After months of writer's block (and being overwhelmed with school), I'm finally back! I really love writing these one-shots, so hopefully you will see more of them. Also, I realize this is the second chapter starting with Murtagh looking in the mirror. He's not that vain, I promise ;) Reviews keep me motivated! Thanks for reading!
Murtagh stood in front of the mirror, eyeing his reflection in interest at his changing appearance. Frowning, he rubbed his chin and thought back to the conversation that had initiated this new change. Nasuada had been the catalyst, of course, just as she was for everything else in his life: physical, mental, or emotional.
It had been several years now that he had known her and there had been a number of surprising things he had come to learn about his fierce, gentle friend.
Her talent and interest in sparring had been one of them, of course. His years growing up in Uru'baen had not exposed him to a community that accurately reflected how diverse Alagaesia actually was. Until the age of ten, Murtagh erroneously held the belief that nobles were the only kind of people in the world, that women only ever wore enormous dresses adorned with too many pearls, that people only formed relationships with each other to accomplish their own ends.
That was, until Tornac, his mentor and savior, had considered Murtagh's moral education just as important as his academic one, and frequently took him out into the city to experience life through the eyes of those different from him, strengthening the child's resolve to leave the city and do good in the world in his own way. The two went to taverns incognito, spoke with all sorts of people throughout the city, and even disguised themselves as servants and spent the day uprooting weeds and planting flowers in a noblewoman's garden, chatting cheerfully with the other gardeners all the while.
And even then he had not been prepared to meet the whirlwind that was now his best friend/lover/ruler/partner in crime.
He wasn't one of those men who thought that a woman's place was only in the home, to have children and dote on her husband. Nasuada was the most independent person he knew, and one of his favorite things about her was that playful, defiant look she got on her face when she told him no, silently daring him to argue, which he usually did anyway (and always lost). It's just that when a woman, ebony brow glistening with sweat, hair gathered in a messy bun, wearing trousers so patched and weathered it's a miracle they aren't falling apart holds a practice sword to your throat after thoroughly defeating you, it's hard not to be a little taken by surprise.
And that was only one example.
Every day it seemed he was learning something new about her, whether it was her intense fondness for potatoes which she had delivered in cartloads to the palace and had served with every meal, or how she only wore blue on rainy days, or her intense fascination with the Urgal language, or how she woke up just before dawn every morning to watch the sunrise fill the sky.
Nasuada's position demanded a level of patience and resolve that the gods blessed few people with, and she exhibited these qualities with a quiet authority that everyone respected and no one questioned. She was imperturbable, enduring the most inane chatter from the most intolerable dignitaries with grace and dignity, at least until the privacy of her own bedroom where she could scowl and roll her eyes without restraint.
But along with all of these admirable qualities, she possessed a mischievousness that her ladies-in-waiting endured resignedly and that Murtagh watched with amusement.
Translation: Nasuada loved to pull pranks.
Never anything cruel or embarrassing, just something small enough that would cause the recipient to stop for a moment in confusion, scratch their head, and go on with their day. Murtagh had once watched a visiting dignitary spend the greater part of an hour trying to find his quarters because, unbeknownst to him, his luggage had mysteriously moved while he was at breakfast to a completely identical room across the hall. When he finally located his chambers, he had simply shrugged, muttered that he was becoming more forgetful in his old age, and told the story sheepishly to his hostess later whose eyes twinkled with amusement but made no other comment.
Murtagh rarely found himself on the end of these gentle pranks, which he attributed to the constant vigilance he had acquired during his upbringing. Still, he sometimes found himself losing wagers he never remembered getting cornered into making, another one of Nasuada's favorite pastimes that stemmed from her fondness for pranks. They were both hobbies that were, at the surface, seemingly incongruous with Nasuada's reserved and sophisticated manner, but Murtagh knew better than that.
At least, he should have, he chided himself, eyeing his reflection.
It had started a week ago. They were playing chess, because Murtagh loved strategy games and Nasuada was good at losing at them.
She was getting much better, he admitted. It was a game he had played with Tornac frequently growing up, usually after he had finished his morning lessons, and he had recently taught her to play. She really did have a head for strategy, it was just that Murtagh did too, and had years of practice playing against his former mentor. However, he was beginning to notice that the more they played, the more evenly matched they were becoming. She had come close to winning several times, taking his queen right before he locked her into a checkmate, frustrated brown eyes meeting twinkling hazel ones.
"Care to make it more interesting?" she grinned at him one rainy day. They were sitting on the floor next to a large window overlooking the grounds, rain making patterns as it danced down the glass.
In hindsight, he should have known to distrust every word that followed such a statement.
He looked up from where he had been setting up his pieces, the hand holding his knight still hovering over the board.
"How so?" He was now well acquainted with her tendency to make a game out of everything, even another game.
She leaned back on her hands, mischievous smile spreading across her face. She looked beautiful in a simple blue dress she had changed into after a morning of meetings.
"If I win, you have to grow a beard."
Murtagh was unsurprised. She had been trying to get him to grow one for months. He grinned back at her.
"Fine. But if I win, you have to wear a corset. For an entire week."
Nasuada hated corsets. She would have them banned if she didn't think there would be an uprising from all of the noble ladies in her court. Instead, she would have to patiently wait until they went out of style. She deliberately had dresses made that imitated the look, but did not require her to spend the day in constant discomfort.
"A week?" she exclaimed. "Are you trying to kill me? A day."
"A day? Do you know how long it takes to grow a beard?"
"I don't know," she admitted grudgingly. "But the faster you can grow one, the more of a man you are. It shouldn't take that long," she teased, giving him a wink.
"Three days," he conceded.
She accepted his conditions and they shook hands.
It had been a good match, both sides taking heavy losses and suffering major casualties. Nasuada's bishop brutally massacred Murtagh's queen, just after her knight fell victim to a wayward pawn. Murtagh eyed the battlefield in dismay, trying to ignore the look of triumph slowly spreading across his opponent's face after every turn.
Finally it was over, the victor putting her pieces away and standing up, smoothing the folds out of her dress. She grinned at him, smugly thanked him for the game, and went to pull a book off the bookshelf. He watched her read for a moment (or at least pretend to, she was still looking very pleased with herself), then sighed and got up to put the game away, wondering how after years of (mostly) carefully avoiding them, he had still found his way at the losing end of one of Nasuada's wagers.
And that was how he found himself in this moment, rubbing his hand over his now-rough chin, still unused to the feeling of coarseness in place of smooth skin.
Thinking back to the agreement they had made, Nasuada had never specified how long he had to keep his beard for. Surely two weeks was long enough. Maybe even just one. During dinner that night, however, he was very aware of several discreet glances being shot at him from a certain blushing woman at the end of the table and decided he really didn't mind having a beard all that much.
He was already thinking forward to the next wager.