Hi, all! This is a oneshot, for fanfic100 on livejournal. The prompt was No.65, Passing. Hope you like it!
Title: Passing Through
Author: flufflybunny
Rating: G (should be)
Disclaimer: Not mine; Paolini's; god knows he doesn't deserve it.
Prompt: 065--Passing
Summary: A slice of life on the run in Alagaesia, before Murtagh met Eragon-
-A small town, and a pretty girl.
Murtagh rides into town, cloak dusty and wet, Tornac heaving with exertion. It's a small town—if it was larger he wouldn't bother; no matter how uncomfortable he might be, making camp in the forest was always better than sleeping in a prison cell. In small towns he'll be remembered, maybe, but after the fact--and due to inbreeding most of them hate the King and wouldn't tell any soldiers they saw.
A pretty, brown-eyed girl spots him on his horse and waves. "Hello," she says, walking over and taking Tornac's halter. "You looking for a place to stay the night? And get a bath?"
He grins—this is the sort of girl he likes, sparky and kind and a little naive.
"If I might be so bold," he says, letting a little of his weariness seep into his voice.
She smiles, "My Da runs the inn. Come down and we'll get this beauty stabled." Her naivety is new to Murtagh; he's seen a lot of girls, but none who'd blithely welcome a stranger into their home. She must like his horse. He remembers when Caryn, one of the servant girls' daughters, went through a horse stage, and dismounts, keeping a hold of the reins, just in case. It never pays to be too careful, Tornac taught him, and he was right.
She says, "This way!" And leads him to the stable outside her father's inn.
Later they sit over dinner, next to a roaring fire, and she tells him about herself. She is fifteen, and she's never left Ticar, her town. Her name is Silva, and she dreams of travelling and sword-fighting, and she wants to join the Varden but her father won't let her, because she's a girl.
Murtagh thinks she is incredibly lucky. He's dealt with the Varden, and he's not looking forward to repeating the experience.
"I'm going to be a Dragon Rider, someday, and I'll save Alagaesia!" Her voice is low-pitched, at least, and soft.
Murtagh looks at her, and his heart breaks. How many of her are there, wanting to save the world with all their hearts?
He says, with all the good intent in the world, "No. You won't. There are no more eggs, and the king's men would find you and you would die. And that would be a pity."
Silva is hurt. She thought she could trust this rebel, who in her romantic's mind was an outlaw and fleeing the unjust King for trying to save the world. He's sure in a moment she'll come up with some justification—oh, there it is.
"You don't need to protect me. I've already got my father! And if there are no eggs, I'll steal a horse and ride to the Varden!"
Murtagh says, "They wouldn't let you fight, you know. They'd have you, I don't know, cooking or something. I've met them. Silva, they aren't nice people. They're ruthless. There are no heroes."
He is heartsick, and so incredibly tired. He bids her goodnight, and finds his room, and finally he sleeps.
When he dreams, he dreams of war and blood and pain, something the pretty girl in the inn would never understand, but it's all right. He doesn't remember his dreams, and in the morning he rides out like the armies of hell are behind him.
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