Her name was Driza. And she came from a poor family; farmers, the kind who never had enough money, and always had too many mouths to feed. Driza was lucky, in some respects, to have escaped the mundane fate that befell her other siblings, although, looking back, there where times when she would have happily accepted toiling away in some Gods-forsaken field.
Driza was not a beauty to be admired. She was a plain, skinny, tall girl who grew up to be a plain, skinny, tall woman. Her hair a dull brown, and eyes the color of wilted grass. It was not good looks that took her away from that stinking village. It was skill. The skill of knowing what plants would stop your blood from flowing out an open wound. The skill of knowing which leaves would send you into a painless death. The skill of having hands that could mend a broken bone.
A healer, and a good one at that, her skills with herbs was what ultimately shaped her future. At the age of sixteen, she got up and left, falling into step with the traders as they left her village that spring. Driza didn't look back at her old life that day, as she walked down the dirt road that had once been the edge of her world.
And she never saw her family again.
First, Driza was just a wandering healer, going where the traders went. But this life was not one that she enjoyed. The traveling traders were a hardened, self-dependent bunch, and had little need for at outsider. She stopped at an inn one night, and stayed, her days of travel over.
Too ugly to be a barmaid, Driza worked in the kitchen, preparing food and scrubbing done the plates. She would have stayed there forever, but by chance, a injured nobleman appeared, in desperate need of a healer's hand. There was no one else around, not for miles, and by the time a messenger went out and brought back a doctor, it would be too late.
So Driza cleaned her hands of day-old food, and reached inside the groaning man's stomach to set his intestines right again. When the nobleman left, he took Driza with him. After all, a healer was a good thing to have around. And with that nobleman she stayed, for three years, calling him Master, and fixing up the hurts that needed to be fixed. Driza thought her Master was a good man, an ordinary, simple Lord who oversaw the farms that had helped feed the world for hundreds and hundreds of generations.
But what Driza didn't know what that her Master was a rebel, one who opposed the rule of the King. His crops and stores of grain went to the Varden, as well as his gold and his loyalty. She didn't find out the truth until soldiers were setting fire to the fields, and the servants were being rounded up, like loose cattle.
One man, whom the soldiers all seemed to respect and fear in equal turns, the man they called Morzan, looked down, and saw the callouses on her hands. "A healer?" He asked her.
And Driza nodded.
She left with him that night, her hands tied tightly in front of her, sitting on his fine war-horse, after watching all the other servants be slaughtered by the man she would soon call Master. Later, Driza learned Morzan was a Rider, as well as King Galbatorix's right hand man. Over time, she would learn several more things about the blue-and-black eyed man. He was terrifying as he lost his wits when drunk, domineering, impatient, clever when it came to the ways of war, cruel and completely without morals.
His consort was the same way. And Driza could only be glad she had been born ugly.
XxX
"You there, girl! How old is your son?" Morzan's two-colored eyes fell on Driza, and she looked up. Five years of serving in his castle, and she was still 'girl'. Never mind the fact that she was old enough to be married and bear children.
"He will be one month in a week, Sir." She said calmly, going back to washing the blood from her coarse, rough hands. Selena, ruthless and powerful woman that she was, had a frail, weak body that belittled her past as a farmer's daughter. The first birthing was always the hardest, but this one had been especially so. There had even been a point when Driza had thought the unborn child wasn't going to make it.
The mother's life was worth more.
But Driza was known for never giving up. So she grit her teeth, ignored the stench of blood and Selena's wails, and brought into the world the first and only son of Morzan. The tiny child's cries as he filled his lungs with air for the first time was the most beautiful sound Driza had ever heard.
Selena had not seemed to care, only asking "Is it out already?" as if the child she had carried within her for nine months was nothing more than a cancerous cell.
Morzan seemed not to have heard her. "Selena has more important duties to this Kingdom that mothering some just-born babe." He spat out the word 'babe' as if it were the most vile of curses. "Take the child, and raise him as your own. She will have no need to care for him. I shall see to it that, once old enough, the boy is turned into a proper noble. Until then, keep him out of the way."
Driza did not even blink at his instructions. They were, after all, to be expected. "And what shall I name the child, Sir?" Names were important, and every child deserved one, even a bastard-child like the one she would soon raise.
But Morzan, who was already gone, did not hear.
Driza named the baby Murtagh, and wished somehow that the milk Selena drank a potion to rid her breasts of could somehow be absorbed into her own body.
XxX
Murtagh was three when Morzan, in another drunken rage, threw the sword at him. Home for a day, Morzan had demanded an audience with his son, wanting to see the young boy's progress. Driza had been standing quietly in the shadows, Murtagh stood in front of his fearsome father. And Morzan sat in a throne-like chair, eyes burning with a blue-and-black fire.
She could not even remember what Murtagh had said, or done, to make his father react in such a way. All Driza knew was suddenly, her heart was beating fast, fast, fast out of fear. Tears were sliding down her adopted son's face. And Morzan was on his feet, screaming at the petrified boy. A hand blurred through the air, there was the smack of flesh-on-flesh. Murtagh tumbled to the ground, one cheek aflame, and brown eyes wet as even then, he tried to put on a brave face for the man known as 'My Lord'.
Out of fear, the boy turned and ran in the direction of the woman he calls mother. The torchlight reflected off a silver blade as it flew through the air, slicing across Murtagh's back. He cried out, falls to the floor. And there was blood everywhere, matching the red gem that glitters in the sword's hilt.
In an instant, Driza was kneeling by Murtagh's side. Already, his bright brown eyes are dull, and his flesh cold. He's going to die, unless she acts quickly. Gathering the boy close to her chest, Driza fled, rage and hate pounding through her blood as she sprints down the shadowy halls.
She wants to kill Morzan! She wants to kill the man who laughs aloud as a servant woman races against time to save his son.
Murtagh survived, but just barely. And nothing Driza can do will make that scar, stretching from shoulder to hip, fade. Each year, it stays the same. Red, raw, twisted and rough. A testimony to the limits of a human healer.
Selena never enquired about her son's heal. Three months past before she and Morzan returned to the castle. Driza did not even know if Selena had been told about the incident that occurred between her husband and son.
But as Selena looked down distainfully at the dark-haired boy who clung to a servant woman's skirt and looked up at the woman who birthed him in apprehension , Driza understood.
Selena knew. She just didn't care.
XxX
When first ordered to raise Murtagh as if he one of her own, she did not know quite what to do. He was on odd child, never crying or screaming until his face was purple like her birth son Leon was prone to do. Murtagh was quite and calm, withdrawn even. Not to mention that he was a nobleman's son. The knowledge that at any minute, Morzan could swoop in and take Murtagh back made it hard for Driza to establish a bond with the black-haired child.
And Driza was unnerved by that. How could she not be, knowing the extent of his father's cruelty? And so while she raised the Dragonrider's son along side her own, Driza did not quite care for him. Not at first.
Several things could be attributed to Murtagh's entrance into Driza's heart. One was when she saw Leon's father, marching in place with the rest of the soldiers under Morzan's control. And remembered that even her son, her own flesh and blood, had not been conceived willingly. Another was the way Leon smiled and greeted each day with happiness, while Murtagh merely stared, solemn and silent, like happiness was not something he knew. And finally, her heart as it ached when Morzan jeered and taunted the bewildered little boy, and Selena dismissed him, brushing Murtagh off whenever he bravely tried to pluck at her skirts. He had no family, Driza realized. And if she didn't treat Murtagh the right way, like a mother should, then no one would.
From that point on, Driza did her best to treat both boys equally and fairly. She reached out and hugged Murtagh, holding him close, even if at first he was as stiff and unrelenting as a metal staff. She held them both when thunder cracked through the air like a whip, or when Murtagh awoke sobbing from nightmares that too would leave Leon frightened.
The only fight they over got into was over fathers. Morzan had just given Murtagh a shiny, new dagger. Murtagh, proud to finally have something given to him from his father out of 'affection', spent the day stabbing and lashing out at invisible enemies, the bright blade flashing in the sunlight. Leon had watched sullenly, something akin to greed in his eyes. Finally, when Murtagh put to dagger down, Leon snatched it up, dancing away impishly to examine the blade himself. Possessively, Murtagh had tackled his brother, and all too soon the two were clawing and biting, every bit of resentment they had ever known in their short lives pouring out.
"At least you have a father who cares about you!" Leon had shouted, his attempts to throw Murtagh off coming up futile.
But even at a young age, Murtagh, who was bigger and stronger, knew better than that. "My father doesn't love me. He doesn't even care about me! I'm nothing to my parents!" He had snarled.
Driza had separated them with a strong clout upside the head. Leon's right eye was beginning to bruise, and blood leaked from his nose. Murtagh's lip was split, and there was a long scratch along his left cheek. "Neither of you have fathers whom you should be boasting about!" Driza had told them sharply. "And this is a foolish thing to fight about. You are not your fathers, nor do either of your fathers care the slightest about you. To them, you are nothing." Harsh words, but Druza had softened them by planting a kiss atop each boy's head. "But you have me. And I'll always love you, no matter what."
XxX
"You are with child again, are you not, My Lady?" Driza's voice is careful and low. She is not afraid of Selena's wrath, far from it. This woman can do nothing to hurt her. Instead, she is afraid of being overheard.
Murtagh and Leon are already tucked safely under the cover of the twin bed they share, and are fast asleep by this time, worn out by a day of play and excitement. She is more fearful of Morzan's spies; always loyal, everywhere, merciless. Very much like and very much unlike the woman who now stands in front her her.
Selena's brown eyes widen in surprise. "How did you find out?" She whispers, fear apparent in her eyes.
Driza says nothing. "I am a healer, My Lady. It is my job to know such things. Any fool would have been able to understand your meaning when you requested new cloths, saying your current attire had grown too small. I have not washed blood from your sheets in a long time, My Lady. And there is dirt from the gardens on your floor."
"I cannot stay here." Selena confines, leaning close to Driza, her hands flapping nervously. "I must leave, and no one can know! Most certainly not Morzan! I must disappear into the night...my child, this child. He cannot be born here." She placed a hand on her belly, and smiled such a tender smile that Driza was shocked. "He, I know it child will be a he, deserves happiness and love. I cannot allow a child of mine to be raised in a place like this."
And then Selena, Morzan's consort, the Black Hand, gasped and stumbled backwards as Driza, servant woman and healer, slapped the dark-haired woman sharply across the cheek.
"You whore." Driza hissed. "You poison-heart bitch. You loathsome, traitorous, weak-hearted, foolish woman! Is Murtagh not a son of yours? Did Murtagh not deserve the safety and happiness that you will risk your life to give this unborn child? Are you not the mother of Murtagh, Morzan's son?" An anger unlike anything Driza had ever known filled her. "Murtagh was born here, in this cursed castle. You spared him no second thought. Yet some bastard-gardener's child, that is the one you will risk your life for?" She took a step backwards, shaking her head slowly in disgust at the woman who stood trembling before her.
"I curse you, Selena, Black Hand of Morzan. I curse you. May both your sons grow to hate you, and may they both grow to resent your name." Driza spat at Selena, faded green eyes filled with malice, and strode from the room.
A year and a half later, Selena died. Driza and Murtagh did not even notice the woman's absence. And the only thought that Driza spared to the dark-haired beauty was that Selena was a wicked woman.
XxX
Murtagh is eight when Driza's own son dies of the Black Fever. Somehow, Murtagh never caught the disease, for which she was grateful. Like his father, he seems to be resilient to such things. But her Leon, her own blessed, sweet Leon, died choking on his pus.
And she, a healer, could not save him.
His body was buried beneath an old, wizened apple tree in the orchids. Driza could remember that tree well. Both Leon and Murtagh climbed it everyday, causing her no end of worry and grief (What should happen if one of them fell? Would they survive?), and each boy made 'swords' from the dead branches, fighting each other for honor and glory, sometimes allies, sometimes enemies.
Driza could not cry for her Leon. The tears were there, but they refused to fall from her dry eyes. All she felt was grief. A numb, dull, aching grief.
Until someone slipped their small, warm hand into hers. Murtagh. Her son. Murtagh.
And he looked up at her with keen brown eyes and said in a voice wise beyond his years "Don't worry, mama. I'll still be your son."
She had started to cry then, kneeling down in front of him in the dirt, and clutching the scarred boy to her chest. "My son. My son." Driza whispered over and over as she kissed his face and stroked his black hair.
No matter what, she would always have him.
XxX
The following year, Galbatorix requested that Murtagh be sent to the Royal Palace. "To further his education as a Lord's son." The letter said. But Driza knew the truth.
She was no longer needed.
XxX
She wandered for years, alone, without a friend in the world. Driza was still skilled as a healer, so she traveled from town to town, mending and healing, curing and fixing. And each day her face grows more and more lined, although in reality, Driza really isn't that old. She has just seen a lifetime of sorrow.
Everyday a new town, a new place, a new thing to long for. Always searching for something to fill the gap, the void in her cheat where her heart used to be. Until one day, Driza's feet refuse to take another step. And she looked around, at the town she was in, and called her her death place. Her final home.
XxX
Driza was an old woman now. Her face is hard and lined; the years have taken their toll on her, and time has not been kind. She lives in a town that is neither big, nor small, and still acts as a healer. She looks nothing like the other old woman of this town. Even those who etch out a hard life still have a look of happiness in their eyes.
That spark of life comes back to them as they gaze upon their children, and their grandchild.
But Driza has neither of these things. Both her sons were torn away many, many years ago. She has nothing to live for. Each day she wakes up, and curses the morn. Each night she goes to sleep, and hopes that she will not live to see the sun rise again.
Her town is neither big, nor small. But like her master before Morzan, Driza's town took the wrong side in this never-ending war. So once again soldiers march down the streets, forcing people from their homes and killing those who resist.
Driza does not resist.
This time is different though. For this time, a shining red dragon that flies through the skies and sets fire to the houses. This time, the people cringe back in fear of the dragon, not just the man who rides him.
Once all the villagers have been rounded up, the dragons descends, great crimson wings stirring up dust as it settles gracefully on the ground. The Rider is tall, with long black hair and piercing brown eyes. A sword with a ruby-studded hilt rests at his side. There is an aura of sadness around the man, but also of anger. His face is strong and cruel; hardened by a life of unkindness.
She would know that face anywhere.
"This city is a traitor!" The man says, magic carrying his low and controlled voice to the people's ears. "You have brought this upon yourselves by assisting the Varden in their quest to overthrow the King." The man jumps from the dragon's back, and lands easily on the ground.
He walks towards the people, one hand held out in an invitation. They all shrink back, cowering in terror. "But you do not all have to die. If those of the Varden step forward now, the lives of the people will be spared. If not, all will be killed."
Driza steps forward, and the soldiers look at her in shock. Surely this old woman is not one of the Varden.
She opens her arms as if to receive an embrace from the Red Rider who stands before her. He is so tall, and handsome. So much like his father. "Murtagh. My son."
Driza is the first person apart from Murtagh to ride Thorn, and many people wonder at the sight of the King's Rider, his dragon and the tall, proud old woman sitting on the saddle as they fly towards Galbatorix's castle.
XxX
Her execution is today. The reason Galbatorix gives is that she is a threat to the Empire, that she is a supporter of the Varden. But Driza knows the true reason for why he wants her dead. Galbatorix wants Murtagh completely alone. Friendless. Without allies. No one to turn to.
She supposes that the King is not so different from Morzan.
Murtagh refuses to leave her side. She knows the King tortured him most severely for bringing her back, and refusing to kill her himself. Driza imagines that it will be much worse after her death, when Galbatorix will punish Murtagh for standing with her.
They do not speak of why he now serves Galbatorix, or why he wears his father's sword, or Murtagh's half-brother, the blue Dragon Rider. They do not need to. Driza has seen plenty of spellwork and magic in her lifetime. Enough so that she can tell when someone has been placed under a spell.
And there are so many different oaths and curses tangled around her son that it would take a lifetime to unravel them.
She knows all these things not only because she is a healer, but because she is a mother.
A crowd has gathered for her execution. Driza doesn't know if she should be flattered or not. Each breath she takes, each beat of her heart, seems precious.
She turns to her son, and studies him as she searches for a way to soften her words. Murtagh is tall, with broad shoulders and strong limbs. Black hair grows long and straight. There is a desperate, restless energy to him, like that of a caged animal. And his dark, almost black, eyes are so full of emotion, Driza couldn't possibly named them all. Rage, fear, hate, loneliness, sadness, uncertainty.
Murtagh is trapped, drowning in his own doubts and uncertainties. He wants to be someone free of his father's shadow, but he is afraid of who that person might be. He wishes to be released from Galbatorix's bonds and oaths, yet he enjoys the chance to strike back at a world that kicked him when he was down for so long. Murtagh wants to do the right thing. But who can possible say what the right thing is anymore?
More than anything, though, Driza can see that he wants to be free.
Galbatorix has begun his speech. Some drivel about the wicked and anarchist Varden that the crowd eats right up. Driza knows she has little time left. "My son," She begins, and Murtagh turns to her, that same desperate light in his eyes, so strong, it almost makes her forget what she was going to say. But then the crowd cheers again, and the sound sweeps over Driza, reminding her.
"My son." She tries again, placing her dry, rough hand on his arm, and looking up to meet those fierce black eyes. "Many people will tell you that you are just like your father; you look like him, you act like him, and you sound like him."
Murtagh shuddered, out of disgust or anger or maybe both. "I'm nothing like that cold-hearted drunkard of a bastard!" He growled.
"I wasn't done yet." Driza continued calmly. "Many people will tell you that you are like you mother; ambitious, sadistic, willing to do anything for power. I want to tell you those people are wrong." His eyes widened is surprise at her words, and she smiled sadly. "You are not like your father, and you are not like your mother. You may be a Dragonrider, and wield the cursed blade of your father, but those who are wise know that means nothing. You are afraid to break free, but you no longer wish to be trapped beneath your father's shadow."
Murtagh pulled away from her, shoulders tense with anger. "I could not be free even if I wanted to be!" He snapped, but beneath his anger, Driza could sense hopelessness and defeat. "The King has learned my true name. He forced me to swear that I was loyal to him, that I would never betray him, and that I would only serve him." He laughed bitterly. "I cannot even breath with the King's permission. Your words are sweet, old hag, but nothing I can use."
His words sting, and Driza reminded herself that this wasn't the sweet, solemn young boy she had once known. "I tell you these things because I want you to remember that you are not your father. You are not Morzan of the Forsworn. You are Murtagh, Rider of the Red Dragon Thorn." And then the aged, old human healer stood on her toes, and whispered Murtagh's, Son of Morzan, and Dragonrider, True Name into his ear.
"Remember who you are!" She called back to her son, who stood motionless out of shock and hope, as the soldiers dragged her away, towards the dully gleaming guillotine. "Remember that Dragons do not just hatch for anyone. Remember, my son, that Thorn hatched for you!"
XxX
It was the nurse that saved them, a simple, ugly, human nurse that altered the fate of the world. A woman who saw and understood more that even the oldest of Riders ever would. A woman who loved her adopted son more than she loved her own life. In the end, it was a mother's love that set Murtagh and Thorn free. But it was not Selena's love. Selena, the woman who did not love both her sons.
Driza was the mother who released the Red Dragon and his Rider from their bonds. Driza, the woman who would have given her life for either of her sons, both the one convinced in hate and the one not born of her womb.
And as He Who Creates While Destroying and Flame of Rebirth flew proudly away from the dead King's castle, Galbatorix's blood still slick on Za'roc's blade, they each said a prayer for the dead human woman who had merely always been in the right place at the right time.