Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, / And burbled as it came!
Murtagh arrived in the castle like a stormcloud.
It was only because of Harry's usual curiosity that he discovered the man's presence—the sight of a servant carrying a pail of meat up eight flights of stairs to a tower bedroom was too interesting to ignore.
There on the floor sat Murtagh, a dog-sized ruby dragon perched on his lap.
The servant deposited the bucket and left, almost bumping into Harry where he'd frozen in the doorway.
"You have a dragon!" he choked.
"Oh, it's you," Murtagh replied. The usual scowl was stretched across his face.
The dragon was much more friendly. It loped across the narrow room and sniffed Harry's palm, allowing for a few good scritches before plunging its head into the bucket.
Murtagh sighed. "You can close the door behind you."
Choosing to interpret that as 'Come in,' Harry went and plopped himself onto Murtagh's bed. He watched the red dragon, admiring it.
A dragon's not an it, Haraldr.
"What's your name, then?"
The head, covered in blood, turned towards him. Those eyes were more brilliant than the gem on Gryffindor's sword. Harry felt a jolt of envy, that this dragon was well-proportioned and healthy and so beautiful—
—Harry quashed the thought like a bug. Tumbleweed was perfect, special, his.
"That's Thorn. He doesn't talk much, yet. Why are you here, Harry? Or is it Haraldr now, a fancy name to dress your peasant soul up for proper society?"
The sheer familiarity had Harry smiling. "I'm just Harry."
"Are you really?" Murtagh sneered.
Having a dragon hatch for him had been the best thing in Harry's entire life, one moment after another filled with awe and gratitude. For Murtagh, son of Morzan, it was apparently nothing more than his birthright.
"Thorn is amazing," Harry said. "You're so lucky."
"I'd rather be back with the Varden without him," the man spat.
What? Both Harry and Thorn cringed. "You can't mean that." The Varden were a silly rebel group hiding in a stuffy mountain, and this brilliant, Gryffindor dragon was the second half of Murtagh's soul.
"I—" Murtagh breathed harshly, yanking a hand through his unkempt hair. Harry could see an unfocussed look on his face, a clear sign that he was talking with the dragon.
After a few moments, Thorn trotted over to his human and plopped down on the man's lap once again. There was so much fondness in the way Murtagh looked down into those red eyes, in the way he wiped a smudge from the dragon's jaw with his thumb.
It had Harry's heart clenching, though he couldn't quite tell why. He pushed through the door and ran, ran, ran all ten flights to the main courtyard, calling Tumbleweed as he went.
Xe landed with a cloud of dust, concern and curiosity pouring equally across the bond.
Reaching out, Harry cradled xer head between his hands and looked, really looked.
"I love you," he told xer, all his emotions warring for attention within him. "I'm so grateful you chose me."
Tumbleweed hummed, bathing Harry in a gust of hot air. "Even though I'm all green and Slytherin?"
The sheer absurdity of the moment had Harry laughing. "The hat did say Slytherin would take me far."
Xer answering laugh singed his hair, the smell of sulphur blown off by a warm breeze. "Come, let us abandon our afternoon tutors to go flying. Citron has run out of gossip for today anyway."
Joy bubbling within him, Harry jumped up xer leg and into the saddle. "What's the point of being a prince if you can't do what you want, right?"
"Indeed." Tumbleweed took off westwards, flying low over the railroad tracks that sliced the shrubland all the way to Dras-Leona.
Diving into xer mind, Harry watched his world tint green.
He urged xer to fly some of the maneuvers xe'd been practicing, feeling his stomach clench with every loop, every twist—and letting everything else fall away.
… xoxox …
"You missed your afternoon lessons," Galbatorix said over dinner, but Harry could tell he was distracted by something.
"Murtagh's living in the North Tower, did you know? He has a dragon, too. Funny that."
The king looked up from his meal, eyes crinkling at the corners. "I was going to tell you next week, Haraldr. Their bond needs time to strengthen. You should ask your questions directly, facetiousness doesn't become a prince."
Harry knew that Galbatorix was usually at least a little amused by his cheekiness, so he took that with a grain of salt. "Yes, my King."
"You shouldn't be truant during history lessons, you have much to learn still. You should always be striving for self improvement."
"Yes, my King."
Said king rolled his eyes and helped himself to a slice of lemon cake.
… xoxox …
Now that Harry knew where to find them, he took to seeing Murtagh and Thorn every day before breakfast. The servant was glad she didn't have to carry the bucket of offal up all those stairs, and Harry enjoyed the excuse to visit the most interesting additions to the castle.
Thorn was strong, almost stocky, growing as fast as Tumbleweed had in xer first weeks. The difference was that the little red dragon was filling out along the way, not even looking mildly umbrella-ish. He was very coordinated and careful in his movements, just as effortlessly elegant as Murtagh was on the sparring ground.
Galbatorix started them on a similar training regime as he'd developed for Harry and Tumbleweed, which first gave Harry a jolt of jealousy. He brushed that aside quickly for the joy of being matched with someone, like in a Seeker's duel. It was nice to have company during the boring weight-lifting, too, and he got to learn to counter a different fighting style.
With both Murtagh and Harry being so intensely competitive, they were pushing themselves harder than ever. Sometimes, Harry would catch Murtagh before the man could replace his easy, triumphant grin with a more mean-looking smirk. It was no use pretending, though, because Harry could see right to the core of him.
Harry knew Murtagh enjoyed the challenge just as much as he did.
It didn't take much longer for them both to surpass even the strongest men in Galbatorix's army, the dragon-bond enhancing them beyond the mere humans.
Between the two of them and their dragons, overpowering Eragon and Saphira finally seemed possible. The latest news of those rebels told of Eragon and Saphira moving through the Beors, trying to play at dwarven elections.
"Imagine being with the Varden now, you'd probably be bored out of your mind. The politics there can't be any more fun than they are here," Harry said, passing Citron's latest gossip on to Murtagh as they wound down together after lessons.
The other man looked up from his book, the were-light that hovered over his shoulder going out as he stopped paying attention to it.
Murtagh cursed and set aside his wine to focus on relighting it. "They locked me in a room because of who my father was, all I really did there was read."
All Murtagh really did here was read. Harry spent his extra time fiddling with ways to cast magic, missing his familiar spells that hadn't cost him as much energy to cast. Meanwhile Murtagh just sat under his own were-light and went through books faster than even Hermione had.
At Harry's very pointed look, Murtagh explained.
"The air was different there. I felt free. Here, the king controls me, has a plan for my life, has a plan for everybody's life." Murtagh looked around, then lowered his voice to a whisper. "When the time comes, you'll see. We'll be a new Order of Riders, but instead of being corrupt like my father we'll be controlled, vow-bound to the core. He'll make us into what we're not."
That didn't sound right. First off, what was wrong with being the empire's hero? And second, if Galbatorix could control people, there'd be a lot less silly banquets full of haughty nobles asking stupid question. Harry whispered back, just on principle. "I can do whatever I want, though."
"Really? What happens when you skip your lessons?"
Harry rolled his eyes and sipped at his wine. Galbatorix's chiding would be minor, and besides, life here wasn't much different from Hogwarts. He followed his tutors' schedule and learned what he could, and the more he knew the more he could do real, practical stuff. "What's wrong with doing what our King tells us to do?"
Hermione, wherever she was now, would have laughed if she'd heard. So much time spent trying to get him to follow the rules, and all it'd taken for him to cotton on was…well, dying.
"Can't you see how broken the empire is?" Murtagh hissed, "People are scared and starving. Over in Dras Leona, they lop off their hands for the Ra'zac to eat. The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and all it would take for Galbatorix to fix things is a tiny amount of the magic he hoards. But no, he isn't doing shit, because he doesn't give a shit. Too busy with his research, his stupid projects. How are you so blind, Harry?"
For one, Harry was myopic, not blind. For another, magic would create just as many problems as it would solve. The schools, the army, the railroad, those were actually legitimately helping people. "I hadn't realised you cared about the peasant folk, having lived in pretty palaces all your life. I bet the Varden was a real shock to your senses, is that what freedom tastes like to Murtagh Morzansson? Doing your own laundry for once?"
The sheer nerve of Murtagh, talking about being poor, or hungry, or terrified. He'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He had never been camping in the woods, scared for his life, trying to defeat a dark lord while everyone and their mother was waiting for him to save them.
In Alagaesia, nobody was asking to be saved at all. There were no prophecies ruling over what was or, what should be, or whom he could become.
"You've got your head so far up your ass you can't smell the shit any more," Murtagh said, his wine sloshing as he gestured.
"That doesn't even make sense."
Galbatorix's mission in life couldn't be using magic to solve everyone's problems. That was a stupid plan—no, that wasn't any kind of plan. Murtagh should be going to his politics lessons instead of sulking in his tower bedroom, running away into books and stories.
Words that whisked him away into foreign worlds, different times, others' adventures.
And then Murtagh hiccuped, startling them both.
The sheer absurdity had Harry stifling a smile, but then Murtagh was laughing, and Thorn was chuckling, so Harry joined in until his belly ached and his eyes were wet and none of them could remember what they'd been laughing at.
"It's late," Harry said finally, glancing out the window at the moon's position. It was an eight minute walk to his rooms, he'd counted it. Galbatorix's brilliant idea of anti-apparition wards across the entire castle were entirely stupid with only Harry and the King himself knowing how to apparate, but it hadn't been Harry's decision to make.
With a tired sigh, Harry pushed himself to his feet, untangling himself from Murtagh's bed. He felt a bit woozy, actually.
"Stay," Murtagh said, draining the last of his goblet and reaching out a hand. "There's space for two."
The thought of his own cold room, clawing with loneliness, wasn't tempting at all.
Harry couldn't come up with a reason to refuse. Wiggling his fingers, he moulded a transfiguration spell to stretch the bed even farther, enjoying the flow of energy tingling his palm. The magic barely drained him now, a welcome payoff from all the time he'd spent practicing how to bring his old world's magic here..
"Good night, Harry," Murtagh whispered, letting his were-light go out.
"Don't let the bed bugs bite," Harry replied through a yawn.
Murtaugh snorted. "Now who isn't making sense."
"Who said anything really has to make sense?"
… xoxox …
Murtagh looked so peaceful in his sleep.
Tumbleweed had woken Harry at dawn to pass on the news that xe was going to hunt up a nice goat. For a while Harry had watched the world through xer eyes, hoping to drift back off, but eventually he'd realised it was no use.
Which left him lying in bed, looking at the man sleeping beside him. That usual scowl had melted into nothingness, and Harry caught himself thinking, once again, how pretty Murtagh was.
His laughter last night, his passionate rant about how the people deserved better.
Murtagh spent more than half his time angry, but the rest of the time, he was noble, warm-hearted, good.
Thorn chose that moment to flop onto the space-expanded bed in between them, startling Murtagh into his first frown of the day.
"Fuck off," the man growled, pulling a pillow over his head.
Harry laughed, easily imagining the dragon's accompanying mental prodding.
Murtagh fell out of bed, righting himself to glare up at Harry. "The fuck are you doing here?"
"You asked me to stay?" Harry glanced over at the wine bottles on the floor. Had they overdone it, or were the man's mornings always like this?
Murtagh's eyes were flicking back and forth across the expanded bed. "We didn't—? Right?"
"We didn't make a lot of sense? Yeah, you got that in one. Well done."
"No, I mean," Murtagh gestured rather frantically between himself and Harry, "you know, do anything…erm, untowards? Because I'm not—into that."
The dots in Harry's mind connected like a very reticent constellation in astrology class. Inside him, something cracked at the rejection. "No, Murtagh. Your virtue is intact." Then, he smirked. "Why are you so straight about it? Have you tried doing it with a man?"
"Have you?" Murtagh shot back. His entire head was flushed red.
It made Harry want to ruffle that ridiculously curly hair. He shrugged back, deciding not to make a big deal of this.
Of course he'd tried it. He'd arrived in this world barely eighteen, there was no way he was going to stay a virgin until Galbatorix decided to marry him off to strengthen their ties to Surda, or some such rot.
When his go at things with a woman hadn't worked out, she'd suggested he attempt it with a man instead. The cute chap who worked in the barracks' stables had been more than willing for a few tumbles in the literal hay. Or the metaphorical hay, because straw was nowhere near as soft as it looked, and Harry had a perfectly usable bedroom, thank you very much.
Tumbleweed's arrival had changed everything, of course. Even his own hand was rather awkward with a constant mental passenger along for the ride, innocently asking questions.
Stretching, Harry pulled himself out of bed and tried to smooth his hair into something sensible. The morning ablutions spell had him shaved and ready for the day.
"You have got to teach me that magic," Murtagh said, and only then did Harry realise he'd been watching.
"Sure, some other time. I want to…" he floundered, looking for an excuse to leave the awkwardness this room had fallen into. "I want to talk with our King." Maybe Galbatorix would have something useful to say about concepts like liberty and freedom from the night before.
… xoxox …
"You've been listening to Murtagh," the King said immediately. "You shouldn't let him put ideas in your head that don't belong."
"Is it true, though? Are the people afraid?"
"Afraid of what, son? Of me? Of Shruikan, who hasn't left his hall in a decade? They barely see me. I exist only as a figure in the stories they tell each other, as a concept they can deify or vilify as it suits. No, the people are too busy with their own suffering to care about what I do, say, or think. They care about food on their tables and roofs over their heads, and I provide that if they work hard.
"My army employs many, many men, young and old. The engineers build the roads, the soldiers protect them, the elders teach and command. They defend the borders against urgals and keep the Varden, whatever their reasons might be, from invading.
"The Ra'zac are tricky beasts, of course. They have their uses, but they cost me a great deal in money and in faith. They are predictable though, and it is better to keep them close so that I might know what they are doing and direct them as needed. They are not my friends, but I do not want them as my Empire's enemies.
"Haraldr, you must remember it is a web of politics, a balance between all things. The men, you will find, are always busy being wrapped up in their own little lives. They do not dream big, they do not stand tall, and they do not care for freedom."
"Freedom is a good thing, though." Harry knew that much, even if he couldn't explain it properly.
"If they wish for me to solve their problems for them, with or without magic, then they must accept the price of being told the steps along the way. One does not give a toddler the sweets she is screaming for, what she needs is proper nutrition."
Harry remembered the way Dudley had always been wailing for attention, for love, for a racing bike and a new telly. "That makes sense," Harry admitted, and waited for the King to dismiss him.
It made sense for a child, yes. But Galbatorix didn't rule over a nation of toddlers. These were grown men and women they were talking about. Wasn't it right, then, that they be able to make their own choices, right or wrong?
Then again, the entirety of magical Britain had built their case on banning dark magic so that people couldn't just do what they wanted. That had made people angry, and in the end it had given them Voldemort and his Death Eaters.
Would the light side have won the war if Dumbledore had just gone around telling people where the line between right and wrong was, then thrown in a few rules on how to be a good person?
What was government, if not a more elaborate version of schools, of parents, a different authority ruling over people and robbing them of their own freedom to decide?
Even if it was for their own good.