Disclaimer: I do not hate gay people, I know all gay people are not stylists, etc. Understand that this is a character I created, and he is this way for a very specific reason. You don't understand now, but you will.

Other than that this chapter makes me really happy.

I yawned, my mouth stretching as I felt something gently shaking me awake. I tried to swat at it, but that didn't help, of course. Instead, it just laughed at me, "I told you, my Lady; you have to meet with the tailor today. I already let you sleep through breakfast."

The golf ball I had to swallow passed when he called me his lady nearly choked me, especially when I realized that he was in my room, waking me up. My voice, luckily, found its way out; albeit, I sounded very sleepy, but I am very sleepy, so that works out, "How are you always awake?" I yawned at the word 'awake,' stubbornly keeping my eyes closed to guard against all forms of light and beauty.

There was a slightly annoyed sigh, followed by my upper body being tugged towards one end of the bed. I started to flail in response, all too used to the rough treatment from my brothers. I felt my hands and feet come into contact with Murtagh's body multiple times, but in stereotypical Murtagh response he didn't seem to notice. A slap in the face was nothing when he'd probably fought battles the kind of battles that go on for days and days only to lose and have to get stabbed in the thigh by an abusive King.

I felt my body teetering on the edge of the bed, and screamed as gravity pulled me down towards the ground. My bed is fairly high off the ground; a fall could result in serious injury. Of course, I forgot in my semi-conscious state that Murtagh was right there, and of course pushed me that millimeter necessary back onto the bed so that I wouldn't fall. The push landed on my stomach, which was bare. Not because I sleep naked – because in the midst of our fighting my shirt had ridden up a little.

The touch burned, which immediately put a stop to my flailing. I… huh? What was that? Murtagh's hand pulled away, and he didn't seem affected. Was it… a spell? For the first time that morning, I opened my eyes to have look at him. I don't know what I expected – it's not like his face is very foretelling about his emotions without my prodding.

His back was already turned to me, and he seemed to be picking some things off the ground. As he straightened up and turned, I saw that they were my covers. His face was completely blank, and so I resorted to be verbally questioning him, "Did you just use a spell on me?"

Stereotypically, his face muscles didn't even contract an inch, "No, why?" He turned, then, heading for my doorway and obviously expecting that I would respond before he got there. Of course, I did.

"I don't know, I just thought I… felt something." I know I felt something, but he doesn't need to know what I know. Murtagh paused as he reached the doorway, his back to me as he spoke.

"The tailor will be here in a half an hour; I expect you to be in dressed before then." I groaned – he had to go and remind me that I've got responsibilities. I never not have responsibilities anymore; it's a real pain. Unperturbed at my protest, Murtagh left and closed the door behind him. Good; if he stayed he'd probably start to give me more things to remember. Like I'm in school, or something.

The tailor smacked his lips at me, "Too tight; try the next one." I never thought that this was how tailors worked. I thought they took measurements and sewed things. I rolled my eyes as I slid back behind the curtain, stripping the piece of cloth that was supposed to cover me. Really, this man shouldn't have a rack of things for me to try on; didn't he take my measurements when he first made me what I've been wearing? I pulled on the next piece of fabric shaped in the form of an hourglass and went back out. The man quickly shook his head at me, "Wrong color; you look too pale."

Apparently, when Murtagh said 'tailor,' he meant 'pain in the ass stylist.' Really, this guy has everything but the lisp. He couldn't be more stereotypical if he went home to a twenty year old named Raoul. Or a lot of cats…

As I was stuck behind the curtain, struggling into the tights that had been thrown at me over the curtain, I heard the door open and close. It registered that someone had come in, but it was still a shock to hear his deep voice fill the room, "How is the lady doing? Do you have something more fitting for her to wear, yet?"

"Such an odd request anymore, a woman fighter; yes, yes, she's coming along just fine. You alright back there?" I was surprised by the lack of 'darling,' but also at how nervous I was to walk out and let Murtagh see me. I could barely move, and at that moment the effort was just not worth it.

"Uh, yeah, this one fits! Make more this size!" It's true – this mini-dress thing with the belt around my middle fits perfectly; I'm completely at ease and covered.

"I need to see the color, come on out!" I hate tailors. Ironically, I've liked every other semi-effeminate man I've ever met, but I'm going to kill this tailor. I wonder if it'll be considered a hate crime; I wonder if they have such a thing as hate crimes. I'm not even sure he's gay, though.

I started to suck at my teeth, curling my tongue in an attempt to keep from accidently biting it. It only took a few steps before I was out of the safety of my curtains and surrounded by mirrors on two sides and Murtagh with the tailor on another. Murtagh's mouth twitched slightly when we made eye contact, but nothing else about his stature changed; he stood like a soldier at ease, shoulders back and his hands tucked into the small of his back.

A glance in the mirror made me cringe; it fit, alright, and the color was nice, but something about it mixed with the green tights and brown boots with matching belt felt… off. "Perfect," the tailor cried, rushing towards me and pulling at the skirt to see what length he liked it.

"Do you like it, my lady?" Am I that easy to read? Or did Murtagh slip into my mind and I didn't even notice? Either way, I shivered when he called me his lady. The tailor's eyes shot up to my face, his smirking lips making it very clear that he'd caught the tremble and knew what it was for.

Resisting the urge to kick him, I concentrated on my reflection, "I don't know. I feel like Peter Pan." That's it! All I need is a matching green cap with a red feather. And, you know, to lose about ten years and never grow up. A pirate to be my enemy would also be helpful. Alright, so maybe my life isn't so Peter Pan-like, but this outfit is.

"Peter Pan?"

"Nonsense," the tailor ignored Murtagh's questioning, the first thing I liked that the blasted tailor had done all day, "You look absolutely ravishing. If you were a turnip I would eat you." Alright, that's just weird. I guess now I have to respond to Murtagh, since I don't know what to say to being called a turnip."

"Peter Pan is a… bedtime story from New York. He's a boy who never grows up and runs around in almost exactly this." Murtagh's eyes then raked down my body, nearly physically throwing me off balance. I grew hot, a foreign blush rising to my cheeks.

"I like it; make her more like it."

"Of course; it's absolutely perfect," the tailor gushed, continuing to fold and unfold the skirt, experimenting with various pleats and lengths, "And it's the finest material, of course; durable and warm."

Murtagh's lips finally twisted upwards into a heart-wrenching smirk; I'm glad I'm in the one corner of the castle where Emerson doesn't bother to keep tabs on me because it's too far away. "Of course, of course; do you have the gowns I asked for?"

I gulped, my eyes flashing from Murtagh's smirk to his eyes, to be sure that he was serious, before I pulled my gaze away from that direction and forced myself to look at the tailor, "Gowns, what gowns?" Because Murtagh is serious, and gowns could be bad.

"As a lady of the court," Murtagh's smirk drew me in again as he started to purr at me in a deep, low voice, "You will eventually be expected to attend a few parties and become acquainted with the King. I simply can't keep you to myself forever." Oh… fuck I can't breathe. Hoping to be indescrete, I bent my back and started to pull at the threads that held the thing together in an attempt to loosen it. "A ball gown is the only appropriate thing for such occurances, Liaden." Just a bit more… "Is it tight, m'lady?"

I hadn't been able to tear my eyes from Murtagh's the entire time he'd been talking, and the sudden requirement of my voice presented the opportunity to make it clear that I'd lost the ability to speak. "I… um… uh…" I've just got to spit this out and get it over it. "No."

The tailor was at my strings before I could tell him that I wanted to go change, retightening them, "Any looser and it would've fallen off!" Oh, that's just what I need. Great.

As soon as my strings had been cinched tight again, the tailor hurried off to get his rack of dresses from who-knows-where-he'd-stored them. Still smirking, and still easily meeting my eye contact, Murtagh fell into the chair that the tailor had been using. His immediate attempt to make himself comfortable told me that he planned on staying.

"Are you going to stay and watch me try on the gowns?" Can't hurt to be sure.

"Oh, yes," his smirk slowly transfigured into a smile, which made me want to die a little, "I can't wait to see more dresses that make you look like a turnip." And then the smile, which was so slight it had barely been there, faded and Murtagh's eyes softened, the gray and the brown that made them up swirling and shining, "You really do look beautiful in that, eternally youthful boy or not."

"I think you should go." Seriously, though, how am I supposed to try things on and have an open mind when I know that Murtagh is out here, judging me, commenting on me, even if it doesn't fit or isn't flattering. It was hard enough letting him see me in something that actually fit, so much for a large ball gown that I probably won't be able to get into without two Urgals to help me.

Immediately, Murtagh's eyes darkened in response to my request. I could tell he wanted to ask why, and the way his veins were clearly defined in his arms made it obvious to me that he was holding back from physically reacting, or at least reaching into my brain to find out the truth. After a few seconds, he growled through his teeth, "Fine."

He stood, then, turning and storming out the door in the most dignified way I could've imagined. His dark, stormy eyes were burned into my memory, and he huffed passed a confused tailor. The tailor watched as Murtagh stormed down the hall, using his rack of dresses to hold the door open. I groaned – more clothing. I'm so sick of being a teenage girl.

"Was that the Lord of the Castle stomping out of here like a three year old?" I couldn't help but giggle, grateful for the humor to break my physical tension at having been so close to Murtagh when he seemed so relaxed. Shaking his head, the tailor pushed his rack fully into the room, most of the dresses getting caught on the doorway. Immediately, what was left of the relief fled from my body. Two full weekends of shopping for the perfect dress for my junior prom had left me with a certain disdain for dress shopping in its entirety.

"Which one do you want me to try on first?" The tailor wrinkled his nose at his rack before looking at what I was wearing. His hand shot out, like a snake attacking a mouse, and he when he pulled it back out he'd managed to pull a dress from the fray.

"This one should fit, and the colors have potential." I nodded, not caring at this point whether or not it fit or looked good. I could feel that Murtagh was mad at me; after however many weeks we'd spent together, I knew him well enough to know his anger. When I was stuck behind the curtain, only mostly dressed, the tailor started to question me, "So, are the two of you married, or did the King just stick you two together to save on land and building materials?"

"Uh, actually, Murtagh found me in the desert and took me in; the fact that I'm a dragon rider made me important enough to have my dragon and I invited into the court, and we didn't have much choice but to accept." That's more honestly than I usually offer up to Murtagh during any given week, so much for in one sitting. "I stay here because he's teaching me."

"I think he wants you here, even if he'll never admit it," the tailor offered as I stepped forward and out of the curtains. His nose wrinkled, "Yuck, lose the puffy sleeves. Who knows what fashion era my sister was thinking about when she sewed up this one." The tailor tugged at the sleeves, obviously dissatisfied that they weren't detachable. "He definitely wants you here."

The speed and ease with which the tailor was able to switch from talking about Murtagh's deepest inner workings to basic ball gown fashion caught me off guards. "Ho… How can you tell?"

"In all the times I've been here to fit anyone for anything – soldiers, Urgals, guests of his who need an emergency outfit – he's never once come down unless I was fitting him or he was paying me. I think he would've stayed, if you two hadn't gotten into a fight." A new dress in hand, the tailor easily ushered me back into the depths of the curtains.

"We didn't get into a fight – I asked him to leave and he got annoyed." When you say it aloud, it actually sounds a little ridiculous. I mean, I said please, didn't I? And even if I forgot my manners in that respect, I didn't say anything that should have offended him so… rapidly.

"Why did you ask him to leave?"

"Because he makes me nervous." God, this guy should be a shrink; talking to him is like talking to Emerson, only this guy isn't overprotective and green. "I… I don't know why, but he does and I didn't want to deal with that just now."

I couldn't see the tailor's facial expressions, but I could guess well enough based on his disbelieving tone, "You know why. Did you tell him that he makes you nervous?" I shook my head, completely forgetting the fact that the tailor couldn't see my gestures when I was hidden behind the curtain.

"Why would I?"

"Call it a hunch, but I think it's something that your Lord and mine would like to hear. If you open up to him, it's more likely that he'll tell you what's going on inside of him." Alright, I need to add mind-reader to this guy's list of talents. How did he know that the one thing I'm ever concentrating on with Murtagh is showing real emotions? I stepped forward once again from the curtains, greeted immediately by the tailor's disapproving tsks, "Maybe if we let out the skirt, a little…"

You know that she had every right to ask you to leave, don't you? After all, it was a private fitting session; she probably was worried ab-

I know I have no right to be mad at her, Thorn, Murtagh scowled to himself, his eyes squinting against the wind blowing into his face as he hunched down over his dragon's neck, I just… am. I thought we were having fun, and then she just up and asks me to leave? Why kind of person does that?

You would, I'm sure, Thorn pointed out, obviously feeling smug at pointing out so obvious and undeniable a person. Thorn's smugness quickly faded, though, to one of sympathy, I'm sure she didn't even notice that you were annoyed; if you forgive her for whatever she did that actually made you angry, I bet you can pretend that it never happened.

Murtagh's scowl made a valiant attempt to permanently etch itself into his face as he thought about the question for only a few seconds before responding. That's the problem, Thorn; I simply have no idea what I could be mad about. It's… it's completely illogical. It's based completely on passion and want. It's not like me at all.

Welcome to the realm of the living; my name is Thorn and I'll be your dragon this lifetime. Murtagh rolled his eyes at the sarcastic comment as he leaned into the turn. After becoming inexplicably annoyed with Liaden, Murtagh had stormed the entire way to the stable, where Thorn had quietly suggested that they go for a little flying around the castle, where they could communicate with each other incomplete and total privacy while calming down Murtagh simultaneously.

We should probably land soon; I don't want you too tired for the lesson tonight. Murtagh could tell that no more progress was going to be made on the issue today, and so instead resigned himself to uncharacteristic hope; hope that tonight Liaden could right whatever imaginary right she'd done, and right the wrong unconsciously. The last thing Murtagh wanted was to talk about this with her.

Thorn agreed with Murtagh's suggestion without a word, instead tilting himself nearly upside down as he turned back towards he castle. Murtagh's legs tightened, the blood rushing towards his head and the pounding and pumping that assaulted his head reminding him of a pounding headache, and nearly resulting in one before Thorn righted himself a few moments later. You know, I have to wonder how Emerson manages to be so much faster than me; I'm older, after all, and stronger.

Murtagh snorted at his dragon's open ponderings, Maybe it's because of your muscle; it weighs you down. Maybe you should go on a diet.

Who knew I had a court jester for a Rider? Thorn landed gently on the ground in the back courtyard, Murtagh deciding to continue to rest in the saddle until Thorn had settled on what to do with himself until tonight. That is, Murtagh had made that decision until he heard Liaden's voice call to him from across the courtyard.

"I have to wonder why Emerson doesn't get his own courtyard to hang out in all day; it really is a pain to have to walk the fifteen steps from the castle to the stable." Her voice was sarcastic, and Murtagh forced himself to respond to her seemingly careless tone with his own moderate amount of carelessness.

"There are only two courtyards, and I need the other one on the off chance that someone decides to visit." Murtagh scolded himself for his tone; he still sounded angry, and slightly robotic. Nothing like how he wanted to sound; he'd planned on a less cautious, snappy tone.

Thorn's glare quickly reminded Murtagh to mind himself and be polite, if he couldn't at least sound happy. Relax, Murtagh; let it come naturally.

Murtagh took a deep breath before he continued his conversation with Liaden. He'd already fell from Thorn's back the moment he heard her, but it was only just then that he finally reached her. Awkwardly, he paused, unsure where they were supposed to be going. Lunch wasn't for another half an hour, according to the clock tower, and he couldn't imagine being with her for that long unnecessarily. "What did you want?"

"I wanted to talk to you after the tailor left, but you'd already gone flying." She wanted to talk to him? What could she possibly want to talk to him about? Wasn't it obvious that he was inexplicably angry, that he was nearly burning with unprovoked anger at being so close to her? "I… I wanted to say I was… sorry."

For one brief moment, Murtagh felt the weight of anger lift off of him, leaving the burning behind. It took Murtagh a moment to figure out why, but he did eventually figure it out; he wasn't quite sure yet if she was going to apologize for what he was angry about. "For what?"

"I was… it made me nervous to have you in there." The second the explanation left her lips, Murtagh felt so light and free of anger that he almost thought he was floating. Of course, he wasn't, and he was still burning, which left him confused as Liaden continued to gush, her cheeks tinting with a natural blush, "God, I can't believe I just said that; I mean, the tailor said it might help if you knew why I wanted you to leave, and he seemed smart enough once we got to talking; if that was too much information, you can just forget it."

For one defining instant, Liaden looked up at Murtagh and made eye contact. The truth seared through both the Rider's mind and the dragon's, resulting in a short of fire from Thorn. The eye contact was broken at the dragon's way of laughing since Laiden jumped in shock.

Murtagh's throat was dry – it was impossible. This… it wouldn't happen; it couldn't happen. It was all too perfectly wrong and perverse to actually be true. After all, this was the real world he was living in, not some fairy tale from New York in the North. There was no happily ever after, and Murtagh simply couldn't risk these feelings.

"Well… thank you for being so honest with me, Liaden; I appreciate it." Murtagh moved to take a step passed her, but she intercepted him.

"You're not still mad, are you? Because if I just admitted to that and you're still mad, then I'm going to feel very very dumb." Once again, Liaden made burning hot eye contact with him, and Murtagh had to shake it off.

"No, no, I'm not angry at you; now, if you'll please excuse me, I've been… neglecting my duties." Murtagh slipped by her, all too ready to take of running in fear. It simply wasn't possible. It wasn't logical.

Thorn's musical, deep laugh echoed through Murtagh's head as the darker-haired Rider started to weave through the staircases towards his room; who would believe it except for himself and Thorn, anyway? No, no, this was too improbable, too ironically perfect.

Something happened for the first time, deep inside
It was a rush, it was just too much
Cause the possibility that you would ever feel the same way about me
It's just too much, just too much
Why do I keep running from the truth?
All I ever think about is you
You got me hypnotized, so mesmerized and I've just got to know
Do you ever think, when you're all alone
All that we can be? Where this could go?
Am I crazy or falling in love? Is it really just another crush?
Do you catch your breath when I look at you?
Are you holding back like the way I do?
Cause I'm trying and trying to walk away
But I know this crush ain't going away

Crush by David Archuleta