I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.
A drabble. It's short, but its complete, and roughly inspired by the Pellinor Series. Hopefully, you can understand the all that's going on.

Anyway, enjoy,


A Farewell

Murtagh bowed his head before the temple of the gods, as he had often done when he was a child, however that was many, many years ago. In a different lifetime, when he viewed the world with innocent eyes, and believed that such things as gods and the heavens existed. However, he had not come here to pay his respects to the gods but someone much more real.

Light spilled into the room, many shades of red and green and blue and gold, through the colored glass arch onto a low dais at the very far end of the hall. Beneath the radiant light, on the dais, rested a stone cist that had been carved with sure grace and skill that it gave an impression of weightlessness. A marble statuette of a woman lay atop it, resting in an eternal slumber, three daffodils held firmly to her chest by long, pale fingers. Factures of colored light gleamed onto her, giving the impression that was a glowing.

From outside the many sounds of birds could be heard as they flew from branch to branch amongst theirselves as if they knew of no care nor sorrow. Murtagh looked away from the window and ran his fingers across the cheek of the stone woman, marveling at the likeness. Unlike the woman she was sculpted to represent; she did not cringe away from his touch. She simply lay there.

A sorrow gripped his heart, making it near impossible for him to breath. He gasped, drawing his hand away from her face. He placed his hand on the edge of cist for support; his legs felt as if they would no longer hold his weight.

Slowly, he took a deep breath.

He didn't know what he had expected, but he hadn't thought that he feel still as he had so many years ago.

She had lived her life; had sons and daughters and a husband whom she loved. She had ruled over the land of Alagaësia with unmatchable grace, but now- he sucked in another breath- now, she was dead. Murtagh wondered, as he often did, whether or not she had ever forgiven him. He doubted she had, but he hoped…

And now he would never know.

I didn't know her well enough, Murtagh thought, to feel this sad. But ever as he thought this he knew it was nonsense, a denial of deeper knowing. He had once thought that he loved her; he would have turned the world over for her but that was long ago, in another life, when he was another person.

Would she have loved him if he had been who is now; someone who was not as angry, as torn apart by his past? Had things have been different perhaps his desire to love her would become something pure and tangible, perhaps if fate hadn't taken a cruel twist. But it was never to be. They were never to be.

When they had parted he believed that there was promise for many things; of friendship, of conversations, of learning but that promise was now frozen is the past like animal frozen in a glacier… Was that he was really mourning? The conversations they never had, the jokes they never shared, the lovers they never would be? Had he returned sooner or perhaps never left at all would she have even talked to him?

In his mind's eye, Murtagh could see her as vividly as if she stood before him; small and slender, her dark curling hair weaved carefully around her face, her expression intelligent, mobile, and grave.

Yes, he thought, I think you would, but you never say the words I desire to hear.

"I said I would return," he whispered to empty air. He didn't truly care if someone heard him, and who would? There was no one about. He dug his nails into the lid of stone. It was important for him to say at last what he wanted to say even if there was no one to hear it. "All those years ago I promised you that I would comeback. You should know that I did, before now, years ago, but it was too late. I hid in the shadows, as I watched you play in the gardens with your children but I didn't come out. I didn't want to burden you. Perhaps it was for the best. I don't know."

He wanted to tell her that he forgave himself for giving up, when she hadn't, and that he never regretted not killing her when he took her, but he did regret what happened afterwards. He would always regret that. Even if she saved him when she was held in Galbatorix's palace, when he was in a place where he couldn't manage to save himself. He wished to say that if it weren't for her Galbatorix would still be alive, and he would still be forced to work for him. He would still be so angry that all he ever saw was red. But he could not find the words to say such things, not then and not now. It seemed as if such words were forbidden to be said by him, and so instead he stared at his hands.

For so many years he had been watching everything at a distance, her and the land, and he thought that a war was about to break. The magicians had begun to rebel against their queen, angry about the way they were being repressed. And though he could not blame them, he did not wish for them to overthrow her rule, so he came to warn her. But he was too late. He was always too late. Had he have gotten here sooner, he might be able to speak to her, instead of empty space but it seemed as if he couldn't even do that properly.

"I wanted to tell you that I was sorry. For everything," he said, and then placed his head in his hands. He took a long deep breath and stood up and took one last look at the Queen's coffin. "Farewell, Nasuada," he whispered, and closed the door behind him.


A/N: Like I said this is just a drabble, a quick thing that was written to get my thoughts out. I never believed Murtagh and Nasuada would get together. She saw him as her torturer, and that's not something you can forget. As for Murtagh, I had always thought that his love for her was little more than a fancy, a extreme fancy, but a fancy nonetheless. Anyhow, thanks for reading.