Disclaimer: Though I actually have the same initials as Christopher Paolini, and was also homeschooled as a child, I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.
Summary: While Nasuada attends to the cares of state, Murtagh plays with their children.
A/N: See the end of this work for notes.
Nasuada loves watching Murtagh with the children.
They'd had a conversation about it during her first pregnancy, with Ruada. She was in her sixth month, and she was beginning to feel weighed down—struggling through the endless piles of paperwork and diplomatic meetings without any of her usual relish.
"Take my energy," Murtagh had begged her. "Between myself and Thorn, we have more than enough to sustain you. Besides, all I do now is eat and read, and train the occasional group of magicians."
"And delight all the palace children with your stories, and admirably perform your duties as Prince Consort of Alagaësia," Nasuada had added, running her fingers gently over his jaw, his throat, his bare chest. It was night, and they were lying together in the great canopied bed, in the master bedroom of the newly-restored palace at Urû'baen. All was still, cocooned within the protective spell that allowed them total privacy.
"Prince Consort? An empty title if ever there was one," Murtagh commented wryly, and though there was no bitterness in his voice, Nasuada detected a hint of sadness; a lingering regret that he, by his position as a Rider and by the oaths he had sworn, could do nothing to ease the burdens of state upon her.
Her free hand stopped wandering; traced deliberately across his chest and hugged him tight. "Ah, but my Prince Consort is the best of princes. He does not only tell stories to children; he tells them to his Queen, and he makes her smile. He knows her faults better than anyone, and is patient with them; he knows her weaknesses as no other person does, and strengthens them; he knows her fears, and does not judge her for them. And..." Nasuada's voice was very soft, and she heard Murtagh make a soft choked sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob— "...only with him is the Queen permitted not to be a Queen."
"Oh, Nasuada." Murtagh's chest heaved, and his arms tightened around her, and for a while they lay without speaking.
Finally, he gave a wry laugh."I seem to be all emotions these days. One would think I was the pregnant one, not you."
"'Tis a luxury," she mused. "In war, we could not afford to cry, or laugh, or love."
"But we did love," he reminded her.
"That we did."
She was drifting off to sleep, Murtagh could tell, and he hated to keep her from her rest. But if he waited until morning to broach the topic anew, she would put him off; and the next night she would be tired again; and so it would go on. So he shook her gently, and she shifted, grumbling.
"Why will you not take energy from me and Thorn? We have plenty to spare."
Nasuada was quiet for a while, and he thought she might have fallen asleep. Then she said,
"Because my weariness is not of the body, nor even of the mind. It is a weariness of the heart. May I show you?"
So Murtagh gently reached out with his mind, brushing her consciousness, wincing as he felt how tired she was. She showed him a jumble of emotions; images; thoughts. He felt her love for her people and her dedication to her role as Queen; her fear that motherhood would lead her to fail in her duty as Queen, or that her duty as Queen would lead her to fail as a mother. He felt her uncertainty—she had never known a mother. How then could she be a mother?
He felt her fierce love, even then, for the child growing in her womb, and he knew that, despite her doubts, she would be a wonderful mother. He let that confidence flow through their mental link, strengthening her. You will be a good mother. This you know in your heart already. Listen to it.
With her mind, Nasuada said in an aching whisper,
The children of noblewomen are given to a wet-nurse, then to a nanny, then to a tutor. They spend so little time with their parents...
Her grief flowed through their connection; grief for the future, for the loneliness that she feared would afflict their child; and grief for her past self, who had adored her own father and not understood why duty prevented him from spending the long, empty days with her.
And suddenly, Murtagh knew what his chief duty as Prince Consort would be. But, Nasuada, he said, and his mental voice rang with joy. Don't you see? I will be our children's nanny, and their tutor. I cannot give birth to them, or feed them from my body, but I swear to you, I will learn to do everything else. I will teach them, and bathe them, and play with them, and take them on rides with Thorn, and guard them with my life, and you, my love, will tend to the affairs of state as you have always done, knowing that when the day is over, you have a family who are desperately eager to see you.
It was Nasuada's turn to be speechless. Tears ran down her cheeks, bittersweet tears, but more sweet than bitter. At last, she chuckled. "Quite the speech, my love. But tell me, have you considered that babies soil themselves, and that their swaddling cloths will need to be changed?"
Well, we should probably appoint a nurse, too. I will occasionally need to go on patrol, and that sort of thing... But I imagine that an accomplished magician such as myself could manage the mess with ease.
"Hm."
After the delivery, Nasuada had a week to rest—to heal, helped by some gentle magic, judiciously cast by Murtagh; to nurse Ruada; to sleep in erratic patterns around feedings; and bask in Murtagh's adoration. A week—far too short a time, yet a time which she recognised as a luxury; a time she could never have had if Alagaësia were not at peace.
A week; then she fed Ruada herself for the last time and handed her over to the wet-nurse; and though gentle hands and a few muttered words in the Ancient Language healed the ache in her breasts, nothing could heal the ache in her heart.
Yet, as days pass into months pass into years, and her belly swells again, and she gives birth, this time to twins, Tornac and Ajihad, the ache does heal.
It heals as, while she sits in a meeting with Jörmundur and the elven ambassador, Vanir, Murtagh sends her a brief mental snapshot, of himself rolling a bright green ball to Ruada, who rolls it back.
It heals as Murtagh, holding a twin easily in the crook of one arm and passing her the other, gives a dramatic retelling of the failure of his new spell, intended to clean up messes. ("Stand back, I said to the nurse. I've got this. Aaaaand...splat! It went all over the ceiling...")
It heals as, perusing piles of documentation, she looks up to see a red blur flash past the window, accompanied by the high laughter of children, and Murtagh's deep, joyous chuckle.
It heals as she sees how eagerly the children run to her in the evenings, showing her scribbled drawings of dragons and elves and werecats, even though she cannot have her days with them.
It heals as she sees how happy Murtagh is, and how proud. (He had been happy and proud before, but not like this.) The stories he tells, the ballads he writes, become ever more searingly beautiful, achingly sad, soaringly joyous. Urgal, human, and dwarf storytellers alike come and sit before him, hoping to learn something of his craft. They leave transformed; often weeping uncontrollably; always inspired.
It heals as her teenaged children begin to ask her questions about statesmanship, unconsciously showing their deep love and respect for her... and as her first grandchildren are born.
Nasuada is growing old, though gracefully and in good health. She is sixty, and her face is lined, though she could still pass for twenty years younger than her true age.
She still loves watching Murtagh with the children.
The Prince Consort is unchanged, outwardly. Yet she knows he has grown inwardly alongside her—in wisdom, confidence, generosity.
He plays with his grandchildren with the same tenderness he has always shown to all children.
And still, between meetings, as she has done for the last thirty years, Nasuada goes to the window of the great throne room, watching as Murtagh and Thorn romp with the children in the garden below.
A/N. This oneshot came out of a lot of thinking about Mother's Day, and also about the recent passing of Prince Philip. I hope I have succeeded in approaching complex issues in a sensitive manner, but I'm not a mother (though I am a woman), so this portrayal emerges from what I have gleaned from the experiences of others.
The reference to Nasuada feeling neglected by Ajihad as a child is something which I might explore in a later oneshot... in my headcanon, the situation was complex, and Ajihad did the best he could and was a very loving parent generally, but Nasuada still has mixed feelings about that part of her life. But I want to emphasise very strongly that this reference was not meant as a veiled criticism of (the vast majority of) parents who can't be stay-at-home parents. Rather, I believe strongly that there are MANY ways to be a great parent.
Rereading the Inheritance Cycle for the first time in my adult life has also led me to think a lot about gender roles, and how the IC is really quite groundbreaking/progressive for a fantasy series, particularly in its later books as Christopher Paolini matured as a writer. Nasuada in particular has a lot of great and complex characterisation which I hope to fully explore in this series of oneshots. It's interesting that both Eragon and Murtagh, though immensely powerful, are not stereotypically ambitious—but Arya and Nasuada, their respective love interests, are. I adore Nasuada's line at the end of Inheritance, where she asserts her claim to the throne, commenting that "False modesty is never admirable, and least of all among those who command others." Yet she also struggles with doubt and insecurity, including feelings of ambivalence about her scars from the Trial of the Long Knives. In contrast to Eragon/Arya and Murtagh/Nasuada, Roran/Katrina are a much more stereotypical couple (he is definitely the leader and the more ambitious one)...but he also does the washing when Katrina is tired!
Anyway, please review/comment—I would love to hear your thoughts about this oneshot, or your take on the dynamic between Nasuada and Murtagh, or strong women and gender roles more generally in the IC! Also, if you have any suggestions for a oneshot I should do, fire away!