A/N: Because I couldn't not write another Murtagh/Nasuada fic. Enjoy and leave a review :)
Murtagh glanced up from the patch of earth he had been examining to the sun that was steadily making its way towards the edge of the horizon. Evening was quickly approaching and it would soon be too dark to read any more tracks reliably. The group he was following had without a doubt come this way—it was time for him to turn his attention from hunting them to hunting down some dinner.
He turned back towards where his two companions were (mostly) patiently waiting for him. Owen, a young and somewhat anxious, high-strung man, was nervously fidgeting with the dagger at his waist, looking around uneasily at the sparse forest where they were currently stopped. His horse, having sensed his nervous energy, had his ears pricked forward, waiting tensely.
"Have you finished your inspection yet, sir? Best be moving on, if you ask me," he said, still eyeing his surroundings uneasily.
"Let the man work," his other companion reproached lightly. Steven, a man older than the other two combined, sat calmly on his dappled gray horse. He was everything Owen was not: lean and wiry where Owen was stout, composed where Owen always had something to be anxious about, and where the other man's face was young and cleanshaven, Steven had a gray beard to match his mount. Still, Owen was an accomplished magician, and more than made up for his nervous temperament.
"No, I've finished. Let's find a place to bed down for the night."
Murtagh hoisted himself back into the saddle and gently nudged Tornac forward with his heels. They traveled for about half an hour before they found a small clearing in a ring of trees that Murtagh claimed satisfactory. The three men dismounted and set about their camp duties—Owen collecting wood for a fire (they were still far enough behind their quarry to risk one), Steven tending to the horses, and Murtagh hunting.
Dinner was plain: a couple of rabbits Murtagh had caught and a bit of bread from their saddlebags. It was the third day of the hunt and they would have to start rationing their supplies more strictly.
They were quiet after dinner. Steven whittled a piece of wood while Owen could be heard practicing incantations under his breath. Murtagh stared into the flames of the campfire, noting the occasional flashes or green and blue Owen had snuck in with his magic. His mind wandered back to a few days ago, to the conversation that had led him to this place.
"I'm putting you in charge of this mission," Jörmundur had told him, after he had summoned him into his tent.
"Mission?" Murtagh had asked.
"Deserters," Jörmundur had said simply. "I'm afraid we've had quite a few of them recently. This battle that we're preparing for will be even bigger than the one under Farthen Dûr. People are scared, naturally."
He sighed. It was the sigh of a tired, overworked man, Murtagh noted. Jörmundur, while by no means young, was starting to show his age even more recently, the lines along his face growing deeper, his hair a darker shade of gray.
"Morale is at an all time low. Men are starting gather their wives and children and take them to safety. Can't they see? If we lose this war, there will be no safety anywhere, for them or their families. Do they think Galbatorix will forgive Surda after they have so openly pledged themselves to our cause? No, every last man is needed; we can't afford to lose even one more person."
He started to pace anxiously.
"We're lucky enough to have even one dragon rider on our side. Were any of Galbatorix's eggs to hatch, this war would be all but over. We need to finish it, and soon."
"And these deserters…?" Murtagh queried, trying to get Jörmundur back on track.
"Not just deserters, defectors. Traitors gone to join the empire. Some of the other men report having heard an alarming about of pro-empire and anti-Varden sentiment from them."
He shook his head angrily.
"And they weren't common foot soldiers either—they all had some level of command. Which means they likely have information about our movements we don't want to get into the empire's hands."
"And you want me to bring them back."
"There is little point for you to waste the energy in bringing them back when they would just be facing a death sentence," he said, looking at Murtagh pointedly. "I want them dead."
Murtagh was not thrilled at the prospect of having to kill, especially men who would be most certainly fleeing and not standing their ground. Though he showed less hesitation than most at killing when necessary, and he had naturally gotten in a lot of practice since he had joined the Varden, it left a bad taste in his mouth, and the faces of the men he slew often haunted his dreams.
This was certainly a situation in which it was necessary. Not only because valuable information was in danger of falling into the wrong hands, but because he had been ordered to—and he had sworn loyalty to the Varden—to Nasuada, and then Jörmundur when leadership transferred over to him. Jörmundur, while he was an honest man that Murtagh respected, he did not have the wisdom and quiet authority that Nasuada had commanded, nor the serene confidence that she naturally instilled into those around her.
If only she were here now, Murtagh had mused internally. We would not be having these problems.
He pushed the thought of her out of his mind. Though it had happened several months ago, the pain still felt fresh.
"Eragon tells me you are an excellent hunter, and an accomplished woodsman. I have heard about your travels to Farthen Dûr from him. He trusts you with his life, and I have decided to place my trust in you as well."
It had taken time and a lot of patience, but Murtagh had little by little managed to gain the trust that his unhappy lineage had unfairly cost him. Of course, having the backing from a dragon rider did not hurt, nor did the Varden's desperate need for soldiers.
"And will I be going alone?"
Jörmundur shook his head.
"I've chosen two other men to go with you. They are both strong and trustworthy, and more importantly, one is a magic user. His abilities will be quite useful during the journey."
"Understood."
"Three of you, and three traitors. Take care of things quickly and return—we'll be needing you for the next battle. You leave at dawn."
Murtagh briefly met with the men who were to be his new companions to discuss logistics, then went to his tent to prepare for the next day. He did not really have anyone to say goodbye to—Eragon was off training with the elves, and would most likely not come until right before the next battle. And the only other person he had ever really spent time with was…
Stop, he ordered himself. He did not have the time or the luxury to have these thoughts before an important mission. They came anyway, unbidden.
They had grown close in a surprisingly short amount of time. Ever since Nasuada had come to visit him in that windowless cell in Farthen Dûr, he felt drawn to her. Her beauty and elegance intrigued him, as did her cultured speech and refined manner. She was educated on a variety of topics and he found himself enjoying a conversation more than he had in quite a while. The only women Murtagh had ever conversed with before had been those of Galbatorix's court—shallow, grasping characters. Nasuada outclassed them all.
And Nasuada did not distrust Murtagh because of his unfortunate parentage, as many others did, a fact that initially baffled and pleased him. Even Eragon, after traveling together for months and saving his life more than once, had turned on him the moment he confessed. He had forgotten what it felt like to be trusted in spite of who he was.
And their personalities complemented each other, their temperaments matching perfectly. She exhibited all the values he admired in another person: she was intelligent, honest, confident in her abilities, kind, and not to mention exceptionally lovely.
After her father died and she had taken over command of the Varden, she had set him free, granting him official permission to leave. He refused it, choosing to swear loyalty to her instead. He would never forget that moment, looking up from where he knelt in front of her, the relief and joy palpable on her face.
They traveled side-by-side during the march to Surda, their easy conversation making the long trek on horseback much more bearable. She commented on his horse and wanted to know about the man it was named after, he admitted how surprised he was at how much she knew about fighting a war, she confessed she never really wanted to lead, but felt compelled by her sense of duty. They covered every topic in the world, yet somehow never ran out of things to discuss. Each day passed quickly, morning melting into afternoon, afternoon fading into evening, the bright pinks and oranges of the sunset peeking through the mountains surrounding them. Night covered them like a blanket, prompting more intimate conversation. They did not have the time or the luxury to be shy about their feelings for each other. They were at war.
For the first time, Murtagh started to wonder about his future after the fighting ended. Surely even someone like him deserved to have a family.
It happened on their last day of traveling. Two hard weeks they had spent trekking through the mountains, and finally they emerged onto flat ground. The sighs of relief from the haggard travelers were quite audible.
It was short-lived. There was an ambush waiting for them—perhaps they were Galbatorix's forces, or maybe they were just urgals wanting revenge for Farthen Dûr. Their numbers were not overwhelming, but they still amounted to a full battalion, and there were more than a few kull.
The Varden had anticipated safe passage in Surda and were unprepared for the battle. Though they managed to get the elderly, the children, and others who couldn't fight to safety, they lost many in the process. Nasuada fought bravely alongside Murtagh, despite protests from Jörmundur, but Murtagh was glad to have her watching his back. She was strong and fearless, striking down urgal after urgal.
A nasty kull stepped into Murtagh's vision and he was momentarily distracted by the sheer enormity of the beast. He managed a blow on one of its legs, bringing it to its knees, then removed its head with a powerful stroke. It was over quickly—it could not have taken more than a minute. But when he turned around, Nasuada was gone.
After the battle was over, they searched for their leader, but found nothing—no body, no weapons, not even remnants of clothes. They eventually gave up, coming to the conclusion that she must have been seized by one of the fleeing urgals and killed elsewhere. They had no doubt that she was dead.
Jörmundur was given emergency leadership, which was later made official in a formal ceremony once they made it to Surda's capital.
Murtagh's reasons for fighting with the Varden had vanished in a single unlucky moment that he had his back turned. He briefly considered leaving, but decided against it. Nasuada had dedicated her life to a cause she had believed in completely, and now that she was gone, he would fight in her stead. He found himself swearing loyalty once more, though this time the face looking down at where he knelt showed only caution in place of joy.
So here he was, in the middle of the forest with his two strange, yet dependable companions. It was a situation he would not have imagined for himself a year ago.
They traveled for three more days, getting much deeper into empire territory than Murtagh would have liked. He started pushing himself and the others more, traveling later and later into the evenings, relying on Owen's magic to light up tracks they came across.
They relied on gossip trails when they could no longer depend solely on physical ones. Owen made convincing disguises for himself and slipped into local pubs to flirt with the tavern girls or chat with the men as they drank away their exhaustion after a day's work. In spite of his anxious disposition, he could be quite charismatic when he wanted, and could usually find someone willing to tell him about the three strangers they had glimpsed riding past their town on horseback.
He heard many other kinds of gossip as well, and was happy to regale his companions with the most interesting tidbits over the campfire. This girl had gotten pregnant and ran away with the blacksmith's boy, a man in a nearby village had gone mad and tried to murder his family, a woman swore she saw the shadow of a winged beast one evening as she looked out the window, maybe it was the dragon of that Shadeslayer boy…
They set up camp a few hours outside of town. Owen and Steven took care of camp duties while Murtagh scouted around the perimeter, not sure exactly what he was looking for.
He had brought his bow with him in case he ran across any game, but he was surprised to find that there was little wildlife in the area. He could hear no sounds of birds overhead, nor rodents running through the underbrush. Instead, he found a plethora of broken branches and violent gashes on the trees, as if some wild beast had moved through the area, and a pretty sizable one at that. Whatever it was, it seemed to have frightened away all of the animals in the vicinity.
After a few more minutes of cautious exploration, he found himself emerging into a large clearing. Something at his feet caught his eye, and with the last of the quickly fading light, he bent down and examined the patch of ground in front of him.
He stood up quickly, cursing. After having traveled for months with one, how could he have not recognized the signs immediately?
The ground was covered in deep gashes and overturned earth, marks that would have been quite puzzling but for the few capable of recognizing what they were: tracks, belonging to a dragon. And they were fresh.
He turned back towards the direction of camp to warn his companions, but before he had even taken a single step, he felt a powerful blow to his head and lost consciousness.
He could hear shouting in all directions and the pounding of feet, some of the sounds alarmingly close. He was vaguely aware that he was lying on the ground and that his hands were tied behind his back.
He opened his eyes halfway. It was fully night now, but from the light of a nearby campfire and various torches scattered around, he could make out rows of tents. Men walked in and out of his vision, some of them wearing armor, and most of them carrying weapons.
He lay there for a second, dazed. Where was he?
His companions! Where were they? He moved his head as much as he could, trying to look around for them. He saw nothing.
"Hey," he heard a rough voice behind him and felt something hard forcing his head back to the ground, as if someone had a wooden staff and was driving the end of it into his skull.
"Look's like he's awake," another voice said. "Go tell the Lady Rider."
He winced as he sensed a pair of footsteps too close to his face, relaxing slightly as they hurried off. The pressure on his head did not lessen, and he waited quietly for whatever was coming next.
The voice behind him had mentioned a "Lady Rider." So those were dragon tracks that he had found, and it seemed as if their rider was female.
He felt a wave of anxiety as he realized what that meant. Galbatorix got one of his eggs to hatch! Jörmundur would be beside himself. The Varden would be hard-pressed to win the upcoming battle.
The battle… Jörmundur knew Galbatorix was rallying his forces to march in the direction of Surda. He must have stumbled upon the enemy encampment. Just as he was wondering why Owen hadn't heard of any rumors of soldiers in any of the taverns he visited, he could hear the footsteps returning, this time with a greater sense of urgency.
He heard a low voice above him and strained his ears.
"Food…to…after…tent."
He was suddenly pulled to his knees and the ropes binding his hands were quickly cut. The sharp point of a lance entered his field of vision, too close to his neck for comfort.
"Try to run, and I'll embed this in one of your legs," a voice said roughly.
A lump of bread and cheese were shoved in his hands and he was ordered to eat quickly. He did, and his hands were forced behind him the second he finished, once again bound with ropes. He was pulled to his feet.
"Walk," the voice behind him growled. He could feel the lance prodding his back.
They walked deeper into the camp and Murtagh absentmindedly wondered if the traitors had made it here, and if they had been accepted. Perhaps they had been welcomed the same way he had.
"Halt," the same voice barked and he stopped in front of the biggest tent, the tent of the rider, he supposed. So he was going to meet her. Having befriended one rider already, he wondered what this one would be like. How similar would she be to Eragon?
Perhaps not so similar, if she was working for a king so infamous for his cruelty.
He saw something move in the corner of his eye, next to the tent. His heart skipped a beat as he realized it was an enormous eye staring right at him, and that it belonged to a dragon.
Its emerald-green scales glinted in the light of the torches. The creature was massive—though the darkness hid most of its bulk, Murtagh could tell that it easily dwarfed the sizable tent it was reclining next to. Its gaze pierced through him, and he had the uncanny feeling that all of his secrets were laid bare before this beast.
Two men, one on each side, grabbed an arm and escorted him roughly into the tent.
"Lady dragon rider," one of them said reverently. "We've brought the prisoner as you commanded."
Murtagh glanced around the well-lit room, his intense curiosity eclipsing any fear he may have felt under normal circumstances. He had no idea why he had been called to have a personal meeting with this "lady dragon rider," but there was no reason for her to suspect anything of him.
His gaze halted on a figure sitting at a desk, and it took him a moment to comprehend what he was seeing.
A young woman, hair and skin as black as the darkness outside, dressed in plain leather clothes. She was writing something, a letter perhaps, and she took her time finishing before she acknowledged that she had been spoken to.
Time seemed to stand still as Murtagh took her in. He had not seen her in several months, and she remained frozen in his memory as he last knew her—fierce, defiant warrior cutting down urgal after urgal, wild excitement burning in her eyes.
Nasuada. The one in front of him could not have been more different.
Her appearance was similar, though she seemed slightly more muscular and her features more defined. It was the expression on her face that belonged to someone else. Her eyes still burned, but with a cool bitterness and resentment that he had once been familiar with himself. The kindness and quiet assuredness she had once worn were buried underneath caution and suspicion. When she finally looked up to acknowledge her subordinates, there was no compassion in the way she addressed them.
"Leave us. And do not come back in for anything, unless I call you."
They bowed and left quickly.
It was just two of them now, facing each other. The silence between them was a gaping chasm. It was Nasuada who crossed it first.
"Did you miss me, Murtagh?" The smile on her face mocked him.
A few moments passed before he remembered how to speak.
"How could I do anything else?" he managed to choke out.
"It seems like the rest of the Varden moved on quickly. They lost no time in naming a replacement for me." Her voice had a bitter edge to it.
"How could they do anything else? We're at war with a madman. Our leader was stolen from us and we were in chaos. We searched for you for days on end, but found nothing. We thought you were dead!"
Her gaze went straight through him, as if she was looking somewhere a thousand miles away.
"No, I am not dead, though I came close to it many times. You cannot begin to imagine the pain I have endured at the hands of that 'madman' since we last met."
Murtagh knew from firsthand experience about Galbatorix's fondness for torture, both physical and mental. "Do not forget that I grew up alongside the king. I know more than you think," he said quietly.
"You grew up alongside the king as the son of his favorite servant. I am—was—the leader of a movement attempting to undermine his authority and overthrow him. He tortured me endlessly. First, for all of the information I had about the Varden, then, once he had gotten that, for his own amusement."
Her voice was harsh, the pain evident in her voice.
"And it only got worse once Kieran hatched for me. As if the intense, brutal training sessions are not enough, I am forced to use my strength to kill those who I once devoted my life to help, and to oppose a cause that my own father helped found."
"Let me save you," Murtagh said, a quiet desperation in his voice.
"I have been forced to swear every oath in the ancient language that Galbatorix could come up with. He knows my name, both of our true names. There can be no salvation for me, lest it be through death at another's hand. Will it be yours, Murtagh? You would be saving my soul, and the lives of thousands."
He didn't know if it was a challenge or a request. Either way, it was not once he was ready to face.
"I could never," came his low declaration, revulsion evident in his voice. "And I do not think Eragon could either, had he the strength."
"Then you condemn me," she said, turning away from him. Her shoulders sagged. She did not carry herself as proudly as she once had, he noted.
"How could this have happened to us?" she lamented quietly to herself. "I knew I would never have a normal life, but I never expected anything like this."
"It should have been me. If I could, I would have taken all the pain in your stead."
Nasuada glanced back at him, admiring his figure. He had a serious expression on his face, his jaw clenched resolutely. He looked quite fierce, despite having his hands bound behind him.
"And I would not have let you," she said, her lips quirking. "I was always so determined to prove that I could handle any obstacle, any burden, as well as any man could. But I'm close to breaking."
"Then let me help piece you back together."
"And how will you do that?" she asked softly, moving closer to him. Murtagh suddenly found it much harder to concentrate.
"We once spoke of a future together."
"That future disappeared the moment the egg hatched for me."
"Eragon can do it. He can destroy the king."
"It is impossible. The king has been amassing power for decades, and he will only continue to get stronger. I have sworn an oath not to divulge any of his secrets, but he has magic to make himself powerful without limit."
"That can't be possible," he contested. "He must reach a limit somewhere."
"And yet it is." She shook her head. "No, the future we once dreamed of is gone. I will have to abandon those desires and focus on the ones within my reach."
"And what is it that you desire? In this very moment." His heart was beating quite fast now.
She looked at him appraisingly.
Her eyes were dark as she answered. "To claim you as my spoils. To take you with me wherever I go and have you warm my bed in the evenings."
The room felt suddenly very warm. She narrowed the distance between them, until their faces were only inches apart. She reached her arms around him and he felt his bonds slackening as she cut them. He had not even realized she was holding a dagger, so absorbed was he in their conversation.
She threw the blade to the side and moved her hands to his chest. He placed his hands tentatively on her waist, as if he had not yet decided whether to push her away or draw her in to him.
"You told me once on our journey to Surda that you loved me. Is that still true? Or have you found a more suitable woman, one who isn't a dragon rider and technically your enemy?"
"My feelings for you have not changed."
"Then show me," she breathed.
His arms tightened around her, and he crushed his lips against hers, trying to convey all of the passion he felt for her in a single kiss. She returned it, sliding her hands up his chest and tangling her fingers in his hair. Murtagh had forgotten what bliss felt like.
She moved her hands back to his chest and began to undo the laces. He let her pull off his tunic and kicked it aside. Her hands slid up to the knot at the back of his neck and traced her fingertips down the long, jagged mark etched into his skin. He shuddered. He had never let anyone touch his scar before and it felt strangely intimate, almost more so than the way they were already touching.
She began to lead him to the low bed behind them and gently pushed him down onto it, until he was sitting up and she was straddling his hips. She guided his hands up to the laces at the back of her shirt and he undid them readily, relishing the sight of the fabric sliding down her smooth, ebony shoulders. He tugged it down the rest of the way, admiring her form and how agonizingly soft her skin looked. She placed her hands on his and brought them to her breasts, and he closed his eyes as she leaned forward into him, letting the night envelop them as they enveloped each other, their shapes intertwining, gasps and passionate whispers filling the room.
They held each other close after their lovemaking, waiting for their heartbeats to slow. Nasuada's back was pressed against his chest, and he ran his fingertips along her side, over her hips, admiring the way her body curved. She shivered and turned towards him, pressing her lips once more against his.
After a few minutes, she pulled away, looking at him. He examined her face as well, noting that her expression had softened, but that the bitterness was still there, just buried. He wanted to kiss her until it disappeared, along with the unfortunate circumstances they had found themselves in.
"And what will Jörmundur say once he finds out you slept with an enemy commander?" she teased gently.
"If he finds out," he corrected. "Besides, I swore an oath to you before him. My loyalty lies with you more than it does with the Varden."
"That's not a good thing," she said, nuzzling her face in his shoulder. "Considering who my loyalty lies with."
Murtagh considered that fact silently, frustrated with how little power he had to change the situation he had been suddenly confronted with.
"If I asked you, would you stay with me?" Her head rested on his shoulder and her hand traced patterns on his chest. "Would you fight for me? Change sides for me? Betray your comrades for me?"
He didn't answer. She didn't press any further.
Murtagh drifted off to sleep, trying not to think about what the morning would bring. He was technically still a prisoner, he was sure, though probably one with special privileges. He could not decide whether or not that was a good thing.
She roused him before dawn and ordered him to get dressed quickly. She waited impatiently outside the tent while he pulled on his clothes and fumbled with the laces.
He stepped outside and was surprised at the lack of guards—at least, those who were conscious, he realized.
"Magic," Nasuada explained. "They won't even realize we were gone."
She failed, however, to explain where it was exactly that they were going.
She directed him to climb onto Kieran, who gave him a flat stare, then slowly lowered his massive body to the ground so Murtagh could hoist himself up onto his back. She climbed up in front of him, fastened her legs to the saddle, and instructed him to put his hands around her waist.
They flew for what seemed like an hour before they slowly began to descend. The sky was still dark, only a sliver of moonlight to guide their way. Either Kieran's eyesight was significantly better than his, or he was relying on other senses to lead him. Probably both, he decided.
They landed heavily in what seemed to be a small copse of trees. Nasuada dismounted and Murtagh followed her example, unsure of where they were and what was to happen next.
She was silent for a moment. He could just barely make out her features in the moonlight.
"I've been using magic to hide the troops' movements," she began to explain. "You stumbled right into the middle of our camp yesterday, though you couldn't see it."
That explained a lot. Murtagh felt like an idiot for being so careless.
"We'll be there in a week's time. Go ahead and tell Jörmundur. I'm sure that will give you enough time to call Eragon and get your troops prepared for battle. It will not be an easy one."
It took a moment for her words to sink in. She was letting him go.
"So you are giving up your claim to your spoils?" he ventured.
A smile played on her lips and she put her hand to his face.
"I have not fallen so far just yet. Galbatorix has plans for you should you ever be unfortunate enough to find yourself his captive. I am determined to not let that happen as long as I can."
"He will punish you for letting me go."
"Yes," she agreed, "and he will most certainly come up with new oaths for me to swear as well. You should be more careful the next time we meet. Because we will meet again, and soon. That is inevitable."
She lowered her hand. "This war will end before too long, and only one of us will emerge as the winner. Do not think that just because I sympathize with your cause that I will go easy on you. Eragon has a difficult battle to prepare for."
Murtagh did not relish the idea of telling his friend that their former leader had a dragon, was their enemy, and that he would soon be facing her in battle.
"And what about my companions?" he suddenly remembered. "The ones I was traveling with when you captured me. Will you release them as well?"
"What companions?" she asked, smiling.
She planted a light kiss on his lips and began to back away, towards Kieran.
"Goodbye, Murtagh. I shall see you on the battlefield. Let us hope for a time that we can meet again as lovers, and not as enemies."
He watched her mount her dragon, who swiveled his head around and stared at him with one bright eye before unfolding his powerful wings and leaping into the sky. Murtagh watched them go, his heart bursting with too many emotions he couldn't name.
Wishing that Nasuada had pointed out the location of camp before she left, he picked a direction and hoped for the best.
There was nothing more he could do now than hope.