Murtagh=adorable father
Thorn=plain epic
Me=owns nothing
Let parents bequeath to their children not riches, but a spirit of reverence.
-Plato
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It became quite clear to Nasuada that she was being unfair to Murtagh.
He would not so much as let it slip that Nasuada spent far more time with their daughter than he. How could he? They were the two he loved most in the world. The only two he loved in the world. They deserved to be together.
But the way he would watch the baby girl, the way only her mother could draw his eyes away, the way he would seem to stop breathing altogether….his way with her led Nasuada to believe that her didn't hold her nearly enough.
A mere week after the girl's birth, Nasuada sat in bed, cradling her and humming, and came to a conclusion. "Murtagh," He looked up immediately and seemed to nearly appear by her side, eyes searching hers for any clue as to what she needed.
She laughed, placing a hand on his cheek fondly. "Sit with us."
His delight was immediate.
He sat beside her and made to wrap his arm around her shoulder, as was his custom, when she shifted her shoulders toward him, smiling at the confused expression on his face. "I apologize for not doing this sooner, love."
Murtagh's eyes were inevitably drawn to the baby; he straightened as Nasuada passed her to him, carefully taking her into his arms. Most new fathers, she had heard, would hesitate to touch their children, almost for fear of breaking. Murtagh was different, as he always had been. He held her without hesitation, sought out even the briefest opportunity to touch her.
He sighed when the girl nestled into his arms, quiet and content. Odd, the nurses had said. After her initial cry she had fell silent, and when she finally opened her eyes it was as if she was checking to see if they were still there. A brief, halfway opening of one eye, so small they couldn't even see the color – though the nurses all said it would be blue, babies always had blue eyes – as if her curiosity of the outside world had been sated. Her parents were still there. She didn't need to see them to be content with that.
Nasuada became briefly worried that she would not cry – it was supposed to strengthen her lungs – but whenever the girl needed something she would catch attention with brief fits of tears and shouts. As soon as she felt her mother's hands, she would quiet, and would stay silent until she needed something else.
"It's just odd, is all." The nurse said, frowning down at the girl. "She doesn't cry like she should. Always as if she's trying to get your attention, and always for something like food or a changing or pain. Never because she wants to be held or to see someone."
The nurse was wrong about that one, Nasuada soon found out.
Mere moments after Murtagh set the sleeping girl in her cradle, she began to cry again. She had just been fed, just been changed, and Murtagh sensed no pain. When he picked her up, she began to quiet.
When he passed her to her mother, however, she grew louder.
Startled, Murtagh took her back into his arms, and with his finger clasped in her iron grip, she fell asleep, still holding on.
She became like that often. Sometimes only Murtagh could soothe her, sometimes she simply sought his touch. It was not as if she did not seek her mother's, but there was something about her father, some bond between the two that set all right in the child's world.
It was then, as he held her to his chest and whispered to her in a mixture of both their tongue and the ancient language, that her name was spoken for the first time.
Her parents froze, the cadence echoing in her their minds, replaying, as both looked to the girl. She did not rouse.
To their surprise – well, not really, this seemed very much like him – Thorn did not say anything more to them, but instead spoke to the girl herself, being kind enough to include them in the conversation.
Hello, little one. Nasuada was reminded of the dragon and rider she had once known but refused to remember. It has taken much time, but it seems fate has finally deigned to give you a name. He laughed in their minds. The girl stirred but did not wake, as if Thorn's voice was a dream. You are very brave and very strong. And very healthy, from what I hear. You deserve a strong name. And, at your parents' wishes, you also deserve a beautiful one. There is a yellow flower whose name I give to you. It means 'rational', little one. May it bring you the clarity to see things as they are and the courage to act wisely upon what you see.
Murtagh, Nasuada, and Thorn spoke in unison, their voices penetrating her dreams, burning the memory of her family into her being.
Alyssa.
She tightened her grip on her father's finger and cooed happily.
