Y'all asked for it. Here it is. The first of quite a few MxN moments.
I. All caught up in the eye of the storm/and trying to figure out what it's like moving on
Murtagh starts out by agreeing to swear fealty to all of Alagaesia's rulers. He is, Arya informs him, the second Rider in history to make such an official allegiance, the first of course being Eragon when he swore himself to Nasuada all those years ago. Murtagh's time serving Galbatorix doesn't count, because, as Arya states again and again, that was never really Murtagh's choice.
He's beginning to get used to that, the idea of 'who-he-was' being separate from 'who-he-has-become.' It feels like taking off a long, heavy cloak and casting it aside.
And now he truly feels like he's starting over.
The squadron hears the news too, and they're thrilled- jumping up and down like small children and hugging Murtagh again and again, all formalities thrown aside.
"Wait, so-" Bronür says at last, "if Master's going to stay here and help rebuild Orthiad, and then some, will he not return to Ellesmera?"
"Of course he will," Arya says swiftly. "Murtagh is a dragon Rider first and foremost. He is one of us."
Murtagh smiles, a warm feeling spreading over him. "She's right. I may have pledged myself to Alagaesia's leaders, but my main duty lies with the Riders- and the responsibility of keeping you kids out of trouble," he adds, and they all grin at him.
It is only after that Murtagh makes amends with Orik personally.
"It will take time," the Dwarf King says, "for all of my kin to trust and forgive you. You have made a great scar upon our history, Argetlam."
"I know," Murtagh mumbles. He cannot even begin to explain how he thought, at the time, he'd been doing the right thing when he slew King Hrothgar, when all the signs pointed to it being very wrong.
Yet Orik- Orik, Hrothgar's nephew, Orik upon whose shoulders the Dwarf race has been burdened because of his uncle's death, peers at him and understands. "But you came back and you offered to make up for it. Do you know how hard that is? Even for the best of men, the noblest of warriors? When people do the wrong thing they tend to walk on and act like it didn't happen, and that's what gets in the way of change as much as holding on to old grudges does." He reaches up and grabs Murtagh's elbows in a friendly manner- he can't reach his shoulders, after all. "People wanted you dead, lad, and all you did was offer to help them. You've proved that you have a heart in the right place that not even Galbatorix could get to, and now they will all see it. Your brother would be proud."
Murtagh is stunned. "Thank you."
Orik pats his arm. "We'll make a hero of you yet." He pauses. "Though there is one last thing." He beckons to the much taller man as if to whisper something in his ear, and Murtagh bends.
He doesn't get a whisper. He gets a terrific blow to the face that sends him reeling and seeing stars- just like the stars floating around the hammer on Orik's clan's crest.
"That," Orik says, rubbing his knuckles, "was for mine uncle. Don't forget it."
"Trust me, my lord," Murtagh says, grimacing, "I never shall."
We found your sword, Thorn says when he lands next to Murtagh after his hunting trip with the other dragons. In his jaws he tenderly carries Zar'roc, a little dirty in places, but nonetheless just the same. Murtagh takes it back, thankful.
Thank you, Thorn. As many horrible memories are associated with this old thing, I'm still going to hang onto it. Besides, if I'm going to swear fealty I'll need a sword to do it with.
So, Thorn rustles his scales. Fealty, huh? You sure we're not just about to chain ourselves to a commitment we're going to regret? Argetlam, do this, Argetlam, do that, Argetlam, save a cat stuck in a tree-
Murtagh chuckles. Come on, Thorn. You know it's not going to be that ridiculous. He pats his dragon on the flank, And since we've pledged ourselves to all races of Alagaesia, we still get to travel. It might even be fun.
Especially if it means tossing out any remnants of that old coot Galbatorix's rule from this brave new world, Thorn remarks with a savage excitement, as if he's already picturing what it's like to topple Imperial buildings with one swoop of his tail.
His Rider tilts his head at him, examining him with an amused grin. Is it just me, or do you seem happier than usual?
What makes you think that?
Because I'm always in your head, idiot, laughs Murtagh. You're a brave little dragon, aren't you? Calling Galbatorix an old coot...where have you been, by the way?
Hunting Nalgask, Thorn says coolly. Firnen, me and the hatchlings.
They're barely hatchlings anymore, Thorn.
They'll always be hatchlings to us.
Sounds like you had fun.
Aye. Thorn even rolls over onto his back like a dog. We did.
I thought you said Firnen was 'too happy.'
Well, I like that now, Thorn says. We could all use a little happy after all. Now he's acting like a cat, rubbing his head against Murtagh's arm. And you and I have more reason to be happy than we have in a long, long time.
Yes, murmurs Murtagh, leaning his head against the dragon's. Yes...we do.
II. We walked down to the water, arm in am as friends/but when we crossed over we were lovers, swimming in the bitter end
The word gets out to other relevant dignitaries in Alagaesia, and another couple of days pass by to make the pardon official. A few more Riders arrive in Tronjheim just for the ocassion.
"I thought you said our pledging ceremony was going to be a low-key affair," Murtagh says, when he sees the impressive clothing they've brought with them from Ellesmera.
"You've an awful lot of politicians to impress, Murtagh," says Arya. "After all this trouble, the least you can do is look good. And in this getup...I'm sure you will."
He can't help but agree with her when he finally puts the clothes on and examines himself in the mirror.
"Told you," Arya says with approval, when he reveals himself.
"Yes, your majesty," Murtagh grins. "You were right." He makes to attach Zar'roc to his belt, only to find Dalan withholding it stubbornly.
"Um, can I have that back?"
"You're not swearing yourself in service to Alagaesia with this," the elf says. "Come on, Ebrithil. You are well aware of its history."
"It killed a Shade," Murtagh says, miffed. "Eragon wielded it before me. I don't see what's so-"
"It just isn't you anymore," Sofia says, condensing matter in her usual practical way. "But this...we like to think this is closer."
From behind her she produces a new sword, tucked into a gleaming scabbard, a glittering red stone set in the hilt.
Murtagh stares. "No...you didn't."
He is astonished at how the handle fits so well in his grasp, the weight balanced perfectly, perfectly, just what he's used to- but not quite- this new sword, as he pulls it with a smooth slide from its scabbard revealing its flawless Crimson blade, is longer than Zar'roc or most swords. Indeed, a hand and a half longer.
"Well?" Edvard says anxiously. Murtagh looks up to see the five young Riders, plus the three who had just arrived, peering at him expectantly.
He's breathless. "It's beautiful. How-how did you...?"
An Elf girl named Caelané (strawberry-blonde, seventy-five years of age and Rider to a silver male dragon) beams. "When we found out you were going to be pardoned, we quickly got started on forging you a new sword."
"We used magic to call up the essence of Zar'roc, to get the right weight and everything," puts in Tobias Mandelsson, brunette, human, twenty years of age and Rider to a female purple dragon. "We pestered Rhünon the sword-maker into giving us some tips, but she didn't help make the sword physically- we did. And we remembered Eragon once told us you used to fight with a hand-and-a-half sword. Got it finished just in time for our trip down here."
"So technically, it's got a little bit of all of us," Caelané says with a small bow. "Now all it needs is a little bit of you, Ebrithil."
"I don't know what to say," Murtagh says softly. "And I don't know how I can thank you. You kids...really are wonderful."
The way their faces light up convince him that his simple thanks is more than enough.
The pledging takes place the following day. Murtagh swears himself, his dragon and his new sword to all the rulers of Alagaesia and all the causes of its people, the assembly signs his pardon, and it immediately goes into effect.
And that's that. The council adjourns. A few congratulate him, wish him luck, tell him they believe in him, or perhaps put forth the slightest hint of a threat if he ever steps out of line. Then they go, almost eager to not have to look him in the eye for longer.
The Riders linger to give Murtagh one last group hug before leaving. Arya embraces him, too.
"Thank you," Murtagh mumbles softly when she does. "Arya, I never would have thought it was going to be worth it if not for you."
Her arms tighten around him, "You've done so much and come so far, Murtagh. Of course it is worth it. This is what your brother would have wanted- and it is certainly as much as you deserve."
When they pull apart they realize there is one other person who has remained in the room besides Thorn. Nasuada, resplendent in a green velvet gown, is waiting.
Arya squeezes Murtagh's arm with a reassuring smile. I will leave you two alone, then.
She does.
Murtagh faces the Queen and he bows. She smiles at him, and it is so crushingly happy that he nearly falls over when he straightens up again. There is a distance between them, perhaps three yards of an awkward space that Murtagh doesn't know what to fill with. Luckily, 'Awkward' is a concept that Nasuada seems to have no experience of. And rightly so- she's a Queen now, gracious to the last inch.
"I like what you did with your hair," she remarks.
"Thank you, milady," Murtagh says with a similar attempt at graciousness.
Nasuada folds her hands. "I like what you did with...everything. The young Riders speak of you with respect. Word has already spread across the realm."
"And what kind of word would that be?" She notices his voice is as low and controlled as ever, but it's taken on a gentler tone now. And yet she cannot help but think that it will only take one small thing to break his composure and expose the raw emotion lying beneath the surface.
"That you are on your path to redemption."
This time Murtagh looks up and meets her gaze. "Is that so."
She nods.
Silence, but not a hard or awkward one. Murtagh's face is as soft as she's ever seen it; part of it a result of the peace he has begun to find since joining the Riders, part of it, perhaps, because he is looking at her.
"Hello, Thorn," Nasuada says to the dragon now, inclining her head in respect. "I believe we've never formally met. It is a pleasure to, after all these years."
Likewise a pleasure, my Queen, purrs Thorn kindly. You are by far the loveliest and wisest human we have ever encountered. It is no wonder that my Rider has thought about you often.
Murtagh's eyes widen. "Thorn!"
"Truly?" Laughs Nasuada, clearly amused. "Well, I'm...I'm flattered, to say the least. It has been so long." Now the look she gives Murtagh is searching, almost yearning- almost. But not quite. "And the things we have both faced are not easily forgotten."
"Yes," Murtagh says quietly.
Thorn rasps deep in his throat, He could never forget you, milady. You were but a bright pillar of hope in a dreary world of-
"All right, we have to go," Murtagh says at once, eliciting another giggle from Nasuada. It brings a half-grin to his face, and he smacks Thorn in the shoulder, embarrassed. "That's no way to talk to a queen, you naughty dragon. With your leave, your majesty..."
"Yes, if you must," she says with a gracious gesture of release. "Congratulations again, Murtagh."
The smile he gives her next is wider now. "Thank you."
He and Thorn are halfway out of the hall when the wrong feeling suddenly kicks in. Murtagh turns around, faces her again, and faces the past too, before his ten seconds of reckless bravery run out.
"Nasuada."
She turns to face him. "Yes?"
He regards her for a moment before speaking again. "I'm sorry. I know we shouldn't talk of this again, but I have to know." Murtagh pauses, swallowing. "Did- did you ever hate me? For what I did, what I was forced to do to you?"
The Queen stares. Murtagh plows on. "I wouldn't blame you if you said yes. I would hate myself- in fact, I still do-"
"Murtagh." She's shaking her head. "Don't do this to yourself, not when you've come so far."
"Well, did you?" He says, voice ragged.
All right, she thinks, if he wants to play it that way.
"Should I?" Nasuada says. "I suppose I should. But I don't. What matters is you saved me. Helped me. Helped all of us- and here you are, having made a pledge to do nothing but help for the rest of your life." She tries to meet his eyes. "So no, Murtagh. I do not hate you and I never have. How could I?"
He shakes his head. "Granting me pardon is one thing, but between us there's just this...I don't know. I'm surprised you're even still talking to me."
"I am not interested in the past," Nasuada says quietly. "I only care about now. So what I propose is this." She holds her head high. "Can we start over, Murtagh? Can we begin again as friends, and get to know each other for who we become rather than who we were?"
Murtagh looks away from her and says nothing for a while, and Nasuada fears he'll turn away and never speak to her again, but he doesn't.
"Start over, huh?"
"Yes."
He nods, after a small silence. "I can do that, milady."
"Good," she says softly.
"Good," he repeats, and gives her a very small, but no less genuine, smile.
"I will see you, I suppose," Nasuada says. "Good luck, Murtagh."
"Thank you, Nasuada." He bows again, and he and Thorn continue on their way out as Nasuada turns and goes her own way.
Murtagh feels the slight nudge of Thorn's mind against his: Smooth, Murtagh. Real smooth.
Shut up.
III. You were the last of a dying breed/prone to wander but born to lead
Of all the wonders of Tronjheim, the only thing that really attracts the young Riders is the Dragonhold above it.
The eight of them lie in a circle on their backs atop the Star Rose, heads at the center and feet splaying out like the uneven spokes of a wheel. Above them stretches a grey sky, below them the cool and scintillating surface of Isidar Mithrim.
For the first time, Bronür feels at home again. He closes his eyes, basking in the memory of his mother's smile, his father's exclamation of pride when they reunited.
Dalan brushes his fingers over the plaque commemorating those who constructed the Star Rose. "Saphira," he murmurs, fingertips tracing the name. "She fixed the Star Rose after it was broken."
"It endured," says Bronür, "the way all the best things in this world do."
They were right, says Thorn as he sniffs the air. There is a plague of black magic around here.
Well, like you said, we can fix that.
The gates of Orthiad lie before them, gaping open like the maw of a giant, ancient creature in agony. Even if the citadel is empty and the path lies clear, the Dwarves who have gone with them do not enter- the stories of those who went before hold them back.
It's like a choking cloud of misery and dark energies, left stale and stagnant in the Empire's wake, and Murtagh can feel it looming, encroaching on his consciousness. He sets his teeth. The King's magics had overpowered him once before, but not so again.
You are a dead man, Galbatorix. And now, we're going to wipe away your memory.
"Go and do your thing Shur'tugal," the head Mage of the Dwarves says, half a challenge, half permission to begin.
Murtagh turns to him. "Will you lend your strength to me?"
The mages glance at each other, mutter in their own language, but eventually nod. They create a link of hands, ending with their leader, who puts his hand on Murtagh's hip. Instantly he feels their energy flow into him.
"So, uh, how do you propose to go about this?" The lead Mage asks presently.
"Simple." Murtagh raises his hand; the one that bears the gedwey ignasia. "Say the magic word."
He closes his eyes and mouths the Name of Names.
And the spells that lie over Orthiad come undone.
Every magic user over a fifteen-mile radius feels the effects; a sudden lightening over the city, like sun rays chasing away clouds, like shadows being engulfed by candlelight. The stagnancy disappears. Banners fall, stones crumble, and the fog lifts.
Murtagh glances at Thorn, who nods. Together they take a step through the gates. Then another, then another. The darkness has gone. They can breathe.
"How fares it?" Calls the Dwarf leader.
Murtagh turns to face him. "All clear!"
They follow him through, eagerly, marveling, and for all many of them still distrust and dislike him, they cannot help but cheer.
He feels an approving tap on his arm, "Well done, Argetlam. Now, let's get to work."
Murtagh smiles. "There may still be some minor spells lingering, a few war traps here and there, and undoubtedly the energy has corrupted some of the local fauna into some pretty unsavory creatures, so be on your guard. Thorn will give us aerial support if need be."
"You heard him," calls the lead Mage at Murtagh's elbow. "I'll need spellcasters in groups of five on every corner of the city, searching the place from top to bottom before we know it's safe to call the builders in..."
And once again, Orthiad belongs to the Dwarves.