For Viridiana.S, a little something, as promised. I just banged my head against my writer's block until this fell out, and my friend says it actually makes sense! So enjoy.
*Disclaimer, obviously*
Someone told me that "there are pairings that are beautiful simply because they will never be together". But someone else told me about "a happy ending, even". And there's also the amazing The True Inheritance, or Eld Hljödhr abr Wyrda (but you knew that). And there's me and these weird themes stalking me. Behold ;)
(There's one little detail there that alludes to my previous MxN story and not to the canon, just so you know.)
Du Istalri Hljödhr
...
The candles give a soft, warm glow gently pushing the dark out of the ballroom. There are no magic lights; but the yellow flames reflecting in the sparkling gems and smoothly curving metals of the guests' exquisite attire create an atmosphere that is magical in its own way and right.
Nasuada smiles politely at the man in front of her, whom she recognizes, and lets herself be led for a dance. This is what a ball is all about; it is about dancing, she thinks, until your feet hurt and your heart soars. She is certain she heard that somewhere; and it sounds as tempting as improbable.
The long, wide sleeves of her ball gown hang from her wrists, her bracelets jingle as she moves and the dark-gold fabric of the mask fits her face closely, softly. This is what a masquerade ball is all about; it is about wrapping yourself in disguises, she thinks, until all the other disguises can be dropped.
...
Times passed when she would bare her arms so as to proudly display the scars from the Trial of the Long Knives; the scars she bears now are no less to be proud of, without a doubt, yet these she prefers to hide beneath the smooth and soft fabric of her gown. These scars run too deep, these scars would evoke more horror than respect, these scars are not the work of her own hands; the tale these scars tell is too dark and wounding, shrouded in a hurtful haze of despair yet all too vivid in her memory. These scars she covers from her own eyes as much as the eyes of friends and strangers in a feeble attempt to lock the wounds they represented out of her memory.
…
Nasuada is not Queen today.
At least, not as she dances among the candles with a man who is not an earl today. No more than everyone is anyone today, hiding behind colourful masks completing the masquerade of rich fabrics, extravagant fixtures and all that glamour normally employed to express the wearer's status, but this one evening concealing everything except that playful gleam shining through the holes for eyes.
Nasuada wonders if she has one, too.
The arrangement is, of course, more contractual than actual – and she particularly could hardly hope to pass unrecognized, the young Queen with the exceptional dark skin. But whatever it is, it is there, and she has her share to enjoy.
Nasuada wonders if she still has it in her to do so.
…..
It is not easy, either.
It never is, she thinks, regarding herself in the ornate, gold-framed looking-glass.
The Queen of a newly won kingdom has more pressing concerns than reliving her painful experiences, and she is glad of that; the long busy days and short nights with barely a wink of sleep leave little time for what she could call her trauma, or her nightmare, or perhaps her grief, had she bothered with attaching names to that sequence of agony and relief, hopelessness and hope, hatred and affection.
Indeed, she is thankful for that.
But there is something missing, always, even so.
…
Then she feels it. A light but unmistakable sensation of presence, a ghost of that touch on her arm; she almost turns around in alarm, but catches herself just in time, briefly irritated at her own uncharacteristic impulsiveness.
Nasuada smiles an absent little smile instead, and words play themselves in her mind – these same words that have always, or ever since then, meant him.
The awareness changes, as if in response, and she knows now they meet again.
…
Something, something, she never knows what; is it not all there, what she wanted? Yet perhaps there is that which she would not let herself want or wish for or dream of. And there has been but a seed of a possibility, perhaps, but is she not merely confused, overwhelmed by that mixture of memories…
She never knows.
And only occasionally does she contemplate the taints on her body and remember the hands that opened and sealed her wounds, the careful alliance, the treacherous dream, the whispers in between the screams, much and more of which lies deep within her heart.
…
He is here.
Nasuada's initial reaction was surprisingly natural, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world that he would come.
Not that she expected him to. She does not think about it. She does think of him, and often; she does recall their time together, that time in turns seemingly unreal and all too real, even if at times she would rather not; indeed, whenever that returns, she wants to think of him most of all, most of all not to think of other things, to sieve the recollections and leave but the almost surreally out-of-place, wounded understanding instead of the hurt piercing her flesh.
She is increasingly successful, too.
(But there always is the dark of the night.)
The farewell felt very final and all too final; tears traced down her cheeks for the world to see, for him as much as for herself, and stopped. A cry she gave, and a cry was enough.
Nasuada won a kingdom, she was if not healed, then mended with Elva's words and then there never was time.
There never is time, and now Murtagh is here.
…
She was upset, yes.
She was upset when he left.
However, would it have done any good if he had stayed? If they had stayed? She wants to believe she could have manage it all, make it work, that it would indeed be easier with him around; yet she finds it hard to believe.
She had felt the anger in his mind; she heard his reasons from Eragon; and most of all she has the words he gave her, the words that still bring understanding beyond any words. With them she could not argue.
So she looked as they disappeared into the sky.
That moment she recalls very clearly.
…..
He is here.
Nervous anticipation, unsure expectation fill her movements despite her attempts to conceal them and light a new sparkle in her eyes behind the mask; she is not certain how she feels or should feel or wants to feel in the perspective of seeing him again, seeing him now; but it is something that is happening and the one thing she is certain of is that it has to happen.
(She owes him so much, they all owe him so much, she made sure they knew, but it never helped much-)
And it is on this day, this very evening, when Nasuada is not who she is, but can simply be herself.
There was such a time once, but this is better.
…..
If there ever was something, if there is anything, it is this.
This she does know, but it does not help much.
She thinks she truly ought to discard such thoughts, she has duties, she has responsibilities.
But as of yet, it is not even possible; and as long as the thoughts do not interrupt much, she lets them be.
…..
He is here.
Nasuada knows him immediately; she feels she would always know him, no matter the garb, no matter the disguise, no matter the time or place. He is so unmistakably him that she wonders if everyone else won't recognise him too, and whether the magic of this night will let even him become a pair of shining eyes behind the mask, untroubled by suspicion and distrust.
Murtagh bends into a deep bow before her, and she responds with a curtsey, something she has not done in a long time; but she is not Queen today, and it seems an accurate manner of greeting in the absence of suitable words, and what words in the world could be suitable now.
(And if there is anyone she is prepared to curtsey before, it is him.)
Still bowing, he extends a hand in a smooth yet somehow hesitant, almost discreet motion, proffering it for her disposal; he lifts his eyes at her, these dark eyes set in a dark mask, and it is him who speaks first, in a voice that is slightly hoarse and very familiar,
"Shall we dance, my lady?"
"Gladly, my lord," she says, gently taking his hand, and she knows she is smiling, because the magic of the evening is at work and she knows they are given this night to play and pretend, and bring out that which is truest.
…
Perhaps she simply wants some of the magic for herself.
Not the magic of mages and Riders, but the magic of stories and eyes locked across a crowded room and yes, dances.
None of which had ever been magical for her yet; not for her, who had always had to be sensible.
…
It is strange, she reflects idly, to meet him in such normal circumstances, to do something as unoriginal as dance with him; then again it is not, not really, and it is not normal or usual anymore, not when it is him, not when he is here.
So once again she dances, but it is different now; now it matters, every moment and every turn, every second and every step, swift and smooth and natural, it means something precious; everyday is lost in the candlelight blurring with movement and forgotten for the one stolen instant while it feels as if their feet are only brushing the floor, likewise flames only brush the wicks, suspended in the warm air, flickering and alive.
Nasuada thinks she can, after all, take the evening for herself.
She is reminded once more of that one vision shown to her by the enemy who no longer is, that one vision particularly sly and cruel and alluring, and once again she wonders how much he knew and how much of it came from Murtagh's heart.
"I never thanked you," she says suddenly.
"There is no need to thank me."
Candlelight reflects in his eyes, blurring, glowing.
"We would never have succeeded, had it not been for you."
"That may be."
The tone of his voice is indifferent.
"You saved my life," she adds quietly.
"Yes. And have you forgiven me?"
Now his voice is strained again, and she is momentarily taken aback.
"I have," she answers, almost blurts, it is important, very important that he knows...
"Thank you," he says, and she thinks it has all turned backwards, but stays silent, because he sounds genuinely relieved.
….
Up until now.
Up until now.
….
After minutes or hours or seconds or years they slow down and stop, and stand, and slowly, he lets go of her and steps back with a bow.
Again, it is different. She gropes for words, but still none sound right and there is this sudden apprehension, is that it?
But the candles are still alight and the night is not over yet, so at least, she can ask.
"Where is your… friend, may I ask?"
"Nearby. Always nearby," he smiles briefly.
It is not a sight she is accustomed to. But she catches herself thinking she would like to be.
"And are you intending to stay?"
Now he smiles strangely under her questioning stare.
"Does my lady wish for us to stay?"
"It would be my pleasure," she says, simply, only.
"Indeed? We are most gratified." She still cannot read his expression, and waits.
In the silence, music starts to play again.
"Another dance, lady?"
...
That would do it. Thank you for attention.
Crossover time! Murtagh, honestly, go to the Wall. They erase all past crimes and they could really do with a dragon. Melting Others could do wonders for your anger issues.
Atra esterní ono thelduin~