A/N: Just some more MxN fluff. This was originally going to be just a one-shot, but it morphed while I was writing it (as stories often do), so it's likely there will be at least one or two more chapters. I also hope you appreciate the line I shamelessly stole from Inheritance. XD
Enjoy!
It was late in the evening, and Nasuada had already had too much to drink.
But still sober, she reassured herself. She was a queen, and queens did not get drunk. Probably. Still, her head buzzed pleasantly and she took another sip, the sweet liquid warming her insides. The wine had been imported all the way from the elven capital of Ellesméra, a gift from Queen Arya as a sign of their friendship. Nasuada had been saving it for a special occasion, and a special occasion it was, though she was reluctant to admit it. She knew that elven drink was notorious for its potency—one glass of faelnirv was said to be able to bring even the largest man to his knees—and perhaps that was one of the reasons she'd had it brought out tonight. The wine had supposedly been watered down out of consideration for its intended recipients, though Nasuada could see many red faces about the hall.
Normally, the queen stayed away from alcohol as much as possible. It inhibited her ability to think clearly and make proper judgments—two traits important for any ruler, especially a new one. She was also wary of the promise of escape from the everyday problems that so many fell victim to. She had seen how during the war King Orrin had succumbed to the relief it offered him, leaving him unable to carry out his duties properly, and she vowed to avoid drink in all its forms.
Tonight, however, she felt justified in her excess.
The reasons for her indulgence were threefold, the first one being her conversation partner.
Lord Ferros, a self-important and longwinded man, was prattling as usual—boasting about his estate, his wealth, and his lineage in an unsuccessful attempt at impressing the monarch. It seemed that he had also passed the threshold of inebriation, his voice growing in volume as he spoke, his movements becoming more and more sloppy. Wine sloshed out of his glass and onto the floor as he gestured widely. Nasuada nodded and did her best to feign interest, the alcohol the only thing keeping the smile plastered on her face.
She wondered how she had ended up with such an unfortunate conversation partner and figured it was probably connected to the second reason for her excess: the unofficial purpose of the ball.
Nasuada had held several balls since she'd taken the throne three years ago, each with various motives: to keep the court happy, form alliances, and most importantly, keep a watchful eye on the aristocracy. It was better to keep friends close and enemies closer, and she'd already had to send Eragon to quell an uprising brought about by one discontented earl.
It felt like an eternity since her first ball as queen. Eragon had been there along with his cousin, Roran, though he had long since left to establish the new dragonhold, and Roran had taken his wife and newborn daughter to rebuild their home in Carvahall. It had been four years since they had started their campaign to take down the Empire, and five years since she'd officially entered society as a woman. She was well past the age when ladies were expected to marry—hence tonight's ball.
Nasuada was looking for a suitor, a fact that left her with many conflicting emotions.
It wasn't that she lacked confidence in her ability to rule a nation, or to meet the demands of her position. Nasuada was not arrogant, but she knew that out of all the contenders to the throne—Orrin certainly, and even Eragon—she possessed a drive, a fire, a sense of duty that far surpassed that of anyone else. No, that was not why she was looking for a husband. She was not about to let any man take the reins from her.
She supposed it was because her people expected it of her, and above all else, she wanted to please them. She also wanted to ensure her future and the future of her nation, and if her rule was to continue uncontested, she needed to produce an heir. Someone she could guide and instruct in the affairs of state, like her father had with her, who would be ready and willing to take over after she was gone.
But if she were completely honest with herself, what she truly wanted was a partner.
Being the sole person in charge of an entire nation could be incredibly lonely and isolating at times, and during the long nights where she laid awake after hours of endless meetings, she often found herself longing for the emotional and physical comfort that only a husband could provide. She had long since abandoned her girlish dreams of romance about a handsome price who would sweep her off her feet, but she did hope to find a man who would provide support and comfort through the difficult trials of leadership. Someone with whom she could find joy in becoming a mother, and who would bring a sense of safety and stability to their home. She had once considered Orrin as a potential husband, but now she scoffed at the idea—the King of Surda was far too self-centered and egotistical to ever be a fit match for her. She was determined to build a dynasty that would last, not crumble underneath the weight of juvenile insecurities.
She looked about the hall, wondering if any of the noblemen present could fill that role. She had told no one yet—not even Farica, her lady's maid—of her intentions to marry, but rumors abounded, and waiting too long would invite scandal. Many young men had come, no doubt to attempt to woo her. Becoming the husband of the queen of Alagaësia was an attractive prospect, especially when the queen was exceptionally lovely, and tonight she positively glowed in her vibrant yellow dress, intricately stitched with patterns of morning glories.
And still, her conversation partner rambled on, seemingly unaware that she was not the least bit invested in what he was saying.
The rest of her night had transpired similarly. Frivolous gossip, empty flattery—and all the while thinking that there was really only one man whose company she was interested in keeping. Which brought her to her third reason for drinking: her bodyguard was steadily ignoring her.
Murtagh Morzansson, son of one of the most hated men in all of Alagaësia, had (unwillingly at first) joined the Varden and aided in the efforts to take down the Empire. He had proven his valor and loyalty time and time again, both on the battlefield and during the restoration efforts that followed. He had supported Nasuada's bid for the throne and had been a valuable source of advice in the early days of her reign. And after he had thwarted the first—and then second—attempt on her life, she'd decided to enlist him as her bodyguard, overriding the protests from the other nobles. Despite his heroic actions in her service, he still faced a lot of undeserved mistrust among the members of the court and the Varden, a fact that frustrated Nasuada to no end.
Murtagh had become a constant in her life. As her bodyguard and confidante, he not only kept her safe, but sane as well. Having grown up in the court, he was all too familiar with the squabbles and political games among the aristocracy, and had become adept at navigating his way through the courtly drama. He understood her frustrations better than anyone, and listened patiently as she aired her complaints. He was never too busy for her.
Which was why she was so perplexed at his behavior tonight.
While he stood a close—yet respectable—distance from her side, he avoided all eye contact with her, instead focusing his attention on scanning the room, ostensibly for potential threats. And in contrast to her excess, he had not accepted a single goblet of wine offered to him, nor did he submit to any of Nasuada's attempts to include him in conversation. His stiff, rigid posture was a stark contrast to the relaxed yet attentive manner he usually adopted in her presence.
Though she hated to admit it, Murtagh was the main reason she had delayed looking for a suitor for so long. They had grown so close during the war and she was certain that after she had taken the throne and things had settled down, he would declare his intentions to her and they would wed. But days turned into weeks without any move from him or any indication that he was interested in anything more than a platonic relationship, and she was terrified that a misstep on her part would drive him away for good. A tiny voice inside kept telling her just give it time, but it had been years now, and it was finally time to face reality. If anything, his behavior tonight only further cemented her belief that he was less than interested. Perhaps he was even eager for her to find a suitor so that he could ease up on his guard duties and find a wife for himself to start a family with.
The ball, the empty conversations, the chasm that seemed to stretch out between her and Murtagh—it all suddenly became too much for her.
"My apologies, Lord Ferros," she cut in, interrupting the man mid-sentence, "but I'm afraid I feel quite lightheaded all of a sudden. Please excuse me for a moment."
She curtsied stiffly, then turned and walked away without waiting to see his reaction, handing her almost empty goblet to a passing servant.
She threaded her way through the room, sweeping past many eligible suitors whose attentions she should have been entertaining, pausing only to nod politely in response to respectful bows in her direction. All the noise, the lights—everything suddenly seemed unbearably loud and bright. Was it the drink, or was it just her?
Air. She needed air.
She angled toward the entrance to the courtyard, and two lavishly dressed servants hurried to open the tall glass-paneled doors as she approached. She lifted her skirts delicately as she descended the wide stone staircase that led to the grounds, the train of her dress trailing behind her as she made her way down the walkway to the covered pavilion.
Surrounded by numerous exquisite flowers and shrubs carefully tended to by the castle gardeners, it was her favorite spot in all of Ilirea. The elves were proud not only of their wine but of their flora also—as Du Weldenvarden boasted many unique species not found in the rest of the Empire—and Vanir, the elven ambassador, had personally gifted her with some of the most unusual and beautiful flowers she had ever seen. Flowers that bloomed only at night when the moon was fullest, or changed colors before rainfall, or shrank back when she stroked them, as if bashful of her touch.
In the safety of this haven, Nasuada let out the breath she had been holding and filled her lungs with the evening air, a hint of moisture promising rain. A gentle breeze caressed her face.
She heard footsteps approaching and didn't bother turning around.
"It's a lovely evening, isn't it?" She rested her hand lightly on the wooden balustrade as she surveyed the courtyard. The western sky was filled with fiery oranges and pinks as the sun descended below the horizon, a sharp contrast to the dark clouds rolling in from the east.
"Aye," came the baritone voice from behind her.
"Although your countenance speaks to the contrary."
Murtagh didn't answer and Nasuada turned to look at him. He avoided her eyes as he had all evening, instead gazing out at the vibrant sunset. He looked nothing short of regal, dressed in a maroon doublet and black hose, a jeweled dagger hanging from his belt, the light striking his face at just the right angle to accentuate his strong jawline.
"Tell me what's wrong, Murtagh. Have I caused you offense?"
"No, of course not," he answered, frowning at the thought.
"Then why?" she demanded, unable to keep the hurt out of her voice.
A few seconds passed before he spoke again. "You are wasted on these men, Nasuada."
Of course he knew what she was doing. He was much too observant not to notice.
"So you disapprove of my intentions? You could have done me the honor of saying so instead of ignoring me all evening," she remarked, a hint of irritation in her tone.
"You are the queen," he said simply. "It is not my place to disagree with you regarding any of your decisions."
She searched his face intently for any hint of emotion and found none. Whatever his feelings were, they were hidden carefully behind a mask. One that he usually only wears in the presence of nobles, she noted sadly.
"You know very well it is exactly your place to do so," she said with conviction. "After everything we have overcome together, endured together, you know I value your opinions more than anyone else's. And you rarely hesitate to share them with me."
"When it comes to matters of state, not personal decisions."
"This is a matter of state. Whoever I choose will have a considerable influence on how I rule my nation."
Disbelief spread across his face. "So that's why you're doing this? To have someone to share the burdens of leadership? Hire another advisor then, don't sell yourself to some self-serving nobleman."
"I don't need another advisor," she replied, exasperated. "This isn't about requiring help."
Her voice rose as she spoke, no doubt fueled in part by the elven drink, but also her own frustrations that she had been keeping in check for years.
Why could he not understand? She needed to be loved. She wanted—craved—his love, but clearly his heart was not hers for the taking. Had he already given it to someone else? She went cold at the thought.
"Then what is it about?" he asked, finally turning to face her.
Now it was her turn to avoid his gaze.
"Is it so wrong to want a family? To have someone to come back to after a long day of meetings and paperwork and everything else? To have someone to share my life with?"
She lightly caressed the petals of an unusual flower growing on a nearby trellis, which immediately turned a radiant yellow, perfectly matching the hue of her dress.
"Is it so wrong to want to be loved?" she asked softly.
He made an odd noise in his throat. "No, of course not."
An uncomfortable silence passed between them before Murtagh broke it. "So you have found someone then? A suitable match?" He sounded too casual, as if his indifference was forced.
"Perhaps," she frowned and then adopted a lighter tone. "Lord Ferros is quite wealthy, and I would certainly not be spending my evenings in silence."
Murtagh snorted in disgust. "You could not do much worse than that old windbag."
"What about Lord Murray then?" she said, recalling one of the men she had spoken to at the ball. The earl owned a very lucrative shipping business and had made his wealth transporting all manner of goods across the far reaches of the Empire, as he had just boasted to Nasuada not an hour ago. "He seemed rather eager to speak with me."
"You would not find love with him. No one can compete with that man's love for money."
"Oh?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "Then where might I find it? Tell me who you think might be a suitable match."
Murtagh set his jaw and said nothing. The wind began to pick up, tousling his hair and pulling at her dress. Nasuada noticed that the distant clouds from earlier were no longer so far away.
"What?" she demanded. "You seem to have more than a few opinions on who I should not marry. Surely you must have some opinion of who I should?"
Again he remained quiet. He seemed to be struggling with some internal conflict. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
She looked at him squarely and asked, "Enough, Murtagh. Why do you care anyway? How does it affect you? Why does it matter to you who I choose?"
She wondered if she would've had the courage to voice these questions were she not under the influence of heady elven wine.
He stared at her for the longest while and then, in a low, hard voice, he said, "You know why."
Before she could press him further, lightning split the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. The heavens opened up and a deluge of rain fell in heavy sheets. She could see others in the courtyard run for the safety of the castle, but they were safe under the covered pavilion, separated from the rest of the world by an ocean of rain. At her side, the yellow flower she had touched turned a deep blue as it was struck by droplets.
"I'll run inside and have the servants fetch an umbrella for you. Wait right here—" Murtagh said, and made to turn toward the entrance, but Nasuada reached out and caught hold of his hand.
"I don't care if I get soaked to the bone. Explain to me exactly what it is that you think I know," she pleaded.
He turned back and, instead of brushing off her hand as she expected, threaded their fingers together.
"Surely after all the time we've spent together, you must know of my feelings for you?" He searched her face with an inscrutable expression. "Why I agreed to stay in the capital and put up with these miserable nobles day after day? Why I've done everything I could to stay close to you and protect you?"
Nasauda couldn't believe what she was hearing. She was at a loss for words, her heart pounding violently in her chest. He stepped toward her and took her other hand in his.
"I knew this day would be coming eventually, and I've done everything I could to prepare myself for it. But that doesn't make it any easier to see you standing there, sizing up other men as potential suitors. Especially when they care for nothing more than the fame, wealth, and power they could gain through you. And perhaps a beautiful woman to take to bed," he added bitterly.
Impossible. Had she misunderstood him this whole time? The long, indecipherable looks he would give her, his overprotectiveness from the nobility, his aloofness at the ball this evening—could it be that they had been born out of a desire for her?
Nasuada took a moment to find her voice. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
He sighed. "Because I knew you would never want Morzan's son as your husband, and I didn't want to have to put you in the awkward position of rejecting my advances. You've already done enough by granting me the station that I have now. Being allowed to serve as your bodyguard, as your friend—being allowed to be near you every day—that's enough for me. For now."
He let out a shaky breath, the tension seeming to melt from his shoulders. He smiled at her ruefully.
Her lips curved upward as she contemplated at him. "Murtagh, you blockhead," she chided him gently, and his eyebrows rose in surprise. "You are exactly what I want. Why do you think I waited so long to start looking for suitors? I was waiting for you.
He gazed at her for a moment as he took in her words. Joy and disbelief spread across his face.
"But you—are you certain?" He asked, his breath shaky. "Your position in the court—what would others think if you were being courted by a son of the forsworn? There would be talk, and some might object."
"Let them. I am the queen. I am the one who led the Varden into battle, who won the campaign against the Empire, who conscripted the dragon rider who killed Galbatorix. Who can oppose any decision I make? My people wanted me to find a suitable man to become my husband and I have. That should be good enough for them."
She put her hand on his cheek, smiling warmly. "You are more than good enough for me."
He put his hand over hers and returned her tender gaze. "And you me."
"Although you did keep me waiting long enough," she rebuked him lightly.
"My apologies, Your Majesty," he said, grinning. "What may I offer in recompense for this crime?"
"I believe you owe me a dance. Dozens of balls we have attended together and not a single time have we danced."
"Very well," he said, "Then dance we shall." He made to draw her toward him, but she pulled him in the direction of the courtyard, out of the protection of the covered pavilion. Outside, the rain was still falling steadily, though much less fiercely than before. Exposed to the downpour, their clothes quickly became drenched, but Murtagh pulled her close and she thought that the heat between them would have kept her warm were she outside in a snowstorm in the northern reaches of Alagaësia.
The music from the hall did not reach the courtyard, but they had no need of it. The rain showering their skin, the thunder rumbling in the background—this was their orchestra. The danced to the melody of the elements, and Nasuada thought she had never enjoyed anything so much in her life. Murtagh was clearly a capable dancer, and he moved her skillfully through a waltz despite the unconventional dancefloor.
As the dance ended, he pulled her into a kiss more intoxicating than any wine she had ever tasted. If only the elves could bottle this sensation, well, she might reconsider her position on drinking, she mused. All coherent thought vanished as Murtagh deepened the kiss and she melted into it, ignoring the cold and wet to savor the achingly sweet feeling of his lips against hers.
Eventually, he made to pull away and she protested, tightening her grip on his sodden clothes, leaning into him even more.
She felt his lips curve into a smile as he chuckled slightly. "Had a little bit too much to drink, have we?"
She responded with a sheepish grin. "It was good wine. I shall have to thank Queen Arya again for her gift."
"Indeed, you shall," he laughed. "Perhaps after you recover from tomorrow's hangover." His eyes twinkled.
"It's magic elven wine, I won't get a hangover," she protested.
"I suppose you'll find out tomorrow," he laughed again. "You and the rest of the court."
"I suppose I shall," she agreed. "But let tomorrow deal with its own problems. It's still today, and I believe I am owed another dance."
"As you wish, Your Majesty," he said, and swept her into his arms again, twirling her about the courtyard. The rain had subsided to a mere sprinkle, and as Nasuada turned, the droplets seemed to hang in midair, as if frozen in time. She gazed in wonder as they reflected their surroundings in a thousand separate pieces: the flowers, their faces, the remaining dredges of color in the sky—a kaleidoscope of beauty. She wondered if she spun fast enough she would be able to see her future, and for a moment she imagined she could: Murtagh kissing her at the altar, the birth of their first child, holding hands as they aged together in grace and wisdom. Perhaps, after all the hardship she had endured, all the people she had lost, the gods were showing her their promise for a happier life.
But, she supposed, it was probably just the wine.