Wow it's been ages since I've written anything, and even longer since I've strayed into the Inheritance fandom (funnily enough the first fandom I ever wrote for). This is lovely piece of smut that I've had sitting around half finished on my computer for ages. But behold I have completed it! For now it's a one shot but I may add more to it if I have the time/feel the inspiration. Enjoy and please let me know what you thought.
Hum the Song the Soldiers Sing
"O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing."
Two fingers—index and middle—tapped rhythmically on end of a carved armrest. Upon all sides of the great carven table bawdy laughter rose up in gales. Smoke from the smoldering pit rose in curling plumes to where a hole had been cut in the fabric ceiling of the pavilion. Music rose up from the corner, where a girl beat a small drum against the flat of her hand, raising up her voice to the tune of a ridiculous ballad.
Raising the goblet to his lips Murtagh took a long sip of the strong northern wine. The garnets upon the silver cup shone the color of dried blood in the dim light. Thick and heady he doubted it would take more than a few mugs to guarantee him an untroubled sleep.
All round the table sat King Galbatorix' commander's at arms. Old men mostly whose armor was too tight over their silk garments and expanding stomachs. The financial accounts and supply reviews had long ago been abandoned and now they laughed loudly, spilling wine across the already stained table cloth.
As always his minds strayed away, searching for a now familiar presence.
You're drunk Murtagh. Thorn's thoughts grumbled across their mental link
Sadly not yet. Though I swear if this blasted rain doesn't let up… The army had idled for over two weeks by the shores of the river as they waited for the autumn rains to cease and for the gorged waterway to return to its usual size. The waiting had seemed into Murtaghs bones, setting a restless itch beneath his skin.
I'm sure it will, it cannot go on forever. Thorn chimed but Murtagh's thoughts were still black. Try to distract yourself.
I am.
Drinking yourself into an early grave goes not count.
Murtagh could have mustered more than a few choice words for Thorn's criticism of his drinking—what did he know?—but he still set down the goblet. Take me hunting with you then.
The twins would not allow it. Thorn was right of course. He had only been permitted to leave the camp to hunt, and even then only when absolutely necessary. The unnatural magic that had stretched Thorn's body had also left him with a voracious appetite that the sedentary army's herds alone could not satisfy if they were to also feed the troops. Murtagh could hardly claim the same excuse.
I'm sure you can find something to occupy yourself until we can fly again.
Easy for you to say, I—but the dragon had severed their mental connection.
Murtagh scowled as Lord Berric heaved his immense girth out of his chair
"My good lords!" The pavilion went quiet, the singer warbling on before she too lapsed into silence. "May our swords be sharp and the blood of those traitors flow fast, eh? To the King!"
"To the King!"
"To the King." Mechanically Murtagh raised the cup. He pressed the cold metal to his lips but did not drink. To the King and his justice. Long may he reign.
"Dance for us girl!" Called out a man, and soon many others had taken up the cheer as well.
The singer, who had until that point wisely confined herself to the shadowy corners of the tent bounded forward. She was barefoot Murtagh noted disdainfully as she leapt up onto the table, scattering parchment and dishes alike.
Murtagh resumed tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair as the girl's drum came to life with a steady thud thud thud. She stamped her feet keeping time with the beet. Smoke from the brazier and from a dozen pipes swirled through the pavilion, clawing for escape against the black silk fabric. Hardly modest, the singer pranced about like a camp girl. Her skirts were drawn up about her ankles and a few greedy men leaded forward in hopes of glimpsing more.
Round and round she spun, until Murtagh looked away for fear of growing dizzy.
"Girl! Come, his highness needs more wine!" It was Barst, slim now divested of his custom made armor, whose voice cut through the muddled conversation once the drum beat had faded away. Like a cat the girl leapt down from the table and snatched up a pitcher.
She bent forward bronzed curls falling in her face as she made to refill the not yet empty goblet. Her eyes were dark, so brown they were almost black.
"What's your name?"
She gave him a crooked smile. "Yasha, m'lord"
"You are a singer?"
She drew herself up proudly. "Yes m'lord. What of it?" There was the slightest hint of an accent upon her tongue, as if this language was not her first.
"Nothing."
The girl smiled again though this time she did not show her teeth "Did you think I was a camp whore?" She nodded her chin to where Barst sat. "You wouldn't be the only one."
Bold isn't she. Thorn's thoughts thrummed with something near amusement.
"You presume too much." Murtagh's ire was rising. Perhaps he had thought it. But now he considered her she was too pretty to be one of those common camp girls, peddling their bodies to commanders and common foot soldiers alike.
Careful. Thorn chided.
Oh, are you a dragon or a dormouse? Murtagh shot back. Thorn only snorted.
"Do I?" She had raised an eyebrow and Murtagh wondered vaguely if she was teasing him.
"Here, sit." In an effort to smooth his fraying nerves he proffered the chair beside him, the other had prudently left a buffer of a vacant chair or two between themselves and Morzan's spawn. She sank down beside him and if any of the other officers minded they were not about to voice their complaints.
"You sing very well."
"Thank you m'lord." She dipped her head again. Her curls bounced and he wondered what it would be like tangle his hands in them. He decided he would have her then.
"I have not seen you before. Do you perform here often?" He so rarely joined the bulk of Galbatorix's courtiers. It was an activity he avoided on principle.
"I try to avoid it," She admitted, "but coin is coin."
She has captured the essence of it. Thorn was amused.
Yes. Murtagh picked at spot on the tables polished surface. I wonder how many of these fat men would be here if the King didn't keep their coffers full.
I wonder if we would be here if we had a choice.
"Perhaps you will come sing for me some time." Murtagh brushed Thorn's words away and fixed Yasha in his gaze. "In private."
She laughed, low and soft. "Suppose I didn't presume too much after all." With a rustle of skirts she rose from the chair, gripping the serving pitcher with white knuckled hands. "Excuse me m'lord, I have cups to fill."
She turned her back to him, hips swaying ever so slightly as she made her way down the table. Murtagh tracked her as she flitted between the various commanders, always careful to keep just out of their reach. Once or twice her eyes strayed to meet his dark stare, but she always glanced away just as fast. He supposed she was in truth rather plain, with dark hair, and a spray of freckles across her nose. There were far greater beauties among the court of Urubane. Yet when compared to the opulent decay that seemed to linger about the old officers she was brilliant. Plain and lovely and so alive.
A few more rounds of the table, then as she passed him once more he reached out with a deftness that few others would follow. Yasha froze. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, dark eyes catching his for a moment.
"M'lord." It was barely a whisper.
Keeping her wrist trapped in his grip he leant forward. He could hear the intake of her breath as he whispered into her ear. "There is a guard wearing my sigil outside. He will escort you to my tent."
Her face remained impassive. "If that's what you wish M'lord." She tore away from his grip but not before Murtagh fancied he caught a deep flush rising on her cheeks. He watched as she slipped through the entrance to the pavilion and out into the night beyond.
Murtagh frowned, wondering if his restlessness really was getting the better of him.
The guard deposited Yasha before a well-appointed tent. The sun had long ago set and above the sky was a net of glimmering stars. She hesitated but the man who had escorted her gestured that she was to enter and she drew back the flap with a shaking hand.
Lord Murtagh's tent was spacious, far more so than her own. The richness of the furnishings dazzled her. A large bed, carved of some dark wood and heaped high took up much of the space. Absently she ran a hand along one of the furs. Wolf fur, it was thick and soft. His Lordship would not be getting cold in the winters. There was also a desk littered with books and pieces of parchment and brazier around which crowded a few low chairs.
The Dragon Lord was not there and Yasha sunk down into a chair to wait. The coals glowed red hot. She held up her hands and watched the dim light spill between her fingers. Outside she could hear the gourds laughing amount themselves. She half wished she was out there as well.
You did this for yourself. An unpleasant voice whispered in her mind. And of course she had, hadn't she. She shouldn't have been so bold, shouldn't have drawn his attention. And oh god's why did I address him so casually? There were more than enough whispers about the Lord to know better. One of the army laundresses claimed he fed those whom he defeat in battle to his dragon and she had hear more stories beside.
Yasha shuddered at the thought.
Still he had not seemed like a monster really, certainly less so than the others. He had not even tried to look down her blouse once. Certainly there was something strange and removed about him, like some dark prince from a story. It's his eyes. The thought of them still sent a tingle down her spine. There is a dangerous man. She had though when she'd first laid eyes on him. In that moment Yasha cursed every ounce of fearlessness she possessed in her body.
"Mistress Yasha."
She sprang to her feet so fast she almost toppled forward, and bowed. "M'lord." The Lord Murtagh stood in the entrance of the tent.
"Murtagh will do." His stare was just as intense as it had been at dinner, if not a bit more sobered. "Sit." She returned to her place by the brazier and nervously tracked the motions of his hands as he unstopped a flask and poured the contents into two goblets. "Will you take wine?"
"I do not drink m'lo-Murtagh." She caught herself.
The shadow of what she guessed at a smile hovered on his lips. "Then you'll have to start."
With white knuckles she took the heavy metal from him and raised the cup to her lips. She grimaced. "It's vile you know."
This time he really did smile. "I'll send you complaints to the kitchens. I'm sure they'll make it top on their priorities." He took a sip from his own cup. "I should not have spoken to you like that, though perhaps it was honest."
He regarded her as she took another sip, crinkling her nose. It felt as if his stormy eyes were swallowing her up.
"Will you sing for me?"
"Sing?"
"I did say I wanted you to sing for me, did I not?"
Yasha swallowed, she hadn't expected him to really want her to sing. Hadn't that just been a clever turn of phrase? Surely that would not be all he wanted. Still Lord Murtagh sat expectant.
She picked a song she knew well, one her mother had sung to her often as she drew the comb through her daughter's hair. It was an old ditty about the first snowfall, full of superstition and symbolism. The words were in the northern tongue but if Lord Murtagh minded that then it did not show on his countenance.
Yasha finished on a low note that faded away into the darkness.
Lord Murtagh nodded. "Where are you from Mistress Yasha? Your language is strange to me."
"North. North as north goes I suppose."
"Past Ceunon?"
She nodded thinking of the dark forests and cold winters of her childhood. "My father was a trapper you see."
"Indeed." A strand of dark hair had fallen between Lord Murtagh's brows.
She took another sip of the wine and found she did not mind it as much. "Forgive my boldness but you said you were being honest earlier. Then I must ask, you did not bring me here just to sing for you did you?"
"No." She fancied she saw something in the lines of face, a sort of hunger. It threatened to spill out and eat her alive. "I find you quite lovely."
Yasha dropped her eyes and felt heat burning her cheeks. "Do you seek to embarrass me?"
"If you wish to leave you can." A strong hand cupped her chin and brought her eyes level with his once more. "But you won't"
She could barely raise her voice above a whisper. "I told you I'm not a whore. You can't buy me."
He still had her face firmly captured in his hands and now he drew her close, pulling her from her own chair and onto his lap. One of his hands laced round to her waist and Yasha suddenly felt far too warm. "Couldn't I?"
"You're a wicked man." She meant it too. He was like some dark thing out of the tales her mother used to tell. Yasha's lips parted then closed once more. She was drowning. Her heart hammered so loudly she wondered if he might hear it.
"Indeed." A hand gripped her waist suddenly and he pressed his lips against her with a force that made her gasp. Yasha found her hands tangled in his dark hair ad he drew her onto his lap. She could feel the tightness in his breaches beneath her. Through the fabric of her own dress one of his hands found her breast. A little moan bubbled up past her mouth though she tried to quell it.
Murtagh's lips left hers and planted little kisses down her neck that made her breath hitch in her throat. His breath tickled her ear. "Name your price."
He's going to have me no matter what. She realized. And I'll let him. She couldn't refuse the pull of those strong hands, the whisper of his lips. But even a fool would not give herself up for nothing at all. Not when he could offer her anything.
"I want a lyre, the kind with good strings." The demand came tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop herself. The meager coins she earned performing for soldiers could not have ever added up to an instrument like that. Not when she also had to eat. If she was going to whore herself to this man then she was going to take what she could.
"So you do have a price then?"
She shrugged easily and pushed down every last shred of shame. "No. But since you'll likely have me either way I might as well try."
He regarded her rather seriously. "Deal."
Oh gods, I'm going to be known as the girl who sold herself for an instrument. Yasha wondered if that should bother her more than it did.
"Good, now take off your dress." Murtagh's tone left no room for refusal.
She slipped from his lap and stood, swaying slightly in the center of the tent. Steeling her breath she pushed her dress down over her shoulders. It settled to the ground with a rustle and cool air pricked at her skin. "Better?"
Murtagh surveyed the girl standing naked before him. The brazier had set strange shadows to dance across her skin. A good deal of scars spread like spider webs across the skin of her arm and legs but he hardly minded. Beautiful.
"Much." He stood from the chair, rather ungracefully as he knocked over his cup doing so. His own tunic, undershirt and boots he deposited in a pile by the cluttered desk. As the fabric fell away, revealing the skin of his back Murtagh waited for the soft intake of breath he knew as inevitable.
A fingertip tickled along his spine. The girl traced the twisted line carved in his flesh.
Quickly he turned, gripping her arms to her side so that she could not reach out and touch him. Confusion flashed in her eyes, bright and fleeting. The light of the coals painted streaks of bronze through her hair.
"You have been wounded?"
"Yes. I have." Lazily he cast himself upon the bed, one hand working the laces of his breaches. Yasha's eyebrows had drawn together in confusion. "Now come to bed."
"But how did—"
"I do not wish to speak of this." Before this he had kept his voice soft but now steel crept into it. He saw her expression harden as she understood the command. "Come."
She settled softly on the fur and silken sheets, the soft feathers of the mattress yielding slightly beneath her. He admired her as she reclined, the firelight casting a rosy glow across her skin. She quirked her head and smiled crookedly at him.
With a hand he reached out to pull her closer. She met him with warm lips, arms encircling him
"M'lord. M'lord." Her voice was a low murmur in his ears as his hands ran between her legs.
Murtagh hissed as teeth nicked at his neck. "I told you not to call me that." He repaid the favor, biting down on the skin of her throat.
"Murtagh then." She panted. There was something savage in her eyes when he drew back. "Do you like me like this Murtagh?"
Very much. He might have said but that would have been too many words. Instead he snarled and released her, sending her sprawling across the fur.
Yasha bared her teeth at him.
None too gentling he forced her down, onto her knees. Hands gripped at the soft skin of her hips. "Are you going take like this? Like a tavern whore?"
"I could."
"Yes, you could." She twisted slightly so to look at him. Her breath was ragged, "But I don't think you want to."
"You're right. I want to see your eyes." She was quite light and it was no hard feat for him to flip her about on the mattress. She stared up at him with and smiled. Her eyes were darker than ever, spilling over with a wild savage glee.
Murtagh drove down on her with an utter lack of restraint and he heard her cry out. She was smaller than he'd expected. Momentarily he slowed his movements and pressed his forehead to hers. Lashes tickled his skin. Yasha gasped as he began to move once more. Her hands gripped his forearms. As he set his pace she arched her back against the mattresses, her hair fanning out around her hair like a pool. Little moans rose out of her mouth wantonly and Murtagh knew he was little better.
With a hand beneath her he drew her up further, unto him. Finger nails scratched down his back. Perhaps she would draw blood, perhaps not.
He was certain the guards—and maybe half the camp—heard when he finally came, collapsing with cry. Sweat clung to them both as he rolled out from on top of her, fur and silk yielding softly beneath him. Beyond the glow of the tent the night noises of the camp continued on undisturbed. A cool breeze had blown out of the north. Through half lidded eyelids Murtagh could see the tent flap snapping with it.
Somewhere he was vaguely aware of Yasha, the tickle of her breath against his skin and the soft curtain of her hair. He caught her wrist as she made to slip from the bed.
"Stay."
Her weight settled on the mattress beside him, one hand running along the planes of his chest. She was whispering but whatever she said escaped him.
Murtagh drifted to sleep on the words of a lullaby he could not understand.