as anchor in the political storm she was about to face. But she knew his presence would only make things worse; this was one battle she would have to fight alone. Not totally alone—Jormundur and Elva would be with her, but without the person she most trusted and relied upon.

She tried to soak up the comfort of his presence during their weeks together, and they forwent their usual rule about him not staying the night in her chambers. She felt safer when he was close, and after hearing of the predicament with the dwarves, he helped Jormundur search the city for spies—finding one dwarf who would not reveal his clan or purpose for being in the city. They could not prove that the dwarf was of Durgrimst Feldunost, because he had removed all signifying marks from his beard and attire.

Nasuada did not dare break into the dwarf’s mind and force the information out of him, because if he did belong to Durgrimst Feldunost, they would surely use that as a way to further prove that humans were not to be trusted. So they kept the angry dwarf in a comfortable but secure room, promising to escort him back to Tronjheim when they made their journey.

Nasuada and Murtagh spoke of other things too—of his time in Carvahall, and of the goings-on at the mountain. He told her about the wild dragon that Eragon had adopted into the academy, and of their preparations for a new student.

“I told Eragon I won’t force him. If he refuses to learn from me, that’s his right.”

“But he must understand,” Nasuada reasoned, lying against his chest as snow fell outside her chamber windows. “I mean… he can grow to understand, in time.”

She gently let her hands brush along his skin.

“Urgals killed my father,” She murmured, “But I trust my Nighthawks with my life, and I admire Kharnine and many others.”

“And if you could find the very Urgal that did it?” Murtagh asked, tilted his head towards her, his eyes filled with a familiar melancholy, “The one whose blade took your father’s life? Could you let him be your teacher? Could you look him in the eyes and call him a friend?”

Nasuada breathed deeply, her mouth tight.

“I don’t know,” She said, “But I think I’d try… if he’d proved he was remorseful… that he had changed. If we cannot forgive then we will always be at war.”

There was a pause, as Murtagh watched her with soft eyes, pondering her words. Then he smiled lightly, and kissed her forehead.

“I love you,” He murmured into her hair, and Nasuada held close to him, feeling truly calm for the first time in weeks.

***

Nasuada slept better than she had in months when Murtagh was with her. So she was surprised one night when she startled awake in the darkness, groggy and disoriented. She felt like something had jostled her, but for a moment she couldn’t sense anything out of place.

Then she heard a rattling, and a sudden sharp noise of glass breaking. 

Nasuada sat bolt upright in bed as her vanity table crashed to the floor and she heard a struggling grunt.

“Murtagh!?” She called, throwing the blanket off and jumping out of bed.

From the light of the winter moon she saw two figures struggling on the floor, and suddenly she was fully awake, her veins like fire.

“Stay back Nasuada!” Murtagh’s strangled voice shouted as he wrestled with an unknown intruder. Nasuada ran towards the fireplace on the other side of her chambers, heart racing.

The knife she usually wore was stored in her vanity drawer, so she snatched up a fire poker and raised it over her head, poised to strike the moment she got a clear view. But before she could pick out which struggling figure was Murtagh, she heard a desperate yell and a sudden horrible, squelching sound.

Her heart pounded and she gripped the fire poker, panting and unsure, as the gasping breaths of a dying man echoed throughout the silent room.

“Murtagh?” She said desperately, she saw his figure—or she thought it was him—kneeling over the other. He was breathing heavily, his skin pale against the background of darkness.

But was it him? Was that him? Was she certain?

“Garjzla,” A haggard voice said, and Nasuada could breathe again. It was his voice, Murtagh’s—and a second later a werelight popped into existence above his head, and she was fully able to see the scene that had transpired in the darkness.

Murtagh was kneeling in the splintered wreckage of the vanity table, over the body of a black-clad human man, whose eyes now stared blankly, his neck and torso drenched with blood. In his right hand Murtagh gripped a large shard of the shattered vanity mirror—stained crimson from where it had punctured the man’s neck.

Nasuada shuddered, as Murtagh turned his wide eyes to her, his whole body shaking. He lurched up unsteadily and swept towards her, dropping the mirror shard and taking her face in his bloody hands.

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, searching her, “Did he hurt you? Did he get you?”

His eyes scanned her sleeping gown, looking for wounds, as Nasuada shook her head, the fire poker hanging limply from her hand. She was trying to remember how to breathe, her mouth suddenly very dry.

“Are you alright?” Murtagh’s voice said again, sharp and urgent, and Nasuada nodded, dazed.

“B–blood… you’re bleeding,” She stammered, running her hand over the blood that stained his bare chest, trying to find its source.

“It”s not mine,” He breathed, but he was also feeling for wounds, like he wasn’t quite sure he had gotten out unscathed. 

He hissed in pain when Nasuada touched his hand, and she turned his palm over to see that his grip on the mirror shard had left a gash. They both sort of stared at the wound for a moment, dazed, as if realizing just how much worse it could have been.

Someone tried to kill me. This man tried to kill me, Nasuada’s brain was trying to tell her, as her heart rate was gradually slowing and the room coming back into focus.

“Nasuada…” Murtagh’s voice came out haggardly, but before he could say more Nasuada embraced him tightly, her arms thrown over his shoulders, hoping to anchor him to her until the fear had passed. She knew what he was about to start thinking; she knew in a few seconds it would hit him what he had done, and he would start to feel it.

“You saved me,” She breathed as she held him, “You saved my life.” 

She hoped she could remind him of that, before the guilt started hitting him.

As she held onto him, though, her eyes drifted down to the dead body—the man who had entered her chambers to kill her, not aware that a dragon rider shared her bed. How the man had broken in and avoided tripping any wards or alerting any guards, she didn’t know, and that scared her. Thorn had gone north for a few days to hunt, or else he might’ve spotted the intruder, but someone else should have noticed, something should have stopped him from getting this far.

Her saving grace was that this assassin had not expected Murtagh to be there—the secret of their marriage had saved her life. Nasuada took a shaking breath and squeezed her husband tighter.

“Are you okay?” Murtagh asked again, still embracing her, like he couldn’t remember that he had asked her already. His voice was his own again, though—shaken, but his own. 

“Yes,” Nasuada assured, and she pulled back, still in his arms but able to look at his face.

“You did what you had to,” She said sternly, “He was here to kill me.”

Murtagh nodded.

“I was trying to get his min—”

Suddenly the chamber door burst open and light filled the room. 

A shrill voice shouted, and Nasuada heard something whistling through the air;  Murtagh ducked.

“Tr—”

Another projectile whizzed towards him, and Nasuada recognized her guards and Triana.

“Wait!” Nasuada cried, stepping in front of him, “Triana, it wasn’t him! He saved me!”

Nasuada’s hands were held out towards the sorceress, who was coiled like a snake, clearly afraid but boldly willing to attack a man whom she knew was infinitely stronger in magic than she.

“This man tried to kill me,” Nasuada said quickly, pointing to the body on the floor, “Murtagh killed him. I am safe.”

Triana was breathing heavily, hands clenched, hiding her fear behind determination. Nasuada had to admire the woman for her guts—and her loyalty. If Murtagh had been the assassin, she could hardly have expected to win a fight against him.

“Are you wounded, my lady?” Triana asked finally, the two guards who had joined her watching every corner of the room warily.

“I am not. We are both fine. Has anyone else been attacked?”

Triana shook her head, still glancing at Murtagh suspiciously as he stood behind Nasuada, ready for anything.

“Elva alerted us to something going on. We came as quickly as we could.”

“Thank you, your bravery and loyalty will not be forgotten,” Nasuada acknowledged carefully, “I am safe. But we need to wake Jormundur and conduct a thorough search of the grounds to make sure there are not other assassins about.”

Triana started to nod, but then she squinted, her eyes glancing first to the dead man on the floor, then to the balcony doors, then to Murtagh.

“And how exactly did you happen to know about the assassin?” She said with a sneer towards Murtagh, suspicion still plain on her face, “You managed to arrive quite quickly for someone whose chambers are on the other side of the castle—like maybe you knew ahead of time.”

Triana’s expression was hard and unbelieving, and at that point, Nasuada realized their predicament. She and Murtagh looked at each other with equal expressions of alarm.

That was all it took—Triana’s eyes flicked from Nasuada, to Murtagh, and back. Nasuada saw the calculation, the gradual dawning realization cross the sorceress’ face. Nasuada was in her nightdress, and Murtagh was shirtless and covered in blood. 

In the Queen’s chambers. 

In the middle of the night.

“Oh, bloody Angvar’s rotten teeth,” Triana cursed, throwing up her hands. Nasuada knew there was no saving it now. Murtagh looked down at the floor, abashed, and Nasuada’s mouth opened and closed, before she said,

“It’s not what you think Tr—”

“Respectfully, your majesty,” Triana raised a hand to stop her, her eyes closed and an exasperated expression on her face, “I don’t wish to know.”

Nasuada closed her own lips, and ludicrously found herself struggling not to laugh. When she looked back at Murtagh, she saw that his expression was similar—mortified but struggling to keep his composure. 

For a long moment Triana considered both of them with a furious, calculating expression, like a mother deciding how best to punish her misbehaving children. 

“You two,” She turned to the guards behind her, her shoulders hunching. Both men stood at attention under the sorceress’s stern scowl.

“You breathe so much as a whisper of this to any living soul, and I’ll see your entire family turned into molerats, do you understand me?”

Both of them nodded, petrified, before Triana turned back to Nasuada and Murtagh, her expression businesslike again.

“Stay here while I alert Jormundur,” Triana said sharply.

“I can help find—”

“No,” Triana cut Murtagh off with a hand, “You stay here and you protect the Queen. Do you understand?”

She was glaring at him, her annoyance not masked even a little, but she seemed to grasp that he was the best person to be at  Nasuada’s side.

Murtagh hesitated a moment, like he might argue, but then he nodded.

“Aye,” He returned, and Triana just squinted.

“You two stay watch,” She said to the guards, “Don’t answer for anyone but me.”

Nasuada nodded, her body starting to relax after the frantic few minutes.

“Thank you, Triana,” She said, meeting the sorceress’s eyes, conveying her meaning. Triana’s eyes flickered with softness, but then they turned back to Murtagh.

“And put your bloody clothes back on before someone else sees,” She ordered, before whisking from the room and locking the door tightly behind her.

***

For the long, dark hours of the night, Nasuada and Murtagh waited in her chambers with the two silent guards, holding tightly to each other and trying not to look at the dead man on the floor. 

They sat on the bench at the end of the bed, and Nasuada helped Murtagh wash the blood from his body before he found his tunic and vest, and belted Zar’roc back on. Then they sat close, with their heads pressed together and their hands clasped, listening to the sound of the now-wakened castle, as soldiers ran through the courtyards below and distant shouts echoed from the hall.

It didn’t matter that the guards were in the room with them—they had seen enough to know what was going on, and had already been threatened into silence. Besides, even if Nasuada had wanted to put on the charade of distance that she and Murtagh were accustomed to, she didn’t know if she could have managed to be away from him in that moment.

Part of her wanted to be with Jormundur, commanding the search, aware of what was going on, but the other part just wanted to stay in here with Murtagh, where she felt safest, and where she could pretend all this was just one of her bad dreams.

The dead body on the floor made that difficult, though, and she quickly decided to throw a cloth over it, so that neither she nor Murtagh would have to keep looking at the man.

Murtagh was shaking, and after Triana had left and things had quieted down, he started to get a glassy look in his eyes, and Nasuada had to keep reminding him not to look towards the broken vanity.

“His death is on his own hands,” Nasuada murmured softly, brushing her fingers gently along his hair, their foreheads still pressed together, “You saved me. You did what you had to.”

Murtagh was looking down at their hands, and he nodded shortly, sniffing.

“I just didn’t expect…” He murmured hollowly, “It’s just been a long time.”

Nasuada understood what he meant; it had been years since he had taken a life, since he’d had to draw his sword against someone, and Nasuada knew he had hoped never to have to do it again. 

Years of peace had a way of lulling you into a hopeful calm, and in one night that calm had been violently, intimately shattered. She was angry for him—that he had lost his peace, and she knew it would take time to rebuild it again.

As for herself, Nasuada knew that the nightmare would not be over when the sun rose. She was already wondering if she would ever be able to feel secure in her chambers again, if she could ever forget the sight of the bloodied corpse lying on her bedroom floor, and how close she had come to the void.

She held onto Murtagh tighter.

When Triana knocked on her chamber doors, and entered along with Jormundur, Elva and a contingent of five more guards, the sun was beginning to lighten the room, and Nasuada was both exhausted and wide-awake.

Jormundur embraced her warmly, a behavior was unusual for him, and Nasuada could see the fear in the way he looked at her. 

“I’m sorry, your majesty, I failed you tonight.”

“I am alright,” Nasuada assured the older man, holding onto his forearm, “Think no more on it; I am safe.”

Jormundur nodded,

“Thanks only to you,” He said, his gaze shifting; he reached out a hand and shook Murtagh’s hand.

“We are all in your debt.”

“I am only glad I was able to get here in time.”

“How did you manage to stop the intruder?” Jormundur asked, and Nasuada watched the exchange carefully.

“One of my wards was tripped,” Murtagh said evenly, “It woke me from sleep and when I searched the palace with my mind, I came across…”

He gestured vaguely to the covered shape of the dead body. Jormundur nodded, and Nasuada could see a few more questions flickering in his eyes, but if the older man doubted Murtagh’s story, or wondered why he had placed wards around the Queen’s chambers, he didn’t say anything.

“Well. It should never have come to that, but I am right glad you were here.”

Nasuada was touched by Jormundur’s emotion, and could see that he was bearing guilt for the breach in security.

“Have you found anything else?” Nasuada asked hurriedly, eager to have the night done with and be alone with Murtagh again.

Jormundur reported that there was no one else unusual about the castle, and no one had been attacked besides her. They pulled back the covering and examined the body, and Nasuada risked holding Murtagh’s hand just briefly as they stared down at the blood-splattered, gray face of the would-be assassin.

Jormundur concluded that the man was from Sinderah, given the make of his garb and the style of knife he carried. This was unnerving, as Nasuada realized it meant that someone in the unruly city had tried to kill her, that sentiments against her had grown so prominent that some of her own subjects were willing to attempt blatant assassination.

Her sense of horror was not lessened any, though, when Murtagh said,

“I don’t think this man was hired by someone in Sinderah.”

Jormundur, Triana and Nasuada all looked up at him, waiting for an explanation.

“When he attacked I sparred with his mind….” Murtagh said, his eyes never leaving the dead body, his voice distant, “And when he was bleeding out, I broke through… and I saw in his thoughts the image of a dwarf, somewhere in the woods. They were talking…”

Murtagh lifted his eyes to Jormundur.

“This man has the tanned skin of someone from the south, and his accent was not that of Sinderah. I think a dwarf hired him to kill The Queen, and I think he donned the garb and weapons of a Sinderian on purpose, so that we would turn our eyes that way.”

“A dwarf?” Jormundur said sharply, and Nasuada felt an uneasy prickling on her skin. Murtagh nodded tightly.

“His mind was not lying.” 

All of them exchanged glances, each slowly understanding what that meant.

“You’re absolutely certain?” Nasuada asked, her voice quiet and a bit unsteady. Murtagh gave her a look of sympathy and fear.

“I’m sorry.”

Nasuada tried to breathe.

The dwarves tried to have me killed. They tried to have me killed and blame it on my own subjects. Orik…

“It can’t be Orik,” Nasuada said firmly, “If a Knurla hired this man to kill me, then it was either an independent malcontent, or it was Durgrimst Feldunost.”

Jormundur looked skeptical, but he didn’t argue. 

“Why would they want you dead? What would they benefit from it?” He said instead.

“They want Orik to stop supporting us and allying with us,” Nasuada said, realizing it as she spoke, “They want to be isolated and uninvolved in human affairs, and they don’t want me supporting the Ingeitum if there’s a clan war. If I were killed by an assassin from Sinderah, then the kingdom would fall into chaos and the dwarves could retreat to their mountains and ignore us. If the assassination were unsuccessful, but I still believed the killer was from Sinderah, then I would turn my attention that way and not give heed to whatever coup they are planning against the Ingeitum.”

Nasuada shook her head, seeing it suddenly so plainly.

“They figured there would be no way to connect the assassin back to them. And either way I’d be out of their affairs.”

Jormundur cursed under his breath and Triana looked furious.

“We cannot let this go unanswered,” Jormundur said, shaking his head.

“And we won’t,” Nasuada concluded, her head clear after all the adrenaline of the evening, “I will go and meet with Orik, as I planned to. And I will tell him what has transpired here. And I will show Feldunost that their plan has served only to make me more strongly allied with the Ingeitum.”

Nasuada’s hands were tightly clenched, anger and determination mixing in her chest.

“They thought they could use my own people against me.”

She stared hard at the dead man on the floor.

“I will show them just who they are toying with.”

***

Guards remained posted outside of Nasuada’s door and on her balcony and in the servant’s corridor, and Elva did not leave her side even to sleep, but stayed in her chambers with her as the others retired for the night. 

Murtagh left reluctantly, meeting Nasuada’s eyes as she encouraged him to go, giving him a quick squeeze of the hand, knowing that it would be strange if he were to linger any longer.

When it was just her and Elva alone, Nasuada sat back on her bed, suddenly exhausted.

“I’m sorry, Nasuada,” Elva’s high voice said, quiet but filling the silent room, “I should’ve sensed it, I should’ve stopped it, I was asleep I didn’t—”

“It’s not your fault, Elva,” Nasuada hurried, touched by the girl’s concern. “Everyone needs to sleep; even you. You need not apologize for being human.”

Elva’s large purple eyes blinked at her, but she nodded, and looked away. Neither of them slept any more that night.

The next few days were tense and unsettled. Nasuada’s usual schedule was rearranged to accommodate extra guards, careful searches, and the testing of each person who would be in the same room as her.

She told Murtagh to stay away the first few nights, worried that he might get caught sneaking into her chambers, and have to fight one of her guards. She wasn’t worried he would lose , but she didn’t want to risk their marriage being found out—not right now, not when the Feldunost clan had just attempted to spark a civil war.

Murtagh tried to convince her not to go forward with her trip to Tronjheim, reasoning that it was too dangerous to be surrounded by dwarves when a whole clan of them might be trying to kill her. But Nasuada knew that the only way to move forward was meeting with Orik herself and communicating her intentions—they had been plagued by interference and misunderstanding for months, and she would not be satisfied until she spoke with him directly, and they worked together to find a solution. 

She now knew she would support him in the event of a clan war, but she hoped to avoid it, as she knew the ripple effects would be devastating for her kingdom and the Riders. 

Plans for her upcoming trip took up most of her day, and her time spent with Murtagh had started to become filled with tense conversations and uneasy speculating, both of them unable to take their mind off of the state of things—which seemed worse now than they had been when they were married. 

After a few nights had passed, and extra security measures had been put in place for her, Murtagh was able to resume his habit of coming in through the servant’s corridor when the castle had gone to sleep. There had been wards placed on the tunnel, but he was able to use The Name to pass through them without the caster being any the wiser.

Nasuada was grateful to have him back, and was glad to be able to dismiss Elva, who seemed to still feel guilty about not catching the intruder in time. She could tell that the girl was not sleeping, despite the fact that a cot had been brought into Nasuada’s chambers for her, and Nasuada knew that the practice was not sustainable.

“I need you to be at your best to protect me,” Nasuada told her when Elva seemed skeptical about leaving her alone for the night, “And to do that, you need to get sleep. You know Murtagh is capable of protecting me.”

Elva had agreed only because Thorn had returned from his hunting, and she apparently considered him a far more capable protector.

“If Thorn had been here, the man wouldn’t have got past the gates,” Elva said sternly.

Nasuada was flooded with relief when she lay next to Murtagh and felt his comforting weight beside her. She slept better than she had all that week—not well , exactly—but better, though she knew it wouldn’t last.

Murtagh had also been ill at ease, tense and jumpy, with his hand often resting on his sword and his eyes scanning every room sharply. It reminded Nasuada too much of the old Murtagh, of the way he used to carry himself and see a threat around every corner. She understood, though, and she tried to be an anchor to him, as he was to her.

He often startled awake with a shout in the middle of the night, sitting up suddenly and waking Nasuada with his movement, before he realized where he was. That wasn’t unusual for him, necessarily—they both had nightmares sometimes—but it was definitely worse in those last few weeks in Ilirea.

Sometimes she would wake up to find him pacing the room with his sword in his hand, checking the curtains, listening to the door, and peeking out onto the balcony, as though watching for threats. She wanted to say something to make him feel calmer, but the truth was, he was right to be paranoid; a man had broken into the most secure room in the city, and but for Murtagh’s presence he would’ve succeeded in killing Nasuada. Until they knew that the people who had hired that man were dealt with, the threat remained.

It was with great difficulty, then, that she convinced him to leave for Ellesmera as he had planned—the same week that she was to leave for Tronjheim.

“You cannot go with me to Farthen Dur, and lingering here will do no good,” Nasuada reasoned as they stood in her study together, Murtagh’s hands angrily planted on his hips.

“The Riders need you, and you have done everything you can for me. Elva and Triana will be accompanying me, and I have a dozen wards set about me.”

She took his hand pleadingly.

“Please, Murtagh. Go to Ellesmera. See to Kellan and his dragon. It would pain me if I kept you from your duties.”

“I can’t perform my duties if you’re not safe,” He returned, his brown knit.

“I am safe,” Nasuada assured, touching her palm to his face and searching his eyes, “As safe as any of us can be in this world.”

She tried to look determined.

“I’m going to Orik, and I’m going to fix this, and then perhaps…”

Nasuada held onto Murtagh’s hand and looked down at their intertwined fingers.

“Perhaps we might soon be able to tell the world about us… to be done without our hiding and let our marriage be known. Then you can be at my side always,” She smiled, looking into his eyes, feeling both aching and assured.

“Hope with me now, this once,” She encouraged, “Hope that we can make this right. That we can be done with this business once and for all.”

He looked hard at her, and she saw the worries behind his eyes, the fear for her life, the fear that a choice he made now might haunt him for the rest of his days.

“Hope has never been a friend to me,” He lamented, hesitant. But Nasuada smiled softly, and brushed the gold ring on his ear—the symbol of their union, and of the joyous day at Mt. Argnor.

“Never?” She questioned, and she saw his eyes softening, clearly reluctant to let her go, but understanding that he could not help her in this. It was a threat she had to face on her own.

His head ducked, and he brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

“You will come back to me,” He commanded softly, and she nodded.

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Murtagh and Thorn landed on the outskirts of Du Weldenvarden at the outlet of a quiet stream which trickled towards the plains to the south, until it fed into the Ramr. 

It was a beautiful morning, and even his unease about leaving Nasuada, and the nerves he felt at the prospect of entering the Elven territory for the first time couldn’t keep him from appreciating the sense of magic that emanated even from the fringes of the great woods.

They had landed by the river and were content to wait a few hours in the fading daylight, Thorn washing himself in the clean water and Murtagh sitting on the shore with only his feet in. 

Murtagh would’ve been happy to spend the night there in the comfortable wild—a place that reminded him of those first years after the fall of Galbatorix, when he and Thorn had wandered in the wilderness together and slept under the stars. 

It had not been an easy time—both of them were trying to put the pieces of themselves back together, and for a while life had felt like the slow waking after a terrible nightmare, foggy and uncertain—but it had been the first time that they could be truly alone together, free and unwatched, constrained only by their desire to remain hidden from the general population. He looked back on the time with fondness, when the world grew too loud.

Now Murtagh tried to focus on the calmness of the wild, as opposed to his anxiousness around entering Ellesmera and meeting the newest rider, or his worry about Nasuada’s safety and the future of the kingdom. The sun had not yet fallen when a shape appeared in the shadowy fringe of the woods, and Murtagh saw Vanir the elf slip into view, encumbered only by a small pack on his back.

Murtagh stood, and Vanir raised a hand in greeting as he closed the distance between them. Before he even came to a stop, Vanir made the Elven gesture of greeting, showing Murtagh deference by being the first to speak. Murtagh returned the honorific that Eragon had taught him in his first months at Mt. Argnor, and allowed Vanir to repeat the greeting with Thorn, before pulling off his bag and setting out some food. 

It had been planned that Vanir would meet Murtagh and Thorn on the edge of Du Weldenvarden, and fly with them towards Ellesmera. In Eragon’s time, a dragon would not have been able to fly into the city due to the magic barriers, but Arya had since taken those wards down, so their journey would not be over-long.

Vanir was there to escort them not only because they didn’t know where they were going, but also because there was some sort of gate-guardian they had to pass, and everyone seemed to think it would be best if they had an elf nearby, in case the guardian decided against their entrance. 

The vague way in which Eragon and Arya had spoken of this mysterious guard had made Murtagh nervous, like he was going to have to pass some sort of test in order to enter the city. He wasn’t sure what the test was, or what the consequences would be if he failed, but he did feel grateful to have Vanir there.

They were more or less friends, though of course Murtagh was closer to the Elves who lived and worked at the mountain full-time. Vanir had made several visits to Mt. Argnor over the years, and as the Elven ambassador to Ilirea, he and Murtagh shared a similar role. 

Murtagh knew that Vanir had not gotten along with Eragon when they’d first met, but to him Vanir had always been polite enough—a bit stiff and formal, but then again all elves tended to be more aloof than humans, so Murtagh didn’t hold it against the young elf personally. It was odd, since Vanir was probably at least a few decades older than Murtagh, but he somehow felt aged by comparison. Perhaps it was life experience—Vanir had lived most of his decades sequestered in the forest doing who-knows-what with the rest of the ageless folk.

“Have you ever flown on a dragon before?” Murtagh asked as he tightened the straps of Thorn’s saddle, adjusting them for two riders.

Vanir shook his head, his face an equal mix of excitement and nerves.

“No, I cannot say I’ve had the honor.”

Hmm. Well, I shall do my best to live up to expectations then, Thorn rumbled, And I assure you, I have not dropped anyone in quite some time.

Murtagh smirked to himself as he watched Vanir pale a little bit.

“All set,” Murtagh said abruptly, and climbed easily onto Thorn’s back, reaching a hand down to the now-green-faced elf to help him up.

Thorn, of course, did not attempt to frighten Vanir any further, and flew steadily and calmly over the vast expanse of the green forest below. It was beautiful, and Murtagh might’ve enjoyed it much more if he weren’t thinking of what lay ahead. He was tired from the journey, and the cloud of worry that hung before and behind seemed to drain him even more.

Not an ideal way to make my introduction to the elves, He thought, stifling a yawn.

After hours of quiet flying, Vanir shouted over the sound of the wind that they were approaching the border of Ellesmera, and that Thorn should land in a nearby clearing. When he did so, Murtagh dismounted after Vanir, and watched as the elf walked to the edge of the clearing and gazed into the shadows of the wood. 

Silence stretched about them—or, silence so far as the forest went; Murtagh was finding that even in the quiet of Du Weldenvarden, a person could still hear shifting and chirping and rushing and rustling, all sorts of noises that bespoke the vast amount of life around them.

It was both calming and unnerving, to think what creatures they were surrounded by, unseen in the shadows. Murtagh had been on the wrong end of one of these creatures once—a being whose name and species he had never found out—and he didn’t care to have it happen again.

He was just about to ask Vanir what they were supposed to do now, when he felt Thorn shift.

Something is coming, Thorn said, raising his head and peering to where Vanir stood.

Murtagh watched, his hand on his sword, as the shadows seemed to shift in front of Vanir, and then suddenly, like a beam of sun coming down from the gray sky, a shaft of light appeared in front of them, and standing in the shaft of light, an elf with a silver circlet on his brow, his ageless hands gripping a staff and his face unreadable.

Murtagh suddenly became very still, feeling an electric charge of magic in the air. The elf somehow seemed to come from the beam of light and also be standing in it. Murtagh was caught between a desire to run and to draw his sword; he wasn’t certain whether this strange, ancient being was an enemy or not. Perhaps the elf himself didn’t know—though Murtagh wasn’t entirely sure the term “elf” could apply to him, as he seemed to be almost immaterial standing there in the shadows.

“Show him your palm, if you would,” Vanir murmured quietly, not seeming ready to flee, which helped keep Murtagh rooted to the spot. He frowned at his companion for a moment, but felt Thorn quietly encouraging him, so he opened his left hand to the strange ethereal elf, showing the shimmer of his Gedwey Ignasia.

Vanir stood very still, and Murtagh felt uneasy as the old elf stared at him. He felt locked in place as gray eyes met him, and for the span of a few heartbeats he was afraid—if this was the guardian, and this was his test, what happened if he failed it? What was the elf searching for? What would he see inside Murtagh? 

For a moment the elf’s face was hard and searching, fathomless, and somehow full of pain. Murtagh was shaking; he felt tears forming in his eyes, like this elf could somehow see everything he’d ever done and everything that had been done to him. Now he wanted to hide—he felt exposed and vulnerable. He hated feeling vulnerable.

Just when he thought he couldn’t handle another moment of that sharp, inscrutable gaze, there was a shift, like someone had been holding a foot on his chest and suddenly released it. And then the old elf lifted out his hands to the side, and lowered his head with a soft smile.

Murtagh took a shaking breath, and realized that he had been holding it. Thorn seemed to shift as well, as though he’d been held by the same spell, and even Vanir released a relieved sigh.

“We may continue,” Vanir said, his voice a bit shaky, like he had had the same worry for a moment—that maybe Murtagh would not be allowed to pass into the city. Before Murtagh had fully recovered his senses, the light had shifted, and the old elf with the silver circlet had disappeared. 

They flew on after that, and Murtagh could sense the difference in the forest around them; it was as if the air had become thicker all of a sudden, woven with magic. His eyes began to pick out shapes in the forest below—unnatural shapes, hand-made shapes, odd lights and ethereal sounds. They had been flying all night, and he was exhausted, and he thought his eyes might be playing tricks on him, but Thorn saw the lights too, so he figured they must belong to elven dwellings.

The sky had just begun to lighten when Vanir asked Thorn to begin descending closer to the canopy. At first Murtagh didn’t notice the difference in the trees, but as he began to focus his gaze down in the pre-dawn air, he noticed a thinning to the canopy, and the shapes of paths reflecting gray in the half-light.

The air grew warmer as they began to float closer to what looked like a long stretch of open grass amidst a cluster of twinkling lights. Thorn was coasting low, and Murtagh closed his eyes a moment, to ready himself as they drew close to the elven capital. 

He had been unnerved by the strange elf in the woods—called Gilderien the Wise, according to Vanir—who seemed to be a mysterious figure even to those who lived in Ellesmera. Murtagh got the impression that he did not dwell among the elves any longer, if he ever had. 

I wonder how old he is? Thorn thought as they descended, If he has been guarding Ellesmera since Du Fyrn Skulblaka, he must be ancient many times over.

Murtagh kept looking behind him, feeling like they were being followed.

Relax, you have to relax, He tried to tell himself, but he was still carrying with him the stress of what had happened in Ilirea, and the memory of the black-clad man appearing over his bed, blood spraying on his neck, the terrible choking sound of a death rattle. Somehow that made the foreboding for what was to come even worse.

When they finally set down in a quiet clearing amidst a cluster of flameless lights, Murtagh was actually glad to get his feet onto the solid earth. Usually he loved flying with Thorn and could spend hours in the sky with no complaints, but the magic in the air was getting to him, and he was trying to anchor himself to the firmness of the ground, and steady his thoughts by connecting them to Thorn.

This whole place is ancient many times over, Thorn thought, not seeming to be as unnerved as Murtagh, but sniffing the air curiously.

Vanir dismounted a little shakily and straightened out his tunic, as Murtagh saw a small figure making its way across the dew-dropped grass. He was readying himself to meet the first elf in Ellesmera, and expecting some tension, but as the figure came closer he recognized the familiar shape of her face and the gentle braid in her hair, and his heart relaxed.

“Hello, darling,” Selena said as she reached her arms up and embraced Murtagh.

“Hello, mother,” He said through a smile, surprised that she was the one who had come to greet him. He’d expected some stuffy formalities with strangers who didn’t like him very much, so this was a welcome relief.

“I hope you didn’t lose sleep because of me,” He worried, as Selena stepped over to Thorn and patted his snout.

“Hello, dear,” She said as Thorn hummed. 

Well met again Mother-Selena.

“Don’t fret, darling, I am always up before the sun,” Selena said to Murtagh, before she bowed to Vanir and gave him the traditional greeting of the elves, which he returned.

“Thank you for guiding my boys safely here,” She said to Vanir, “I trust the journey was uneventful?”

“Yes, milady,” Vanir offered, “And I shall turn them over to your capable hands, if you please.”

“Thank you, Vanir.”

Vanir gave Murtagh a friendly nod, before loping across the grass towards a hidden path. Selena then quickly hooked her arm through Murtagh’s and said.

“Come, I’ll take you to where you’ll be staying.”

“How did you know we’d arrived?” Murtagh asked as they strolled across the quiet glade towards a wider woodland path.

“Arya told me; she felt you pass the boundary of the city—some sort of magic ward.”

Murtagh nodded, unsurprised. He imagined the elves still maintained many layers of protection around their lands, even after the war.

Selena led him on a dirt path that was cleared wide enough for Thorn to comfortably pass through. It wound under the boughs of mountain ash trees, whose limbs were laden with shades of green. 

The whole place felt like magic, and smelled like damp earth, and Murtagh might’ve found it a beautiful, relaxing place to camp, but even as he walked arm in arm with his mother, he couldn’t quite get himself to relax. 

Selena led him through the winding path, softly pointing out the different clearings and avenues, a few structures hidden within the woods, hard to see until you stood still and looked at them closely. 

Murtagh was uneasy about the prospect of seeing one of the elves along the path as the soft light of the morning began to filter through the trees; he figured that it wouldn’t go well if he were to run into one of them unexpectedly. 

Arya had promised to manage his introduction to Ellesmera diplomatically, to make things go as smoothly as possible, but he had his doubts. She insisted that most of the elves were not averse to the idea of Murtagh’s presence in their city, but from what Eragon had told him and from what he’d seen of his friends on Mt. Argnor, elves could hold their feelings deep and strong. Just because you couldn’t see their anger didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

“Have you made any friends here?” Murtagh asked, to distract himself as Thorn stopped to sniff the sap of an old, gray tree whose roots curled along the path. Selena smiled softly.

“I don’t know if ‘friends’ is the right word,” She offered, “I’ve certainly become friend ly with some particular of the Fair Folk. I think they see me as a sort of pet.”

She gave Murtagh an amused look, and he snorted. 

“Arya is lovely, of course, and Firnen. And Vanir can be a bit vain amongst others, but when he doesn’t have anyone around to impress he is pleasant enough. There’s a pair called Adare and Nithaniel, and they seem to find my company amusing. They’re wonderful musicians—I hope you’ll be able to hear the music during your visit; it’s like nothing you’ve ever heard.”

Murtagh nodded; he’d had a glimpse of Elven music from the company at Mt. Argnor, but the elves who worked at the academy always prefaced their performances by saying that it was nothing like the beauty of the music under the boughs of the Great Wood. Murtagh had always thought they were putting on airs of modesty, but perhaps they meant it sincerely; he supposed he might find out.

Selena’s smile was soft and their gait together easy, but Murtagh noticed her shoulders fall a little, and her face became melancholy.

“There is, um… someone else with whom I’ve become acquainted, so much as he’ll let me,” She said softly, looking down at her feet as they stepped over the gentle pine duff.

“I suppose Eragon might have told you about him—your cousin’s father-in-law,” She said, glancing to Murtagh, whose brow creased. 

He remembered the tale—Eragon had told him of Sloan’s fate, and the choice he had made regarding the old man’s punishment for his evils during the war. It had never quite sat well with Murtagh, though, keeping the knowledge from Roran and Katrina. It would be generous to say that Murtagh had a complicated relationship with his father—or the memory of his father—but even he would want to know the truth of Morzan’s fate.

“Aye,” He said quietly, “You’ve met him, then?”

Selena nodded.

“I visit him, sometimes. He prefers to be alone but I inflict my company on him from time to time… try and find something worthwhile to speak on.” 

Selena sighed heavily.

“We knew each other as children, in the village of course. I was dear friends with his wife, Katrina’s mother. I thought perhaps we could be a comfort to each other, here in this… strange place.”

She looked around at the hanging bows, a grouse fluttering across their view and disappearing into the brush.

“But he’s a very sad man, and that’s made him angry. And he isn’t quite willing to let go of either the sadness or the anger, so of course he keeps getting sadder, and angrier.” 

Selena took a breath, and put her smile back on.

“But we do our best, don’t we? Even with the people it’s hardest to love.”

Murtagh nodded, and felt a surge of gratefulness as he looked down into his mother’s shining eyes. Fate had done him wrong many times, but there were a few miracles that it had blessed him with, and she was one—to have her returned to him after so long, and to be able to know her in a time of peace, when she had put her demons down and had only love to give. Murtagh knew he didn’t deserve it, but he hoped he could be worthy of it.

He was almost disappointed when the large path opened up into a clearing that held a few giant spruces, in whose bows were built sturdy wooden houses with wide openings, all looking shuddered, but well cared for.

“Well here we are,” Selena said with a breathy sigh, as Murtagh’s eyes roamed the intricate structures, amazed by their craftsmanship.

 “Arya tells me this was where the Dragon Riders used to live, when they were in Ellesmera. She says you and Thorn can take any dwelling you like.”

She pointed to the far end of the clearing, one of the tallest trees and the largest dwelling.

“She said Eragon stayed there in that house, while he was training,” Selena offered, and immediately Murtagh knew he would not be using that one. Instead Thorn picked the tree that he liked the most for the shape of its balcony, where he could easily land and would curl up to sleep. 

Murtagh climbed a winding wooden staircase up the trunk into the dwelling, which had the air of stillness and disuse, like the dust had not been disturbed for some time. Selena followed after him slowly, and began puttering around the room, opening the curtains and turning the water spigot—a feature which Eragon had recounted to Murtagh several times, still amazed that water could somehow be brought directly into the washbasin from the nearby stream. 

Thorn shuffled around the balcony and stuck his head inside—there was a cushion in the room large enough for a dragon to rest in, but it was tucked in the far corner, loomed over by dark wooden walls, and Murtagh knew Thorn wouldn’t like being so enclosed.

“I’m sure the elves will be happy to build you a bed on the balcony,” Selena offered, but Thorn shuffled forward a bit more, fitting his large head into the space.

No need, He said, and he grabbed the edge of the cushion with his teeth, and dragged it across the floor, carefully not to bite too hard and tear it. Murtagh quickly shuffled out of the way as Thorn squeezed the cushion around the bed and pushed it into place on the balcony, prodding it with his snout to arrange the stuffing. 

Better, He concluded, curling up onto it, and Murtagh shook his head with a smile.

Selena stayed with them for a little while more, but, as she said,

“You’ve been up all night and you look like it. Get some rest—I believe there’s to be an official welcome banquet this evening, but Arya wanted you to get settled in before all the fuss and bother.”

She reached for a pouch that hung from her belt.

“And here, some food to tide you over; nothing much by the elves’ standards, but that’s practically a feast in most parts of the world.”

Murtagh took the satchel of dried fruits and nuts thankfully.

“Thorn, I’m sorry I don’t have anything for you. Arya said you are free to hunt anywhere outside the city.”

I am content to wait, Mother–Selena, Thorn demurred, From what Friend-Saphira says, the feasts of the elves should be approached with a well-emptied stomach.

Selena beamed.

“Wise, to delay the pleasure of a good meal, and therefore increase it.”

Thorn hummed.

“Thank you, mother,” Murtagh said, as Selena turned back to him, leaning up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. 

She held her hands on his face for a moment, and her eyes were searching him, seeming to see the tension lying just below the surface, the exhaustion that wasn’t just from a lack of sleep.

“It’ll be alright, love,” She murmured, her thumb gently brushing across his cheekbone, “Don’t dwell too much on the worst that could happen—it isn’t likely to. And he who dwells in worry of some great calamity—even if it should come to be—gains nothing except to suffer twice.”

Murtagh smiled tiredly.

“Learning poetry from the elves?” He asked.

Selena winked.

“That would be Thorn, actually,” She offered, gesturing with her head to Thorn, who had made himself comfortable on the outside cushion, and hummed in agreement. “Listen to him, he’s a smart one.”

She patted Murtagh’s cheek and shuffled away towards the staircase, disappearing back to the forest floor with a wave, and promising to see him later that day.

***

Murtagh nibbled on the nuts and fruit, and it was enough to quell the dull ache in his stomach, but he had very little appetite. Despite his mother’s admonition, he couldn’t quite bring himself to set aside the worry flurrying about his head. About Nasuada, about the elves, about the new dragon rider… his mind couldn’t seem to decide which issue was the most worrisome, and so they all sort of took turns coming to the forefront and plaguing him with disastrous scenarios.

He sat on the very comfortable bed and tried to meditate, to silence the voices that were clamoring for his attention, but this only succeeded in making him drowsy. He didn’t remember falling asleep, but suddenly he found himself lying next to Nasuada in the little cottage up the mountain from the academy. 

It was light and sunny, and he had his ear against the pillow, staring at Nasuada’s waves of curly hair, her face turned away from him and her bare shoulders rising with steady breaths.

He was content to just lay there for a moment, watching her sleep, but something told him that they were late, and they had to arise, and that Farica would find them if they didn’t get up. 

Nasuada? It’s morning, He said, and he reached a hand out to touch her shoulder gently. 

No sooner had his finger made contact with her skin, then she was whipping around, and suddenly it wasn’t her face, but the assassin’s, and she was lunging for him, and he cried out as he rolled away and hands grappled for his throat.

Suddenly he was falling, and he’d landed on the broken fragments of a nightstand table, and the black-clothed man was on top of him, strangling him as he flailed and searched in the rubble for a weapon. He grasped one of the shards of glass as blue sparks danced in his vision, and he heard a terrible, familiar voice saying,

Submit, submit, Murtagh, and all this will be over.

He gripped the shard so hard that his own hand started bleeding, but with a great choked yell he swung his arm towards the killer’s neck, and plunged the mirror shard into his flesh. Blood spurted from the assassin’s neck onto his own face, but he quickly rolled over so he was on top.

With a feral yell Murtagh lifted the shard again and plunged it in a second time, and he raised his eyes to watch the life drain out of this man—who had taken his wife from him—but suddenly he wasn’t looking at the assassin, he was looking at Nasuada, and her eyes were wide with fear as her lips became coated with her own blood.

It’s me… She choked, reaching out a tremulous, blood-soaked finger to touch his face, It’s me, Murtagh.

Murtagh felt a lurch of horror as he looked down to his hand, which held the glass shard, now buried in Nasuada’s neck as she bled out on the floor of her chambers.

He heard his breath and heartbeats echoing in his head and the world moved with horrible slowness as he jerked his hand away from the weapon, looking back to the face of his wife, as her eyes slowly flickered into nothingness.

It’s me… She rattled, her hand staining his cheek red.

Murtagh stumbled back with a horrified groan, and suddenly he tripped, and began to fall into a blank darkness, tumbling through the air, his screams echoing through the cavernous void as Nasuada’s voice said,

It’s me.

***

He lurched awake, fully clothed and boots on, hearing his own shout echo off the walls as he abruptly came back to consciousness. 

“Murtagh,” A voice said as he gasped, and he turned his bewildered gaze to see Arya, standing in the light of the opening, still and calm.

He was blinking the confusion from his mind, his heart hammering.

Arya? What’s she doing in Nasuada’s chambers?

“It’s me, it’s Arya,” She confirmed, as Murtagh’s breathing gradually slowed, and the room came into focus.

Treehouse. Elves. Ellesmera. She’s not here.

Murtagh looked back at the bed, as though to convince himself that Nasuada’s corpse was not lying there on the soft sheets.

“You’re in Ellesmera, in the dragon rider dwellings,” Arya reminded, just as everything settled back into place and Murtagh was able to separate his dream from reality. 

He nodded, catching his breath.

“Yeah,” He agreed.

“Sorry, Thorn said I could come up,” Arya gestured.

I tried to wake you gently, but you were deep in your dreams, Thorn said apologetically as Murtagh sniffed and shook off the fogginess.

It’s alright. Nothing new.

It was new—sort of. He’d had a hundred nightmares about Nasuada getting hurt, or him hurting someone he loved, but the man in black was a new character in his dark dreams, a new villain to play out his deepest fears. And of course there was always Galbatorix, lingering in the shadows, ready to descend if Murtagh ever closed his eyes carelessly.  

He had learned to control his nightmares rather well over the years, finding small habits or practices that would usually keep the darkest of dreams at bay, like connecting his mind to Thorn’s as he fell asleep, or focusing on a simple poem or song, or–strangely enough—drinking a very cold glass of water. But it wasn’t a perfect method, and today he had been too frayed and exhausted to even realize he had fallen asleep, so his mind had played its best tricks as he slept for who-knew how long.

“Sorry,” He said to Arya, pushing off the bed, boots still on and sword still strapped to his belt. He cleared his throat.

“Uh, hello, um…” He twisted his hand over his chest and performed the elvish greeting. Arya returned it with a bit of an amused smile at the unnecessary formality.

“I take it the journey was long,” Arya offered, and Murtagh nodded, running his hand through his hair, still collecting himself.

“I can leave you to rest for a while more, if you prefer,” Arya offered, but Murtagh shook his head immediately.

“No, it… wouldn’t help,” He concluded, and he received a sympathetic nod from her.

“Well, we came by to greet you, and to bring you and Thorn to our home if you would, to break our fast properly, and have some time with Kellan and Tilyah before the banquet tonight.”

Immediately Murtagh’s worries about his dreams were replaced by the anxiety surrounding the new dragon rider, whose acceptance or rejection of him could determine how the next dozen or so years at the academy went. He nodded, though, and followed Arya down the winding stair to the grass below, while Thorn floated down from the balcony.

“Well-met, Firnen,” Murtagh said with a nod to the green dragon.

Mmm welcome, Murtagh-Brother-Eragon, I hope you had good winds on your journey.

“We did, thank you,” Murtagh said, climbing up onto Thorn’s back as Arya climbed onto Firnen. 

Did you say hello? Murtagh asked Thorn, just between the two of them. Thorn and Firnen were cordial, but they had always had a bit of a rivalry between them, which Murtagh and Arya mostly let them deal out themselves; they weren’t inclined to get between two bickering dragons.

I gave the appropriate greeting, Thorn said with a sniff, lifting his head as Firnen prepared to take off.

He said I looked as well as I ever did, and I told him I was honored to visit his beautiful home.

Is that all? Murtagh questioned, suspicious of the tone in Thorn’s thoughts.

Well, if you wish to be precise, Thorn said cheekily, I told him that the green of the ancient trees was even more brilliant than the green of his scales, and it must be humbling to be surrounded by such beauty.

Murtagh rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help but smirk as Thorn took off from the ground and followed Firnen’s path through the sky, angling away from the sunrise.

The flight was not long, which Murtagh was thankful for, as he couldn’t enjoy it properly with the underlying tension of his nerves, and the lingering echoes of his nightmare. 

It wasn’t long before the shape of the forest ahead changed, and Murtagh could see sharp cliffs rising above the green canopy, their white rocks standing out starkly amid all the green.

He shifted in Thorn’s saddle as they descended, and the shape of a small hut made itself visible through the leaves. Firnen made a wide circle around a clearing at the edge of the white cliffs, and flared out his wings, Thorn following suit. They landed in the quiet clearing and scared a wood grouse out of the bushes by the hut, whose chimney had soft wisps of smoke rising from it. 

Murtagh tried to steady his breaths, but his heart was pounding in his chest as his eyes took in the quiet clearing, which somehow felt familiar even though he’d never set foot there before.

 Arya slid off of Firnen’s back and landed deftly on the soft earth, taking a refreshing breath of the moist air and gesturing to the clearing.

“Welcome to our home,” She said calmly, “The Crags of Tel’naeir.”

The words echoed in Murtagh’s head, as he understood the ground on which Thorn had landed, and the significance of it. He tried to force himself to dismount, to set foot in this place, to come face to face with the memory that was Oromis and Glaedr’s home for the better part of a century, but he suddenly felt hesitant.

He felt Thorn’s own uncertain feelings mixing with his own, and had only just worked up the courage to swing his leg out of the saddle, when he heard the familiar sound of dragon-wings in the air, and he looked up.

Squinting towards the new-risen sun, he watched over the pines as the sparkling shape of a small, rose-colored dragon flew into view, her wings beating a calm rhythm and stirring the air. 

On her back rode the dark shape of a human boy. 

Murtagh was frozen as they floated in to land, and the boy—no older than thirteen—slid easily off the dragon’s back.

He was garbed in elven clothes and had a solemnity to him, but he still carried himself with the lanky awkwardness of most human adolescents. His hair was a sandy brown, and he had a soft face, but his gaze was now wide and unsure, seeming unable to decide whether he wanted to look Murtagh in the eyes or keep his own pinned to the ground. 

Murtagh was equally unsure, heat flushing his numb skin as Arya’s voice said between them,

“Master Murtagh and Master Thorn, may I present Tilyah Salahsdaughter, and her rider Kellan, Son of Aberfell.”

Chapter Text

Murtagh felt for a moment like a spell had frozen him in place, like someone had set off an explosion next to his head. 

There was a ringing in his ears, and a hundred flickering images, memories all flooding him in one great wave, as he stared down at the earnest-faced boy, whose features he now recognized.

Shame what happened to him, Aberfell’s voice said in the distant past, his eyes crinkling with a sad smile, He was a good man.

Those words, spoken of Tornac, spoken in kindness to Murtagh, had caused Aberfell’s death. One of only a few people who had been friendly to Murtagh in Uru’baen, Aberfell had been truly concerned with Murtagh’s well-being, and not just what he could do for him.

You may kill him, The King’s voice had drawled casually, sealing the young man’s fate.

Now to Murtagh’s mind came unbidden the terrible images from that day in the courtyard, when he’d defeated Aberfell in a display of swordsmanship, and the king had ordered his doom. Aberfell had knelt before him, painfully understanding, his kind face not marred by hatred for what Murtagh was about to steal from him. His life. His dreams. His time with his family.

It’s alright, Aberfell had said, resigned.

And in the corner, a woman had clutched her son’s head to her torso, hiding his eyes from what was about to happen, so he would not live with the memory of watching his father die. That same boy now stood before Murtagh, reflecting back his father’s eyes, and Murtagh was speechless.

Of all the many deaths he was responsible for, of all the people whose lives he had cut short, he hadn’t expected this. He felt Thorn’s surprise and grief mingling with his own, and they were paralyzed.

There was silence in the clearing as Murtagh stared, his ears ringing. He was still sitting atop Thorn, frozen in the moment, as the young boy shifted his gaze to Arya and back, unsure. 

Before Thorn or Murtagh could recover themselves and say something, the boy seemed to decided that he was supposed to speak, and, with a unsure stutter, he twisted his hand over his sternum in the Elves’ traditional greeting.

“A–atra estern—”

“No,” Murtagh blurted out, interrupting the boy, who blinked in surprise. Murtagh finally managed to get his limbs to move, jerkily and uncertain, and he dismounted.

“N–you don’t….” Murtagh started, swallowing tightly, “I’m not an elf,” He concluded limply.

In truth, he had to stop the boy, because he could not bear to watch Aberfell’s son bow to him and give him a greeting of respect. How could he let that happen? It would be shameful.

“I…” Murtagh started, blinking too much, trying to get his jumbled thoughts back in order. Kellan looked confused, like he had done something wrong.

He thinks you’re angry with him, you’re making it worse. Say something useful, Murtagh thought frantically, but his mouth was dry and no words came to mind.

He looked to Arya for help, but she seemed to be watching the scene unfold with careful stillness, unwilling to step in, waiting for the two of them to deal this out together. Thankfully, Thorn recovered his wits before Murtagh, and he drew Kellan’s attention away as he brought his head low towards the young rider and his dragon.

Well-met, Kellan-Son-Aberfell, Thorn murmured with a low melancholy. Kellan shifted, as he felt the press of Thorn’s mind for the first time. 

And well-met, Tilyah-Sky-Scales, truly your color is that of a new-risen day, a fine fit among the company of Winged–Ones.

The rose-pink dragon blinked and ducked her neck a bit, as Thorn sent a mental image of a sunrise, the sky brushed a beautiful pink. Murtagh felt the touch of the dragon’s mind, which was like a soft breeze rippling through a light-filled forest. 

Thank you, Thorn-Ruby-Scales, She murmured with a blink. 

Thorn had bought him a few seconds to get himself composed after the sudden shock, and with a tight breath Murtagh forced himself to look at Kellan again.

“The two of you fly well together,” He complimented, knowing that it often took a while for dragon and rider to move smoothly in the sky. Kellan looked like he couldn’t meet Murtagh’s eyes for more than a few seconds.

“Th–thank you, master,” He said, and Murtagh felt a tight twist. 

The boy was being stunningly polite, calm, and respectful; Murtagh had expected glares and cursing and sullenness. He wasn’t sure this was better; he didn’t know what to do with it—with reserved deference—he wanted Kellan to shout at him, to stamp his feet and fling insults, then they could get it out and get it over with. But the boy was strikingly composed for someone so young, facing something so complicated. Murtagh wasn’t sure if he should bring it up first, or wait for Kellan to say something, but he was spared the decision when Arya finally said,

“Kellan, perhaps you can show Murtagh the Crags. He has not visited the stream or the glades before. And I’m sure, Tilyah, that Thorn would like to be shown the valley. Firnen can join you.”

Kellan nodded, and Murtagh tried to get himself to take a full breath, reorganizing his thoughts, coming back to his body after going numb for a few moments. Arya gave Murtagh a bolstering look, as Kellan looked at his dragon, something silently passing between them, before he hesitatingly turned towards a wooded path.

Remember, Thorn said softly as he turned to follow Firnen to the edge of the crags, You are both riders; you have that much in common.

Murtagh nodded only slightly, following Kellan as he ducked into the shadows of the trees, away from the clearing where Arya slipped into the small hut. 

They walked in silence for a while, the sounds of the forest filling the air around them; it was lighter in this part of the woods, so close to the cliff-face which allowed the sun to filter in through the trees more freely than in the dense dells.

Murtagh walked slightly behind Kellan, who couldn’t seem to decide whether to stroll briskly or to slow down. The boy was not looking at him, but somehow Murtagh felt all Kellan’s energy focused on him, like he was staring at him through the back of his head.

Murtagh took deep breaths to keep himself calm, and tried to organize his thoughts. Here they were, in Ellesmera, alone, and they had come to it. Aberfell’s death lay between them like a smoldering fire, and they would have to talk it out, as Eragon said, before either of them could move on.

Most of all, Murtagh wanted Kellan to feel safe —like he could express whatever it was he wanted to express, without fear of reprimand. So Murtagh tried to channel the teaching of the Eldunari, who always seemed to be able to handle even the strongest of emotions, and return with fitting wisdom. 

You are a master dragon rider, He reminded himself, You have to show him he can trust you. You have to make the first move.

“How have you found Ellesmera?” Murtagh asked, deciding it was a safe enough topic, and one that the two of them could relate on. Kellan glanced his way nervously as they walked.

“The elves are… very nice to me,” He said, his lanky legs tripping a bit on the roots. Despite his unnerved state, Murtagh could spot an evasion when he heard one. Kellan was being polite.

“They can be a bit much,” Murtagh offered, and Kellan looked his way, first surprised, then a little relieved. He nodded a bit bashfully.

“Um…. yes, a bit much,” He agreed, “Lots of rules that seem… well, a little silly to me; and some of them can be… intense.”

He glanced at Murtagh, as if checking that it was okay to voice his criticisms.

“But they’ve given me and Tilyah everything we need,” He clarified quickly, “And–and we’ve learned a lot, and they always help me when I get lost.” 

He nodded his conclusion, as though determined to say more positive than negative things about his hosts. Murtagh took note of it, and appreciated the instinct.

“Master Arya says this is your first time here too,” Kellan offered after a moment, likely hoping to steer away from the topic of Elves and their eccentricities.

Murtagh nodded.

“Aye.”

“Why didn’t you ever visit before? I mean–um–with Master Eragon or the others.”

Murtagh paused a moment before he spoke, ducking under a low-hanging pine bow, whose tresses were interwoven with glistening spiderwebs. 

He was reluctant to go into that painful territory, but there was nothing for it, he just had to get it out.

“...Master Arya has taught you about Master Oromis and Master Glaedr? Who used to live on the Crags?” He asked, and Kellan nodded, his eyes blinking widely.

“Well… during the war I was enslaved to the Usurper King,” Murtagh said matter-of-factly, keeping his eyes ahead and his voice even, “And he used me and Thorn to end their lives.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh saw a wince pass Kellan’s face, as though the boy had not realized where his question would lead. No doubt Arya had told him about the Rider War, and about Murtagh’s role in it, but he had failed to connect Ellesmera to Oromis and Glaedr’s death.

“The elves were wounded by their loss, of course,” Murtagh continued stalwartly, “And many of them were angry with me, as was their right. So out of respect I have stayed away from here, to give them time to grieve.”

Kellan’s lips were tight, and Murtagh could see him thinking hard.

“But you…” He hesitated, “I mean, M–Master Arya said that… that Galbatorix took over your mind, that–that he killed Oromis, and you didn’t have any choice.”

Murtagh nodded.

“That is true,” He concurred, “But it was still my hand, my sword.”

He gestured to Zar’roc, and saw Kellan’s glance.

“It is understandable,” Murtagh said meaningfully, “That Oromis’ friends would wish to keep away from me, or maybe harbor resentment towards me. It may be that seeing Thorn and I brings up bad feelings for them, and those feelings are legitimate. I do not fault them for that.”

Kellan’s eyes flickered, and he looked down.

“But… they’ve forgiven you now?” He asked, looking ahead on the path instead of at Murtagh. Murtagh took a breath.

“Well. Master Arya has, and many of our friends at Mt. Argnor,” Murtagh said with a sigh, “Of the others, I do not know yet. But Master Arya says that now is a good time for me to come here, and to give those Elves who wish to confront me about their feelings a chance to do so. And I trust her judgment.”

They crunched over last year’s layer of leaves, and Murtagh heard the bubble of a stream growing closer.

“Did you—I mean… do you remember what it was like? Fighting M–Master Oromis?” Kellan asked, as the path opened up onto a small clearing which sloped down towards a gentle riverbank, clear water bubbling past and wildflowers beginning to peek up over the green grasses.

“You mean do I remember killing him?” Murtagh asked, and Kellan nodded nervously.

“No,” He said softly, “Not exactly. I have glimpses, impressions… and Thorn has shown me his memories. But I was not there in those moments; it was like I was asleep.”

They were standing on the edge of the bank now, watching the water go by, near to a row of three stumps that seemed to be worn from many years of being used as seats. No doubt this was where Arya had the students work on their meditation.

They were both silent for a moment, listening to the sounds of the forest glade.

“And… was it like that… with my father?” Kellan asked, his hesitant voice mixing with the noise of the stream, “Did the King… take over your mind then too?”

 Murtagh took a long breath, squinting as the sun sparkled off the small waves.

“No,” He said finally, “I was awake, when I killed him.” 

He wanted to say ‘when he died’ or ‘when he lost his life’—that would’ve felt kinder, that blow might’ve landed softer. But it wasn’t the truth, and he owed Kellan total honesty. 

He waited for the anger to come, but instead Kellan just watched a bird flutter over their heads. His small face full of heavy thoughts.

“My mum always told me it wasn’t your fault what happened,” He said quietly after a moment, “So I guess I thought… maybe it was the same as with Master Oromis. That the King made you do it.”

Murtagh blinked, feeling a sudden heat behind his eyes, a wonder at this woman he hardly knew, who had watched him kill her husband, and who had later apparently defended him to her orphaned son. He had not expected this, and it took him a moment to stifle the pain that it brought up.

“The King did make me do it,” Murtagh managed to say finally, seeing that Kellan’s statement had become a question, “But not by taking over my body.”

Murtagh held his hands behind his back, breathing carefully to stay calm and keep his voice even. 

“He owned me,” He explained, “And I had to do whatever he said. Your father was a friend to me, and he was kind when many others weren’t. The King knew that, and he didn’t like it. He wanted me to feel completely alone, which is why he made me do what I did.”

Murtagh forced himself to look down at the boy’s face.

“I would’ve given anything not to hurt your father.”

Kellan’s brow creased, and his mouth twisted a bit as he looked down at the moist dirt beneath their feet. He seemed to hesitate a moment, before saying,

“I guess I always thought… or I always wondered if maybe…” Kellan shifted, “If maybe you could’ve said no? If maybe you could’ve tried not to, and the king might’ve… changed his mind...”

Murtagh grimaced, hearing just how young Kellan was, the weak hopefulness in his voice, even all these years later, when his father had been gone for half his life.

The truth was, if Murtagh had said no, then Galbatorix would have killed not only Aberfell, but his wife and Kellan as well. That was a lesson Murtagh had been taught early on, and it was why he had obeyed the first time when Galbatorix had demanded he kill the swordsman. 

But telling Kellan that would be cruel—the boy deserved the truth, but that truth was one that would haunt him for the rest of his life: that his father had died to save him. Murtagh knew he couldn’t lay the blame at Kellan’s feet, so he chose a different truth instead.

“I assume Master Arya has taught you about True Names?” He said, and Kellan nodded seriously.

“But I don’t know mine yet, or Tilyah,” He clarified.

“That’s okay. It takes time,” Murtagh assured. “But Galbatorix knew mine, and Thorn’s—and he used them to make us his slaves. When he gave us an order, we had to obey. If I had tried to fight it that day… he would have hurt your father much worse.”

Murtagh hoped that was enough of an answer to settle the questions in Kellan’s heart, without being cruel to his memory of his father. The boy puzzled for a moment, his head down.

Then he nodded.

“Yeah, I figured,” He said, trying to sound like he didn’t really care.

“It’s okay if you’re angry with me, Kellan,” Murtagh said softly, under the sound of the river, “I took something precious from you, and it’s your right to hate me for it. And if you and Tilyah don’t want to train with me, then we can work around it. You can learn from Master Eragon and Master Arya; Thorn and I won’t force you to let us be your teachers.”

Kellan sniffed, scuffing his boot in the mud. Murtagh watched him carefully, waiting for the verdict, waiting to see what he would choose. After a long moment he spoke.

“When I was little,” Kellan started thoughtfully, “I sort of thought that maybe once I got big I should challenge you to a duel or something, t–to avenge my father’s name.” 

He spoke matter-of-factly.

“That’s what my friends said you ought to do, if somebody killed your father. That’s what the heroes do in the old stories, anyway.”

Kellan gave an apologetic shrug.

“But my mum said that would be crazy, because you’re a dragon rider, and even if I got, like, really big and good at fighting like my dad… that I probably couldn’t beat you anyway…” 

Kellan swallowed, frowning down.

 “But sometimes I wanted to. It seemed like… maybe that would make it feel better.”

Murtagh nodded, understanding. Vengeance had a quiet allure that tugged at the soul, promising to fill in all the emptiness and silence any pain—a promise which, he knew personally, it never fulfilled.

“I guess I stopped thinking that when I got older, though,” Kellan shrugged, as if he were a wizened old man and not a boy barely into adolescence, “Because if everybody who’s ever had somebody killed goes and kills the person who killed their person… then nobody would be alive for long, and everybody would be killers.”

He shrugged again.

“And I guess I thought that if you ever had a son, I wouldn’t want him to feel like I felt.”

Kellan lifted his eyes to Murtagh with a simple, frank look, not quite realizing the impact his words were having, the way tears were pricking at Murtagh’s eyes from the boy’s unexpected, undeserved compassion.

Kellan spoke quickly and frankly, with the open honesty that only children had.

“And Tilyah says that if the King really is the one who made you hurt my dad, then I should get my vengeance on him ; except you already got my vengeance on him for me. So she said if my dad was really your friend, and you really didn’t mean to hurt him,” Kellan concluded, “Then… then maybe it would be okay for me to be your friend too; if you want to be.”

Kellan was blinking up at Murtagh with an expectant look, his eyes reflecting the open and trusting nature that Murtagh remembered receiving from the boy’s father—the attitude that said, I’ll choose to believe the best of you.

Murtagh grimaced, his heart hot and his throat tight.

“I’d… I’d be honored,” He said at last, with a tearful smile. 

Kellan nodded, seeming like he had accomplished a task, and was trying to appear grown-up and official.

“Well, alright,” He decided, then seemed to remember something, and he cleared his throat, sticking out his hand for Murtagh to shake, as though they were brokering a deal of friendship.

“Alright,” Murtagh agreed, shaking Kellan’s hand in return, and wondering when fate had decided to start being kind to him.

***

For the rest of that day, Murtagh was too relieved by Kellan’s calm reaction and seeming acceptance of him to worry about the possible animosity of the elves, or Nasuada’s conflict with the dwarves. He was walking around in a sort of surprised haze, following Kellan as the boy showed him everything he had learned so far in Ellesmera.

Somehow the boy seemed eager for Murtagh to think highly of him, rather than hateful and suspicious towards him. His formal, reserved affect had given way to a nervous eagerness, as though the agreement they had reached by the stream had given Kellan permission to be exuberant. 

He matched Rhiannath in his ability to chatter, and Tilyah, when she was around him, seemed even more excited than he was to demonstrate to Murtagh and Thorn what they had learned together.

It was exhausting in a way Murtagh had not expected, but the afternoon passed quickly because of it, and soon Arya told Kellan it was time to meditate, and then prepare to attend the welcome banquet.

The boy gave Arya a serious bow, and said,

“Yes, master,” As Tilyah followed suit.

It felt like a rush of wind had passed through when he was finally gone, and Arya and Murtagh were left alone for a moment. Arya welcomed Murtagh into the small, comfortable hut, and laid out plates of fresh-stewed vegetables and warm bread.

 The place felt warm and lived-in, full of life just as much as memories. Murtagh tried to imagine Oromis living here, passing the long years with his partner, living with the pain of the past, but still surrounded by beauty and life. It was a painful place to be, but somehow also comforting, like there were still traces of the old rider in the world, and his memory lived on.

“I did not realize that you had known Kellan’s father personally,” Arya said softly as she poured a small bit of faelnirv for him, “I assumed he was simply a casualty of the war, otherwise I would have given you some advanced warning.”

Murtagh nodded.

“It’s alright. I guess he didn’t quite know how to tell you.”

Arya’s green eyes watched him for a moment, and then she nodded.

“He seems to be reacting well enough, anyway.”

Murtagh swallowed, looking through the small, round window onto a wooded cliffside.

“I think I owe that to his mother,” He mused, taking a sip of the elves’ nectar and feeling his tired limbs rejuvenated, “It seems she didn’t teach him to think of me as a monster, and I suppose he listened.”

Murtagh twisted a piece of fruit between his hands—thinking, remembering the brave woman, the way she had looked at him that day in the courtyard, when her husband lay dead at his feet, like the two of them had become players in a tragic performance, left standing after the great speeches had ended and death had claimed his victims. 

How had she known? How had she seen through her own grief in that moment to understand Murtagh’s situation? To understand why he had done what he had done?

“She must be a wise woman, to have such compassion,” Arya complimented.

“More compassion than I could ask for, or deserve,” Murtagh concluded with a murmur. 

Though he understood that he could not have prevented Aberfell’s death, the swordmaster’s wife had every right to hate him for what he’d done, and had chosen not to. It gave him hope for his race, to know that some humans were capable of such forgiveness.

“The purest compassion is that which is undeserved and unasked for,” Arya offered, “But as usual I think you underestimate your own worthiness. I did not know him, but from what you have said, I believe your friend knew that; and perhaps his wife honors him by forgiving you.”

Murtagh met Arya’s calm gaze, letting her soft assurances pass over him. The two of them had developed an honest friendship, and though they saw each other as equals, there were times when her long years of life gave her a perspective that neither Eragon or Nasuada could offer. Murtagh did not argue with her assessment, and chose to simply be thankful for Kellan’s grace, and to repay the boy by training him to be a good rider, as well as a great one.

Chapter Text

As dusk fell around the forest and the lights began to glow again, Murtagh and Thorn returned to their little treetop dwelling to ready themselves for the evening banquet. Murtagh climbed the spiral stairs and found a set of clothes laid out on the bed for him, of elven make and style.

He considered the articles of clothing for a while, but when he put them on they did not seem to suit him. This was not because they weren’t the right size—they were remarkably well-fitting—but because he did not like the feeling of having strangers dictate what he wore, even if it was meant kindly. 

He decided to wear his own clothes, cleaning them with magic a bit so he did not look worn from the road, and donning the boots and the belt that had been offered, so that he would not offend his hosts.

He was filled with indecision, as he waited on the balcony with Thorn, as to whether or not he should bring Zar’roc along. He thought Arya would say it was his choice, but he was all too aware that it was a sword with a terrible history even before it had fallen into his hands, and he had done his own share of terrible deeds with it—including killing Oromis. But it now also contained the white dwarf gem, twisted into its cross-guard with strands of metal–not beautifully but firmly–and to him the weapon held a different meaning.

In the end he decided to leave it be, because he knew the elves would have mixed reactions to it, and he wasn’t trying to cause any more conflict than was already expected. He regretted not asking Arya for her opinion on the matter, but he felt he had made the right decision when he saw Selena coming down the forest path, dressed in a gentle silver dress, her hair done up nicely and a shawl draping around her shoulders.

He had often sensed that the sword made her uncomfortable—with good reason—so he was glad to leave it behind for her sake.

“You look lovely, mother,” He said with a kiss on her cheek as he stepped off the last wooden stair.

“Ah, it’s easy to look lovely when the finest weavers in the world make your clothes,” She dismissed as she hooked her arm in his, “But you’re kind to say; I think my girlhood self would be green with envy to see all this finery.”

“It suits you.”

“Hhmm; that is what she thought,” Selena said with a doleful glance, “And it brought her much trouble.”

Murtagh said nothing to that, because he could sense that Selena was both making light humor, and being very honest about something very painful. She had a way of doing that, he’d noticed—of bringing up the past almost as an afterthought, mentioning old pains and regrets, but never quite looking at them square on. 

Murtagh had never really tried to push her on these things—to talk about his father’s manipulations and abuse, or about losing Brom, or about the dark deeds she had done and how she’d tried to un-do them. 

He was aware enough to understand that he himself was not good at being honest with his feelings, so he didn’t quite know how to encourage someone else to do it, but he wished Eragon were there to pepper her with questions until she had to open up. It was a skill that was both incredibly useful and incredibly irritating, and one that Murtagh did not share with his brother. Instead he walked quietly with her towards the light and sound of a larger clearing, with Thorn shuffling behind them and listening to the noises of the woods. 

Thankfully, Murtagh was not required to make a formal entrance and greet Queen Arya in front of the eyes of a hundred onlooking Elves; instead he entered the well-lit clearing with his mother at his side, and allowed her to take him around and introduce him to those elves with whom she was friendly. He could see her clever strategy for making the evening a peaceful one: those who were friendly with her — considering she was his mother—were unlikely to be harshly opposed to him. 

He was keenly aware all the while of many eyes on him. Even if there had been no formal announcement, he stuck out in the crowd, and he caught more than a few cold or suspicious glances. 

We are here by the Queen’s invitation, Thorn reminded when he felt Murtagh’s nerves, as they were seating at the banquet tables, and he found himself on Arya’s right hand—a very deliberate statement on her part.

Kellan was on her left, and Selena was next to the boy, making friendly conversation and helping him to feel at ease; Kellan clearly was still unsure when it came to comporting himself in these formal settings, and was full of jitters. 

Arya had placed Murtagh next to an older elf-woman with a long wave of graying hair, who said nothing to him when she sat and dug into the food with a lack of daintiness that surprised him, considering the elves were known for their grace and poise.

Arya stood and made a brief welcome, acknowledging his presence and the imminent departure of Kellan and Tilyah, to begin their training in earnest. The company listened politely and the meal continued without  incident, but Murtagh still could not get a clear picture of how he was being received. Were the elves pleased that he was there? Indifferent? Annoyed? Furious? They hid their emotions far too well, and Murtagh didn’t like not knowing where he stood.

He ate silently as Arya explained the different foods to Kellan, and Thorn enjoyed his own meal, sitting between Firnen and Tilyah on an open patch of grass nearby. Murtagh forced himself to remain calm and focuse on the meal, and was content to listen to the gentle chatter of the company and the soft music which drifted from elven instruments, when suddenly the woman next to him spoke in a gruff voice,

“So where’s your sword?”

Murtagh blinked.

“I’m sorry?”

“No need to apologize, it’s just a question.”

Murtagh frowned a bit, the woman’s dry expression staring back at him blankly.

“I… left it in the dwelling,” He managed, “I didn’t want to cause offense.”

The elf woman snorted.

“You won’t be able to breathe without causing offense to someone in Du Weldenvarden; what’s a sword going to do?”

Murtagh felt Thorn’s curiosity, and he himself was having an inkling of who the cantankerous woman might be, so he said,

“I suppose you’re right. But knowing its history, I thought it best to leave it be, for now.”

“Won’t do much good if there’s an attack.”

Murtagh smiled softly.

“I suppose I’m optimistic that there won’t be one.”

The elf woman cocked an eyebrow at him.

“Everything I’ve heard about you, optimist was on no one’s list,” She said dully.

Murtagh’s lips cracked in a small smile.

“A trait I think we have in common, Rhunon-Elder,” He offered, betting that his guess was right. He was rewarded by the slightest hint of amusement on the ancient elf’s face.

“Learned that cheek from your brother, did you?” She said dryly, taking a large bite of food and staring at the surrounding crowd.

“I’m the eldest between us,” Murtagh countered, “So I’d wager he learned it from me.”

Rhunon’s lips quirked in amusement.

“Well. You certainly share his audacity,” She said, “Didn’t even greet me properly. You know I’ve been around since before your race discovered the wheel. ”

“I figured you would be above such triviliaties,” Murtagh returned with a smile.

“Hmph,” Rhunon returned, taking an unladylike bite of her food and chewing loudly.

“Well,” She said through her chewing, “I suppose the least you can do for your impertinence is to bring yourself and your sword by my forge tomorrow. Let me have a look.”

Murtagh hesitated, his brow knitting, and wondering if the woman’s invitation was a request or a demand.

I do not think it would hurt, Thorn offered, when he sensed Murtagh’s hesitation.

What do you think she wants from me? Murtagh wondered.

From what Brother-Eragon has told us, Rhunon-Elder-Sword-Elf is not a woman of intrigue or subterfuge. Perhaps she simply wants to see how her handiwork has lasted.

Yeah, Murtagh said doubtfully, Or destroy it.

“The polite thing to do when someone invites you to their home is to say yes or no,” Rhunon cut in with a sharp look, “If you’re finished mulling it over with your partner.”

Her eyes flicked to Thorn knowingly, and Thorn blinked back at her from across the clearing, before Murtagh cleared his throat.

“We’d be honored, Rhunon-Elder.”

Rhunon sniffed, and placed her napkin down on the table, pushing her chair back.

“Good. Now I’m off; make sure you tell Arya I made pleasant conversation and had a grand old time. And that she owes me.” 

Murtagh opened his mouth, but before he could think what to say, Rhunon had loped off towards one of the nearby paths, her long arms swinging as she escaped the crowded banquet, leaving Murtagh and Thorn both amused and bewildered.

The rest of the evening proceeded calmly, and those elves who approached Murtagh during the evening were unfailingly polite, some even seemed interested to know about him, and one actually thanked him for his sacrifice. With Thorn they were all reverential, greeting him in their formal way, and lingering near him, asking him about Mt. Argnor, and the wild dragons, and how he found Ellesmera.

Murtagh didn’t mind their clear bias—he was glad that someone appreciated Thorn and made him feel special; the humans in Ilirea tended to approach him with a sort of wary respect, like they thought he might bite their heads off at the slightest misstep, but most the Elves, it seemed, welcomed Thorn as a sign that the dragons were returning, rather than remembering his role in Oromis and Glaedr’s death. Murtagh had no doubt that this was largely due to Arya’s work in influencing her subjects, and he was grateful that she and Firnen were on their side.

Those Elves who did not greet Murtagh or attempt any friendliness simply left him alone; if any of them were resentful or harboring hatred, they did not express it, but quietly left the meal when the appropriate amount of time had passed. Murtagh decided he was more than satisfied with this, having prepared for a much worse reaction. 

The clearing had grown quieter and the music soft, with many elves gathered to listen to several singers, when Selena made her way back over to Murtagh and said,

“I have someone I’d like you to meet,” She hooked her arm in his and he allowed her to lead him to the other side of the clearing, to a spot just outside of the firelight. Kellan and Tilyah were sitting amongst the Elves, listening with rapt faces to the beautiful, lilting voices, and Murtagh was sad to be distracted from the performance, but he was even gladder to spend time with his mother, so he went quietly, while Thorn sat humming and swaying along.

On a tree-grown bench just as the edge of the clearing sat a wiry old man dressed in elven garb, his figure hunched and his shoulders sharp. Unlike most residents of Ellesmera, his clothes seemed ill-fitting, and he did not carry himself with grace or poise. He had a walking stick at his side, leaning against the bench, and he was picking at berries with his juice-stained, wrinkled hands.

“And how are you enjoying the music this evening?” Selena said to the man–for man he was, and not elf, Murtagh realized–as she strolled up. When the old man lifted his eyes, Murtagh blinked, surprised to see vivid, cobalt blue irises shining back at him, ill-fitting on such a ragged person.

“Same I always do,” He muttered, “Which is to say, not very much at all.”

“Only here for the food, then?” Selena countered with a knowing smile. The old man shrugged, chewing on a berry and glancing suspiciously in Murtagh’s direction.

“I came over because I wanted to introduce you to my eldest son,” Selena said, giving Murtagh’s arm a squeeze, “This is Murtagh. Murtagh, this is Sloan. We knew each other when we were young.”

Murtagh had put the pieces together before she said it, but the name fit into place along with all the information that he had of this man—Katrina’s father, a murderer, a traitor, a man who had received a terrible fate at Eragon’s hand, and yet a kinder one than he might’ve deserved.

Sloan the Butcher now peered up at Murtagh appraisingly, his eyes roaming up and down, like he might’ve once looked at a cow to decide how much money he could make by stripping it to the bone.

Murtagh immediately disliked the man, but he also saw a guarded sadness in him that made him empathetic. He knew those hunched shoulders and that suspicious look—they had been his constant companions for far too long.

“Hello,” He said with a nod, “Good to meet you.”

He didn’t say ‘I’ve heard so much about you’, because of course the butcher would know it had been nothing good.

Sloan chewed for a moment, still peering, before he sniffed and popped another berry into his mouth.

“Look like your grandfather, you do,” He said with a raspy voice, not kindly or warmly, but more as a flat statement of fact. Selena looked at Murtagh with a smile, as though searching his face for echoes of her father.

“You know, I think you’re right, Sloan,” She said warmly, brushing back a bit of Murtagh’s hair.

“Yes, I’ve been told that,” He said, thinking of Gertrude’s words on his last visit to Carvahall.

“It’s a compliment,” Selena informed, “He was a handsome man, my father. Quite sought-after in Carvahall during his time. You know, our cousin Loring used to keep a portrait of him in his h—”

“—I only said it as a fact, not to start you gabbering about old nonsense,” Sloan cut in sourly. 

Murtagh’s fist clenched.

“I’ll ask you not to speak in that tone to my mother,” He snapped at the butcher, his hackles raising. But then he felt Selena’s hand firmly on his arm, and she gave him a knowing look, before turning to Sloan herself.

“I didn’t mean to upset you, Sloan; only wanted to say hello.”

“Ain’t upset,” Sloan muttered, chewing on his berries again. Murtagh couldn’t hide his scowl, but his mother’s calm arm on his kept him from shouting at the old man. The wiry butcher was clearly reluctant to hear talk about his old home, his old life, which he’d thrown away through his recklessness. Murtagh kept himself calm for his mother’s sake, but he didn’t appreciate Sloan taking his own misery out on Selena.

“Well, we’ll leave you alone. But I’ll be by next week for dinner, just like I said; perhaps Murtagh can come along.”

Sloan muttered some assent, as Selena guided Murtagh away, and the old man continued eating in sullen silence. 

“Never know what you’re going to get with him,” Selena mused as they walked back towards the music, “Some days he can be very agreeable; sort of melancholy, but gentle enough. And some days, well… it’s hard to be kind when you’re in pain.”

“ You do it,” Murtagh pointed out, the words slipping out before he’d really thought about what they meant. Selena paused a moment, and looked at him with a considering expression, before dropping her gaze.

“Well. We’re all built different, aren’t we.”

Her soft smile flickered in the firelight, but she had that old hollow expression on her face, the distant pain very apparent in the lines of her face.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright,” She said, giving him a weak smile, and looking out over the gathered crowd, pondering.

“It isn’t pain so much, I don’t think,” She said with a sigh, “Not anymore. Grief is strange like that; sometimes it can feel good. Sometimes it’s a comfort to me… when I think of him—Brom, I mean.”

Murtagh swallowed, and stood still.

“I think I’ll always miss him,” She continued, “Always wonder what might have been… what could have been, if things had gone different…” Her eyes were somewhere far away, and Murtagh could feel a questioning thread of thought from Thorn, but he knew right now he had only to listen. There was a time for words, and this wasn’t it.

Selena looked at Murtagh with a searching gaze, and her next words caught him off guard.

“Sometimes I think about your father, too, and what might have been… if he had been different. If he’d chosen to be who I thought he was.”

She swallowed tightly, and Murtagh felt like he was holding a breath, like the clearing was suddenly hazy with the smoke from the fires.

“He wasn’t always hateful to me,” Selena said, her eyes downcast and her voice hollow, “And living here, walking in these woods, seeing the place where he was trained, where he grew, where had hopes and dreams and feelings…”

She looked into the woods, shaking her head.

“...it makes me wonder if he might’ve been just a man, once. Maybe even a decent one.”

“A decent man doesn’t betray his friends to their death,” Murtagh said, his voice hard, feeling the grip of resentment on him. How could his father still be causing her pain? So far beyond the grave?  Couldn’t she be rid of him? Of the very thought? Couldn’t she throw that away now and let it rot with his corpse?

Selena looked at him with large, knowing eyes.

“ I did terrible things, Murtagh,” She whispered, “Unforgivable things. And I did it because the seduction of power… the manipulation of a cunning man overcame what I knew to be right.”

She shrugged slightly.

“And you and I both know how seductive Galbatorix was, how his words could twist their way into your mind—”

“Don’t make excuses for him,” Murtagh said through a tight throat, “He doesn’t deserve it.”

Selena looked sad then, and wondering.

“I don’t know if any of us deserve it,” She said softly, her voice slow and ponderous, like she had been mulling on these thoughts for many long hours.

“You repented of your deeds,” Murtagh gritted out, “And you risked yourself to repay the debt you owed. He didn’t.”

Selena nodded, but her pensive expression did not change.

“I did repent… eventually. I lived long enough, and I had the opportunity to change. But there were many times when I might’ve died, while I was working as The Black Hand,” She said, quiet but frank, “And if I had… then my memory might be as black as his.”

She shrugged again, so calm and so forbearing.

“Anyone might repent, given time.”

Murtagh scowled, his hands tightening again.

“I don’t mean to upset you,” Selena said.

“I’m not–” He shifted, and clipped his words off. He stared across the clearing for a long moment, trying to gather his thoughts before he said something he regretted. He didn’t know why he was so upset at her words, at her honesty. He knew he had a short fuse when it came to his father, but it had been a long time since he’d thought about him, or allowed himself to feel anything about Morzan. As the years lengthened between him and his father’s life, the anger had begun to dissipate into a cool apathy, and that apathy often felt like strength, like it was the deadliest blow he could deal to his father’s memory—not to care. He did not like to see that Morzan still had the power to upset him like this.

“I just don’t want you to think you’re the same,” He managed finally, looking down at his mother’s glittering eyes.

“You had good in your heart—and it won out against the darkness. Don’t compare yourself to a monster like him. Grieve for Brom , he earned your love… Don’t waste your grief on him .”

Selena held Murtagh’s hand and smiled in a melancholy way.

“Thank you for being concerned for me,” She said, squeezing his hands warmly, “But my grief is not wasted. It grows me. Anchors me. Helps me move on, and yet remember.”

Her brow creased.

“It is your right to think of your father however you would like,” She said solemnly, “And if he is still a monster to you, then he earned that title. But to me? Now? He is just a human. I do not give him the excuse of calling him a monster. He was a man, and he made the choices that turned him into what he was. His life serves as a reminder… that any of us are capable of monstrous things. We have only to listen to the wrong voices. Or make the wrong choices. Or forget to love.”

Her lips pressed together tightly, and her eyes fluttered down.

“Your father drank, I think, because deep inside himself he understood that there was no one to blame for his misery but himself. In the deepest parts of his heart he hated who he was, and he wanted to forget. I am only sorry that he never found the courage to change.”

She took a heavy breath, and looked at him frankly. 

“I do not grieve who Morzan was when he died; the world was better without him in it. I grieve the man who died the day he chose to side with Galbatorix. I grieve who he might’ve been…a brother, a rider, a leader, a friend… a father…” She looked up at Murtagh, and placed her hand on his cheek. A moment of quiet passed between them, on the outskirts of the firelight, as elven voices drifted around them.

“You look like your grandfather Cadoc,” She said with a soft smile,  “But you also look like your father. And though I may curse his deeds, and the weakness of his heart, I am forever thankful to him… for you . Because you gave me the courage to change.”

She leaned up, and kissed him on the cheek. A moment passed, and Murtagh was silent, holding to her hand and breathing through the tightness in his chest.

“Don’t throw away the past, Murtagh,” She whispered, “Too many have lost their way by forgetting where they came from.”

Murtagh’s brow creased, and there was a sting in his throat, but he felt his mother’s words settle over him, and he understood. He nodded, and he met the depth of her eyes.

“Would you ever go back?” He found himself asking, “To Carvahall, I mean?”

Her gaze flickered, and she lowered her face. He hadn’t meant it to sound like a challenge—as though she had to go back to where she came from, in order to truly heal. But she got a spark of humor in her eyes, and nodded, acknowledging that he’d turned her own words back on her.

“Well. Perhaps I would,” She said with a glitter of amusement, “If I had someone to go with.”

He smiled.

“Alright then. Together.”

She nodded.

“Together.”

He put his arm out once again, and she took it, holding him close, and feeling for that moment the kind of grief that was good.

As the merrymaking continued around them, Murtagh walked Selena back to the little hut where she had made her home, and bid her goodnight. He then made his way through the quiet paths of the wood, getting lost a few times but not really caring, and finally returning to the rider dwellings, where Thorn waited for him in the clearing, nudging his head and saying,

It seems our worry was unwarranted. We have friends here.

Murtagh nodded, and climbed up onto his back, too tired to bother with the stairs up to the dwelling. Thorn took off, taking a lazy circle around the clearing, and, by silent agreement, angling out into the sky, to enjoy the cool night air and the scattered stars for a bit.

 Murtagh leaned forward for a moment, pressing his cheek against Thorn’s scales and listening to the thrum of his heartbeat and the steady rhythm of his wings. He wondered if his father had ever felt this with his dragon—this love. Was he capable even of that? 

And what had the dragon seen in Morzan, that he had chosen him for his rider? Had the dragon been evil at heart? Had he been bent towards cruelty as well? Or had they both simply made the wrong choices, and lacked the courage to change?

Murtagh thought then about the people in his life who had given him the courage to be better—Thorn, of course, and Nasuada most poignantly. Eragon, and Tornac, and Aberfell, and Demelza; Ajihad, and Barrow and Roran and Earin and Elva and Kharnine and Umaroth and Dila’ah and Glaedr…

Glaedr. Yet another person who had every right to hate Murtagh until his dying day, but had chosen to forgive. Kellan’s pardon had been more than Murtagh ever could have asked for, but it had also added to the list of debts that he would forever owe. Kindnesses that he could never repay. 

In this ancient place, which was heavy with a thousand memories, Murtagh was drawn again to think of Glaedr, and Brom, and his father, and a time long past, when they all flew over these same trees, and looked at these same stars, riders and dragons all.

“I wish we could have met him,” Murtagh murmured as they floated just over the treetops, soft lights flickering up from below. He didn’t need to explain himself to Thorn. 

Oromis had been his father’s master; the man who had trained him up, taught him the ways of the riders, poured his knowledge and heart into him. Had the elf made a mistake along the way? Had he missed a chance to change who Morzan would become? To intervene before Galbatorix turned him? Had Murtagh’s father always been destined to be evil? Or had he simply begun to wander… and had no one to pull him back. No Nasuada, no Thorn, no Tornac or Aberfell or Demelza…

Murtagh did not know of any family on his father’s side, did not know what kind of home Morzan had grown up in, or if he’d had people who taught him things like love and kindness and doing what was right. Those people would have died over a century ago, but still Murtagh felt a yearning to know them, to know what kind of people could create a man like Morzan, to know if they had been the reason for his cruelty and malice. Or if that had just been by chance. A terrible mistake. An unlucky legacy.

Perhaps it’s a mercy not to have children, He thought to Thorn, feeling confliction within himself, thinking about where he came from, They could grow into monsters.

Hmmm, Thorn hummed, his wings spread out, tilting to catch the night air.

Maybe so, He agreed with a rumble, his scales glinting in the moonlight,

But they might also be heroes.

Chapter Text

Murtagh’s mind was heavy with thought when he went to sleep, but he woke up to the soft sunlight in the treehouse, having passed the whole night without haunting dreams. An elf arrived with a note for him from Arya, telling him to visit Rhunon if he wished, giving him instructions on how to reach her smithy, and saying that he and Thorn could come to the crags in the evening. 

He was nervous as he strapped Zar’roc onto his belt, not knowing what to expect from the ancient swordsmith, but she didn’t strike him as someone with whom you canceled plans. He donned the elven boots and made his way down the wooden stairs to where Thorn waited. 

He did not feel so tired as on the first day, and was able to better appreciate the woods as they wound through the little paths, trying to keep Arya’s directions straight amid all the intertwining walkways.

He had gotten himself and Thorn both sufficiently lost, because he’d had to stick to paths that were large enough for Thorn to fit in comfortably, but just when he was considering retracing his steps, or else hopping on Thorn and flying above the canopy—a figure came around a bend in the path, her curly hair bouncing and a basket full of mossy clumps hung over her arm.

Murtagh didn’t have enough time to decide whether he wanted to avoid the woman, when she raised her hand in a cheery greeting and said loudly,

“Well I was just hoping I’d run into you two,” She grinned as she approached, and her werecat companion sidled up behind her, blinking widely.

“Hello, Angela,” Murtagh managed, already dreading what the witch was going to say, and wondering why Arya hadn’t mentioned that she was in Ellesmera. 

“Oh look at you, ‘Hello-Angela’-ing me as if we were childhood chums. Haven’t you heard of a proper introduction? Suppose they don’t teach manners in Uru’baen do they? Well that’s alright, I’ll forgive your rudeness—won’t even turn you into anything unnatural, so long as you do me one little favor.”

She then reached into her pocket with one hand, and pulled out the largest, knobbiest frog that Murtagh had ever seen.

“Tell me… what is it?” The witch demanded, and Murtagh blinked.

“It… a frog, I suppose,” He managed, frowning as the bulbous creature blinked up at him.

“You suppose?! Well that won’t do at all; this here is the closest thing to a toad as I’ve ever seen–only I don’t believe there is such a thing as a toad, so it’d be the closest thing to nothing. Only thing is, if this is a toad, then toads do exist after all, and everything I know is a lie. And you come at me with an ‘I suppose’??”

Murtagh found it hard to keep up with the woman’s rapid-fire speech, and he wasn’t entirely sure he liked or trusted her, so her antics—which Eragon seemed to find amusing—didn’t charm him.

Why don’t you ask the creature itself what it is? Thorn asked, bringing his snout low to peer at the lumpy mass, It would know whether it is a toad or a frog more than any of us, would it not? Surely one such as yourself knows how to communicate with the minds of lesser creatures.

Angela blinked at Thorn, her open face looking amazed for a moment, then she looked down at Solembum, and at the toad, and back up at Murtagh, her eyes beaming.

“You might just be onto something,” She breathed, gazing at the creature with a hungry amazement. 

“A great mind you are, Thorn-of-the-Wild,” Angela said with a bow, “Though I don’t consider any creatures ‘lesser’ really. To some beings, you and I would be considered lesser, so it’s best not to be too proud I think. If this plan of yours works, I shall be forever in your debt.”

Thorn looked at Murtagh, just as confused by the witch as he was. 

“Now I am the one being rude.” She said warmly, “You may call me Angela, pleasure to meet you at last,” She offered, placing the toad/frog on her shoulder and reaching out the same hand that had just held the slimy creature. 

“We know who you are,” Murtagh countered, reluctant to take the handshake.

“Well of course you do, and I know who you are, but that’s beside the point,” The witch said with a roll of her eyes, “If I don’t introduce myself, then when someone asks, ‘Oh, have you ever met Angela’? You’ll have to say no, or else you’re a liar, because you’ve never met me, in the formal sense of the word. But of course you do know me, and there’ll be no end of confusion when they find that out, and they’ll think you’re a liar even though you told them the truth!”

Murtagh was starting to have a headache.

“So let’s just make things simple, and get the thing over with,” She said with a grin, holding her hand out again,

“You may call me Angela, pleasure to meet you at last.”

Murtagh took it, and allowed a brisk shake. Then, seeing that she wasn’t going to let go of his hand until he reciprocated, he said,

“Murtagh. A pleasure.”

Angela shot a quick grin, but her sharp eyes told Murtagh that she was aware it was not a pleasure for him.

“Excellent. Now we know each other, I can properly ask: what are you fine fellows up to on a day like today?”

Murtagh shifted, he didn’t really want to tell her, because he was afraid she might invite herself along, and he preferred to meet with the swordmaster alone.

“Exploring the city,” Murtagh said, technically true.

“Ah, a worthy endeavor, and one that could keep anyone busy for a few decades, at least.”

Murtagh just nodded, hoping to end the conversation and be on his way, but then Angela said,

“If you have the time after all your exploring, I’d be happy to read your fortune for you—free of charge, of course. You know I read your mother’s, and your brother’s.”

Murtagh frowned sharply, his defenses going up. He had known about Eragon; his brother had told him about the role Angela’s prophecy–and later Solembum’s words–had played in shaping his path. But he had not known that Selena had encountered the witch, and it immediately raised a dozen questions in his head—questions which he had no interest asking of Angela, who would likely be only too delighted to answer.

“I’ll pass,” Murtagh said flatly, “I’ve no interest in being forced out of Alagaesia.”

“Oh,” Angela tutted, “Your brother is perfectly at liberty to go anywhere he pleases. The boy I gave a prophecy to in Tierm is hardly the same man who now lives at Mt. Argnor—perhaps his fate has changed, I could not say for certain. And besides, a person is only controlled by prophecy if they allow themselves to be.”

Murtagh crossed his arms.

“Then it’s all a bunch of nonsense, your ‘prophesying’. It’s meaningless.”

“No, not nonsense,” Angela shook her head, “And certainly not meaningless. But the future is never set in stone. If it were, my life would be intolerably dull. Your history alone proves that our paths are never certain.”

Angela’s eyes glittered, but Murtagh didn’t like the knowing way she always spoke about his life—as if she had been watching him.

“Well. Thorn and I will accept our path when it comes. We don’t need to know it ahead of time,” He decided, squirming under her gaze but trying not to show it. Thorn ducked his head close in agreement.

Angela seemed unsurprised by this answer, and just grinned again.

“Ah well,” She said, “Can’t blame me for trying. I’m sure it would be an interesting one, knowing your life. Thwarted any assassinations lately?”

Murtagh had to work hard not to scowl, but Angela saw his disdain anyway. Of course the bloody witch knew about the incident that had happened in the middle of the night not even three weeks previous, and had been kept secret among only the palace guards. How did she somehow always know about everything?

Murtagh’s shoulders hunched, and before he thought about it he snapped,

“Poison anyone’s stew lately?”

Instead of offense, Murtagh saw amusement quirk at Angela’s lips. She tilted her curly head, and observed him for a moment.

“I like you,” She said with an unbothered smile, “Got a bit more sting than your brother, it suits you—I imagine your wife thought so too; you’re a fit match.”

Murtagh blinked in surprise, distracted from his anger for a moment.

“Oh don’t worry,” Angela picked the frog off her shoulders, “Secret’s safe with me. Nasuada and I may have our differences, but I’d hate to see the kingdom toppled because her marriage was revealed too soon.”

Angela flashed a grin and said,

“Well, enjoy your time with Rhunon. She’s a barrel of laughs.”

Before Murtagh could recover his thoughts, Angela had bounced past them and continued on down the road, whistling to herself as Solembum padded along behind her.

Then her voice rang back at them:

“It’s straight ahead, then take a right at the old willow!”

***

Rhunon lived in a modest, unadorned dwelling that was dwarfed by the size and complexity of the forge that sat attached to it. The clearing was quiet, and out of the way, and shaded over even in the midday sun.

Murtagh could hear the ringing of metal long before he saw the structure, and he could smell the heat and the tang of the melting pot shortly after that. 

Her neighbors must have dull ears, Thorn thought, listening to the noise of the hammer and watching the curling smoke.

I don’t know that she has any neighbors, Murtagh said in amusement, as they came to a stop several yards from the glowing forge, where Rhunon stooped over the glowing fire, utterly focused and unaware of the presence of a massive dragon in her clearing.

They watched silently for a long time as the elf worked, her moves focused and seamless, like she was going through the stages of the rimgar, every muscle employed in the task at hand. It was artful to observe, and Murtagh found himself holding his breath for fear of disturbing the air around her carefully-molded fire.

Nearly half an hour had passed, and the elf had set aside the breastplate she had been working on, before Rhunon took note of their presence. She betrayed no surprise when she turned to them, sweat sheening on her brow, but her eyes sparkling with exhilaration. She simply nodded and said a gruff,

“Hello.”

Murtagh bowed a quick greeting and said,

“Atra esterni ono thelduin, Rhunon-Elder.”

“I thought we decided we were above such niceties,” Rhunon retorted as she scrubbed soot from her arms. Murtagh merely smiled.

“Well come on over, the forge won’t swallow you up,” Rhunon jerked her head to summon the two of them, and Murtagh allowed himself to step into the overhang of the structure, while Thorn settled on a patch of grass close by, his nostrils twitching at the sharp smells.

“So let’s see then,” Rhunon said, turning to Murtagh, her eyes immediately latching onto Zar’roc, which hung at his hip. Murtagh took the cue, carefully undoing his belt and slipping the sword and scabbard off of it.

He held it out to Rhunon wordlessly, not knowing what to say. The elfsmith took the weapon, her eyes wandering up and down its length, as though taking stock of every detail that she herself had put into it, and how her work had withstood the test of the centuries.

“May I?” She asked coolly, her hand on the hilt, as if to draw. Murtagh nodded, and listened to the clear ring as Rhunon pulled Zar’roc from its sheath. He watched the red of the blade reflect the red of the flames and the red of Thorn’s scales, as Rhunon held it aloft and tilted it this way and that.

“Your brother brought this to me, the first time he was here,” Rhunon said, her voice distant, “He wielded it out of necessity; you wield it out of choice. Why?”

Murtagh swallowed tightly, caught unawares by the sudden question. He had expected Rhunon to focus on the sword, not on him.

“It was my father’s,” He offered after a moment, his shoulders shrugging, “And I suppose it’s always been a reminder to me—of who he was. And who I could become, if I were to follow the wrong paths.”

“Great evil was done with this blade,” Rhunon reminded, “Not all of it by your father.”

Murtagh felt his throat tighten, but he nodded. Rhunon’s statement was a calm fact, hollow of emotion and dispassionate, but as always mention of his father and mention of his own past made Murtagh feel a clenching in his chest.

“Yes,” He agreed, “But now it has the potential for great good.”

“Swords cannot be good,” Rhunon countered, “They are weapons. Their only use is killing. Would you call killing good?”

“I would call it necessary, sometimes. For achieving good.”

“Then say what you mean. You have the potential for great good—not the sword.”

Murtagh took a moment to digest her words, trying to sort through the gruff tone and the sharp looks to see if Rhunon meant to chide him or praise him or something in between.

“Aye, I suppose so,” He offered.

“And this?” Rhunon quickly turned the blade to show the white dwarfstone that was fastened to the hilt by thin wires, “You decided my craftsmanship was not fit enough for you?”

“No, Rhunon-elder, that…” Muragh had forgotten about the stone, it had become a natural part of Zar’roc to him, ever since the Blood Tears Trial almost five years previous. He wasn’t sure if Rhunon was offended by the change or not.

“That is a dwarfstone–”

“–yes, obviously.”

“–it was… it was gifted to me, by Duart of Durgrimst Ingeitum, after I–I completed the Blood Tears Ritual to atone for my actions against King Hrothgar.”

For the first time, Murtagh seemed to have caught Rhunon by surprise. The demonstration of this was one raised eyebrow. She obviously knew what the Blood Tears Trial was, and understood the actions to which he referred, and now she looked again at the blade and the stone, as if appraising it in a new light.

“Another reminder?” She said calmly, her eyes flicking back to him.

“Yes,” Murtagh said after a moment, “I suppose it reminds me that… I have done what I can to heal the past. And that my choices now are what matter.”

“For such a young person you must be very apt at forgetting things, to need all these reminders,” Rhunon said, and Murtagh could hear the humor beneath her dry affect. Murtagh only smiled, as the older elf turned the blade over in her hands, swinging it through the air and testing its movement.

“Throws the weight off,” Rhunon pointed out matter-of-factly, “The dwarfstone.”

Murtagh had not felt the difference, but he supposed someone with elven senses might notice something he did not.

“It still works alright for me.”

“I did not spend months laboring over this weapon so it could work alright, ” Rhunon retorted with a frown, bringing Zar’roc’s tip to rest on the ground. She squinted at Murtagh for a second, then looked back at the blade.

“Leave it with me a day or two,” She said, a question, not a command, startling Murtagh by its suddenness. His eyes flicked to the blade, and he felt himself hesitating.

What does she want with it? What’s she going to do?

He had images of Rhunon lowering Zar’roc into her molten furnace, melting it to a puddle of metal and destroying the blade that Morzan had tarnished by his evil use. 

I do not think Old-Elf-Sword-Woman intends to harm the blade, Thorn offered, sensing Murtagh’s unease, She could toss it into her liquid-fire-pot now if she wished; we would not be quick enough to stop her.

Murtagh supposed this was true, and by the look on Rhunon’s face he could tell he wasn’t going to get any better of an explanation from her, so he just nodded and said,

“Very well. You may keep it for a while.”

He tried not to look worried when he said it, but an amused glint in Rhunon’s eyes told him he hadn’t succeeded.

“Alright then.”

In clear dismissal, Rhunon turned her back to Murtagh and tromped back over to the forge, disappearing into the shadows of the building, Zar’roc still in-hand.

He and Thorn lunched with Selena, before heading back to the crags and finding Kellan there working on his poses for the rimgar, while Tilyah lounged in the sun, snapping occasionally at a butterfly that danced around her head, though not actually trying to kill the thing.

Kellan was only too eager to show Murtagh the new series of movements he was practicing, though clearly the boy was new to the art, and his lanky limbs did not look so graceful as when Arya or Eragon did it. Still, his eagerness was endearing, and Murtagh was obliged to do the poses alongside him when asked.

Afterwards they sat together on the edge of the crags while Kellan worked on making a fairth, and asked Murtagh all manner of questions about Mt. Argnor, and the other students who lived and worked there.

“I’ve seen some Urgals around, but I’ve never talked to one before,” He admitted, clearly a bit nervous and trying to hide it.

“Kharnine is very kind, very intelligent, and has a humor I think you’d like,” Murtagh assured, “She may pretend to be scary, but she’s not.”

Kellan nodded, swallowing tightly and looking determined.

“I just don’t want to look weak in front of them,” He admitted with a little laugh. “I know I’ll be the youngest—and I met Dusan’s sister here in Ellesmera, and she’s really smart, and I bet Dusan will know just as much stuff as she does. And I’m not so good with the fighting, or the rimgar yet, or magic stuff, even though I try a lot.”

Murtagh smiled.

“It is true that Dusan is very well-learned—he’s had his whole life to study magic, and the Ancient Language is his native tongue, but even he has his weaknesses, and things he must work on. There’s nothing wrong with being weak, and there’s no shame in being the youngest. It only means you can rely on others to teach you and help you grow.”

Again, Kellan nodded, but Murtagh could still see his hesitance and worry. The boy was young, unlearned, untrained, and a human—all no doubt terrible weaknesses, in his eyes.

“There is a wild dragon who lives among us at the mountain,” Murtagh offered, “Her name is Finanua, and one of her wings is deformed, so she can’t fly on her own.”

Both Kellan and Tilyah looked surprised, and listened intently

“But Duart and one of the elves have worked to make her a… a sort of false wing. Something that can tie around her, and unfurl as if it were her real wing, to aid her in lifting off the ground. Thorn has been helping her learn to fly with it.”

Murtagh nodded, and Thorn blinked his lids with a hum, looking at the young rider and his partner.

Friend-Finanua needs my help to get off the ground, Thorn explained, But the weakness of her wing does not make her a lesser dragon. And it is an honor for me to be of help to her. If ever you find that you need to rely on a friend for help—know that you, too, honor them by doing so.

Kellan stared for a moment, and nodded, understanding the point they were trying to make. After a moment he stared at the row of wildflowers he was trying to copy, and, with a look of new determination, murmured the words to make a faith, squeezing his eyes shut as the colors rippled across the tablet he held.

When the boy cracked one tentative eye open, there was a blurry, abstract row of greens and yellows, implying the existence of flowers, rather than showing.

“Maybe next time try looking at the thing you’re copying,” Murtagh suggested with a smile as Kellan huffed in disappointment, “Instead of closing your eyes.”

Kellan nodded with a doleful smile, trading his blurry picture for a clean tablet. Murtagh himself had never been much good at fairths, as they were a topic about which Galbatorix did not bother to teach him much, and he always found it difficult not to let other images or thoughts influence the way the picture looked in his mind. 

He hoped the boy would discover his strengths, and go to Mt. Argnor with a healthy mix of confidence and humility. 

Perhaps that is why Arya wishes you to accompany him, Thorn pointed out later that night as they returned to their treehouse dwelling, So you can prepare him well for what is to come. You know what it is like to feel at a disadvantage, and to overcome weaknesses.

That night as he slept, Murtagh was startled into consciousness by another nightmare, though it, too, had been blurry and abstract, leaving him only with the implication of fear, and not any clear image of what he’d been fearing. 

He curled up next to Thorn on the balcony under the clear stars, and let his partner’s heartbeat lull him back into a sense of calm. 

Arya came to their clearing the next morning, and told them she was going to take Kellan and Tilyah to the Stone of Broken Eggs, and that he and Thorn could come along, if they so wished.

“It is a sacred and solemn place for your race,” Arya told Thorn, “And it would be our honor to take you there.”

Thorn had agreed, and Murtagh felt an eagerness mixed with trepidation from his partner, as they journeyed from the crags towards the ancient battle-ground. It was quiet, among the plateau, and Murtagh felt as though he had to take shallow breaths, or else risk disturbing the lingering spirits of the dragons that had once lived there.

They walked among the disheveled nests and scattered shells, their movement the only sign of life on the desolate rock, and Murtagh felt Thorn’s aching melancholy, despite the centuries that passed since the terrible attack on the dragons there.

Arya’s voice passed softly over them, as she explained to Kellan the history of the dragon nesting grounds, and Du Fyrn Skulblaka, and the origin of the riders. Murtagh heard her words, but mostly he listened to Thorn’s thoughts, knowing that his partner needed his comfort in that moment, when the past pressed so heavily upon him.

As the sun set that evening, they stood at the edge of the nesting grounds, watching the last rays of light catch the pieces of egg that still glinted among all the wreckage, unfaded even after millenia.

I do not know whether to be comforted or to despair—that evil has always been in the world, Thorn thought solemnly, There was a time I thought that our lives must have been the most beset by troubles, and dragons who lived before had the better hand of fate. I wished I might’ve been hatched then—when there was freedom, and adventure, instead of war and heartbreak. 

Thorn’s great sides heaved with a sigh.

But it seems all times are wrought with evil. Whether that is a boon or a weight on my heart, I do not know.

Murtagh put his hand on Thorn’s neck, and leaned his head against his scaly jaw.

I am glad you hatched in this time, He offered softly, The world would be a much sadder place without you in it.

Thorn hummed.

And I too, am glad you were birthed at the same time, He returned, twisting his head towards Murtagh, My world would be a much sadder place without you in it.

Murtagh smiled, no longer feeling the desolation of the place, which, for at least this one moment, was once again filled with the beauty and strength of dragons.

***

The next morning, Murtagh and Thorn made their way back to Rhunon’s forge, paying attention this time so they didn’t lose their way. They found the old elf in much the same position as before, and this time were obliged to wait even longer before she finished the task she was set at, and turned her attention onto them.

“Ah, has it been two days already?”

“We can… return at a later time if—”

“No, no. I had it finished the night you left,” She dismissed, tromping into the shadows of her forge and returning with Zar’roc in its sheath. At first Murtagh saw no change to the sword, and he wondered why Rhunon had bothered to keep it. But when she turned it over on her palms and handed it to him, he was amazed to see that the white dwarfstone—which before had been crudely tied into place with metal strands—was now set into the pommel as though it had been there from the beginning. It was somehow blended into the lay of the sword, snug below the red gem that had originally sat alone on the pommel.

Murtagh lost his breath for a moment, taken by the changed beauty of the familiar weapon. Rhunon had taken the stone that he kept as a reminder, and had worked it into the very fiber of the weapon—never to be removed. It nearly brought tears to his eyes, and he was speechless as Thorn leaned close and observed the weapon with similar awe.

“Rhunon-Elder, I…” He began after a moment of shocked silence, “It’s beautiful,” He said, knowing of nothing else to say. Unable to resist the urge, Murtagh pulled the sword from its sheath, hearing the sharp ring of it and for once not flinching at it. This sword—which had given him his first wound, which had been used to slaughter dragons and riders alike, which had symbolized his fall into the same path his father had walked—was somehow remade. It was the same weapon, it balanced in his hand perfectly, as it always had—but somehow now it felt lighter, it felt like it finally, truly belonged to him , not to Morzan, or Brom or Eragon… but to Murtagh. A true rider, with a true rider’s sword.

He swung the sword through the air, listening to the whip and feeling the easy way the blade turned in his hand. He hadn’t noticed any problem with the weight of the white stone before, but now he noticed the difference, the ever-so-slight imbalance corrected by Rhunon’s masterful work.

He moved across the clearing as though in a dance, feeling for the first time in years the old sensation of exhilaration—the thrill of wielding a sword with skill and grace, the artform that Tornac had taught him, whose joy had been slowly chipped away by the terrible blows of war. 

Sword fighting had lost its appeal to Murtagh when he’d been forced to kill his friend Aberfell, when he’d been forced to duel his brother, when it had become a brutal means of survival rather than a practice of discipline and skill. Now he began to feel it again, the nerves coming alive once more, the old bones creaking to life.

He didn’t notice how much time had past, before he turned back to Rhunon, panting for air, eyes blazing with the fresh feeling of a new morning, while Thorn and the old elf watched him passively.

“It’s magnificent,” He said, lifting up the sword once more, and admiring the way the light caught its length—had it always been this beautiful? 

Rhunon only nodded her confirmation, as though she knew it was a work of art and did not require his confirmation.

“Well, what’ll it be called?” The old elf asked, handing him back the sheath—which, he noticed, had new curving lines of white metal laid into it, echoing the dwarfstone set into its pommel.

Murtagh turned to her with surprise.

“It’s… name is Zar’roc,” He said, confused as to why she of all people would not know this fact. But Rhunon merely pursed her lips and squinted at the weapon in Murtagh’s hand a moment.

“No, I don’t think so,” She said matter-of-factly, “Not anymore.”

Murtagh turned his eyes to the sword, looking at it with a new wonder, as the ancient elf’s words settled on him. She was right—of course— misery did not fit this work of art that he held. Perhaps it had not fit for a long time, perhaps he had been carrying around a sword with the wrong name. Perhaps it—like he and Thorn—and taken on a new name; had changed.

What would you call such a thing? Thorn asked, hanging his head low, blinking as the light from the nearby fire glittered off blade, the white and red gems mixing to create a beautiful rose-colored glow. It reminded Murtagh of a day a long time ago—a day both beautiful and painful, when he had walked in the gardens of Uru’baen with Thorn perched on his shoulder, before his partner had even had a name, before he could fly or speak or breathe fire or make poetry, when they were both helpless and captive, but still together, and still unbound by their names.  

Thorn had sniffed the roses, and they had discovered his name together.

Thorn protect.

The beauty of the blade before him almost masked its deadliness, but he recalled what Rhunon had said when he’d first brought it to her,

Swords cannot be good. They are weapons. Their only use is killing.

However, looking at the firelight dancing in the rose-colored metal, Murtagh now saw another side—a sword could be used for protecting, if the person wielding it was doing so for the right reasons.

With a weapon, one could defend beautiful things, precious things, delicate things—like life, and innocence, and justice, and truth. Like the flickering candle of hope, and the soft petals of love.

Zar’roc had always been a reminder to him of the past, and what he needed to avoid. But now this blade would be a reminder to him of the future, and what he needed to fight for. The words settled in his mind like dew on grass, appearing there, without conscious thought, revealing themselves just as Thorn’s name had revealed itself, a fact falling at his feet.

Murtagh lifted the blade up, and watched again as the firelight danced along its length, the red and white gems mixing their colors together.

“It’s name,” Murtagh said calmly, “Is Feonndr.”

He felt a quiver in the air, and a vibration from the weapon as the light seemed to pulse from it for a moment, before returning to its soft flicker.

The sword had cast off its old name, and accepted a new one:

Roseflame.

Chapter Text

Nasuada’s headache had thus far lasted for two entire weeks.

Maybe it was the change in elevation that she had undergone on her long journey from Uru’baen to Farthen Dur, maybe it was reacclimation to the smell and feel of living under thousands of tons of stone, or maybe it was the incessantly stubborn and incorrigible dwarves with whom she had been obliged to parlay for the better part of a fortnight.

She missed Murtagh, too, that was definitely part of it. Somehow knowing that he was in Alagaesia but not with her was harder than imagining him all the way in the wilderness at Mt. Argnor. 

She had not been able to scry him, as Ellesmera still maintained many of its wards against intruding magic. Nor would it have been a wise move for her to ask one of the dwarven spellcasters to reach out to the man with whom most of their race still held a distinct animosity.

Nasuada had already encountered several moments in Farthen Dur when she had to reign in her indignation on Murtagh’s behalf, and bite her tongue, as she counselled with Orik and his advisors. In one such instance, she had only been somewhat successful in holding back a retort, when the dwarf-leaders of the Ingeitum were waiting for Orik to arrive, and talking amongst themselves at the low stone table around which they all gathered, speaking their suspicions about Murtagh the Rider.

“He may share blood with Shadeslayer, but you don’t have to look far to see what kind of man he is,” A grey-bearded Knurla said, “Even the Urgals call him Stoneheart; what does that tell you?” 

The other dwarves muttered in agreement, conceding that Murtagh must be a truly terrible person for even the Urgals to think so little of him.

“You may be interested to know,” Nasuada cut in sharply, eliciting a wary look from Elva, who had joined her on the journey and lingered near at all times, “That the Ugralgra’s name for him is meant as a complement, praising the great strength with which he endured the Blood Tears Trial—a ritual which he undertook at the behest of your people.”

She had received several blank stares for her vehement defense, but the dwarves shrugged and muttered and generally indulged her opinion. She knew she had not swayed any of them.

Orik was evasive for the first few days of her stay in Farthen Dur, and had deftly avoided meeting with her one-on-one, but she was finally able to corner him one afternoon, after a pleasant lunch in his study with his wife Hvedra. The dwarf woman had been obliged to run off and tend to their young son Hrothginne, who’d gotten into some sort of tussle with another student in his lessons. Elva had waited outside the chambers, sensing that her presence made Hvedra uneasy, and Nasuada was grateful for it to just be her and Orik there, no listening ears.

Half-empty mugs of ale were left sitting between them, and when Hvedra left there was a sudden tension that Nasuada recognized; unspoken words that lay heavily between them.

“I know why you’ve been avoiding me,” Nasuada said, choosing to be frank with her friend of so many years—a practice which Ajihad and Hrothgar had always maintained with each other.

Orik merely raised his bushy brow, waiting for Nasuada to continue.

“You know about the attempt on my life,” She said, confident in her guess, “And you know who thwarted it. And you don’t know how to speak to me of it, because you know what would have happened to your kingdom if he hadn’t been there to prevent my death. And yet you cannot bring yourself to be indebted to him.”

Orik’s firm gaze never left her, but she could see the thoughts flickering beneath them, and he did not deny her allegation, so she felt all the more sure that it held at least a portion of the truth. Instead, Orik took a long sigh, and an even longer draft of his mug, before pursing his mustache in thought and saying,

“It is a great dishonor to all Knurla, that your life was nearly taken by the machinations of our own,” He concluded heavily.

“It isn’t the first time a clan has taken matters into their own hands,” Nasuada reminded calmly, thinking of the narrow escape Eragon had had in the tunnels under the city. Orik did not refute this claim either, but simply nodded into his beard.

It took him a moment to answer, and when he did his voice was strained.

“I rule as I believe mine uncle would have wanted,” Orik grumbled, “And as mine own spirit dictates. I seek the wisdom of the gods and of those Knurla who are older and wiser than I…”

Orik sighed again.

“And yet I cannot prevent these people of mine from taking a wayward path, from stirring up violence and fracturing the union of our race—a union which has protected us against many foes.”

Orik let a beat of silence between them, and put up his gnarled palms in surrender.

“I would ask your pardon, my friend, but it would feel false to do so—when I cannot prevent such a terrible thing from happening again. I cannot protect you even from my own subjects. So what is to be done?”

Now Nasuada let quiet linger for a moment, before saying,

“Do you believe Durgrimst Feldunost is intent on a clan war? Do they seek to supplant you and place one of their own on the throne?”

Orik arched his brow in thought.

“I think there are some extremists among them who would see me gone, yes. Some would see the Knurla remove themselves from the rest of Alagaesia entirely, and retreat back to our caves, to mine our riches and share them amongst only ourselves. But as a whole… I think the common people of the clan wish only to live in peace, unbothered by any obligation to… outsiders.”

“Outsiders like me. Like the Riders.”

Orik nodded.

“Aye. Some say a Knurla’s place is the mountains, and we owe nothing to anyone who is not of the clans. I say this is not so.”

“They tried to kill me because they thought my death would cripple the kingdom—cause us humans to fall into civil war, and leave you to your own devices.”

Orik grumbled low in his chest.

“Aye I believe it.”

“Then we must show them that that is not the case—that our kingdom’s bond goes beyond you and I, and our personal ties; that if I died tomorrow and another took my place, you would stand with them as you stand with me. That is the only way to keep me safe: show the clans that they would gain nothing by my death—that the Ingeitum and its allies will always stand with my kingdom, with the Riders, with the whole of Alagaesia.”

“What more can I do besides fight a war for the riders and the whole of Alagaesia?” Orik countered, “Mine Uncle chose his side when he went to war with the Varden, and I stayed the course when he was gone. The very shedding of our people’s blood is what the Feldunost use against me—that we went to war and died for humans and elves and Riders, and it was a waste.”

“There is even now a Knurlan rider training at the Academy at Mt. Argnor,” Nasuada reminded, “That was no waste, that is an irrevocable bond that your people have—a seat at the table, a stake in the claim of the world.”

“Aye, and I am glad for it. But it will be many decades before the Riders begin to emerge into the land in earnest, and start to care for the land as they once did. I am king now , and must answer to my people today . And you must do the same. How do I know what you would choose—if it came between preserving your kingdom and throwing in your lot with the Riders? How do I know that the humans would not seek their own self-interest.”

“I believe it is in our interest to support the riders.”

“Aye, now. But what if that changes? What if you decide your kingdom is better off severed from the riders, standing alone? There are no humans working at Mt. Argnor, and the supply trains that make the journey there are not from your palace, or your coffer. What have you invested in this future you speak so highly of? How can I trust that you will not look to your own affairs, if standing with the Riders no longer benefits Ilirea?”

“You would not trust my friendship?” Nasuada asked, wounded by Orik’s doubt. 

“I trust that you would do what you deem best for your people, even if it means straining our friendship,” Orik countered frankly, and Nasuada couldn’t deny the truth of his words. Hadn’t she made difficult decisions during the war, alienating people close to her for the greater good?

But he doesn’t know, She thought in that moment, He doesn’t know that I have invested everything in the survival of the Riders. That my heart is forever tied to them, and I cannot ever turn my back.

She appraised Orik’s patient gaze for a moment, trying to trace the thread of the problem, and a possible solution. Orik needed the loyalty of all the clans, and she needed to know she had nothing to fear from the Beor Mountains. The Rider Academy needed both their support, and if they wished to maintain long-term peace, they needed the Riders to flourish.

He needs to see that I trust him completely, and that I can be trusted, She thought, turning the puzzle over in her mind, before landing on an answer.

“I’m going to tell you something, Orik,” Nasuada said quietly, hearing her own voice in her head, as she sat across from her friend in the quiet study.

“It is knowledge that very few in Alagaesia have, and I give it to you as a sign of otho—of faith—in our friendship. In the knowledge that we share the same goals of peace and prosperity for all peoples, and in the legacy we both carry of those who came before.”

Orik’s thick brows came together, and he waited silently. 

“I have kept this truth from you until now because I did not wish to wound you, and because I—like you—understand the delicate balance of peace, and how it can be fractured.”

Orik’s thick fingers twined together, his chin tucked and his eyes glinting as he listened.

“You ask what I have invested in the survival of the Riders. You ask how you can trust that Ilirea will stand with them, no matter the circumstances. And I answer you this: Two years past, on my journey to Ilirea, I was married in Mt. Argnor by Eragon—your foster brother. To Murtagh Selenasson.”

She did not miss the spark of surprise, the flicker of anger and hurt that danced behind Orik’s eyes before he could conceal it.

“He is a good man, and I have loved him for many years,” Nasuada continued firmly, “And when I asked him to marry me—he first refused me, because he valued your friendship with me, and the peace of our two kingdoms, above his own happiness. He knew our marriage might put that in jeopardy, which is why he only consented to marry me in secret.”

Orik’s face had become like stone—unreadable, as Nasuada spoke. But she had begun the task and had to see it through.

“I tell you this because I want you to know that the survival and success of the riders is of utmost importance to me, and that I cannot and will not ever turn my back on them. Through Murtagh I have tied myself to their order irrevocably.”

Nasuada forced herself to take a breath, and to speak softer.

“I know this may be hurtful for you to hear,” She said, “And if you are angry with me, I understand.”

Then Nasuada waited, and let Orik digest her words in the silence of the room under Farthen Dur. He looked long at the dwarven lantern that hung to their right, its light reflecting in his solemn eyes.

“This does not please me to hear,” Orik said finally, his voice gravelly, and Nasuada forced her face to remain calm, heart beating quickly, waiting for his next words.

“My grief for mine uncle is not yet so far from me that I can think of his killer with any warmth.”

Nasuada swallowed, and bit back her urge to defend Murtagh.

“But I allowed Knurla Duart to give him a chance at the Blood Tears Trial—and he passed the test, as any Knurla would.”

Orik shifted.

“Though he is no longer shunned, it would be a lie for me to say that I wish to ever be a friend to him, or that I am pleased to have you married to him.”

“I am not asking you to be Murtagh’s friend,” Nasuada interjected softly, “I accept that that may always be beyond your reach.”

She put out her own hands in surrender.

“If I were to somehow meet the very Urgals who slew my father—I cannot say that I would be willing to break bread with them either.”

She inclined her head.