Flutterings of Love

It took quite some time for Tornac to stand on his feet and resume his responsibilities. Despite his determination not to be a burden to Murtagh, there were days when he simply couldn't manage. Sometimes, his breathing would become shallow, and at other times it would deteriorate so much that he had to call Murtagh in the middle of a lesson to take over his students' training. Tornac would then collapse onto the bed, panting, gasping, and coughing, anxiously waiting for the moment he would feel better again.

In the first weeks after his illness, Tornac always sent Murtagh to replace him in Nasuada's lessons, giving the two young people the opportunity to get to know each other better. Their relationship seemed formal, centered around the fencing lessons he gave and she eagerly absorbed, as well as their mock sword fights. Day by day, these mock battles grew more vigorous, filled with impressive displays and fiery temperament.

The young man was overwhelmed by unprecedented feelings, spontaneous and intense, yet somewhat confused. The attraction the girl exerted on him focused his thoughts and attention solely on their meetings for her lessons—something he had never experienced before. He wanted to be near her as much as possible, even all hours of the day if he could. His soul rejoiced every time the fresh scent emanating from her body hit his nostrils. Even the sweat dripping from her forehead and neck, staining her clothes, was to him the most fragrant aromatic essence. He imagined what it would be like to touch her and believed there would be no greater pleasure or more complete happiness afterward.

One time, his fantasy came true quite unexpectedly. A strong strike with his practice blade tore Nasuada's glove, causing a small cut on the back of her hand. Murtagh awkwardly tended to the wound with his own clean handkerchief before she could shyly pull away to receive help from her governess, who was watching the lesson from a corner of the room. In those few moments when the young man's fingers touched her bare skin, he felt his senses ignite. That strange tingling sensation, which he often felt running up and down his spine during practice—and certainly not due to the clashing of weapons—started from his hand and enveloped his entire body, setting it ablaze. He remained still, silent, trembling until she returned to him with a smile, ready to continue.

And then there were the nights. When the days, with their many obligations and the anxiety over Tornac's fluctuating health, ended and Murtagh lay down to rest, her image would always appear before him, warming the room with her sweet eyes and filling his dreams. Sometimes she transformed into an ethereal being of unending light, smiling enigmatically at him through veils of rosy mist and beckoning him to come closer. And he, despite his overwhelming desire to follow the mysterious paths she showed him, could never find a way to reach her.

Other times, she would appear as a dark yet desirable image. Like the sun-warmed earth at dusk, illuminated by the colors of a silvery moon; wrapped only in shadows, with her tender bosom opening like a rosebud before him, ready to welcome him into an unprecedented embrace. And then, frightened by his own passion and desire, he would retreat from the dream, filled with shame for the effect her image had on his body. Afterwards, he would toss and turn on his mattress until he fell back asleep with her image, his entire being filled with a sense of wholeness.

In the morning, when he woke up, the same vague feeling of needing to be near her would return. He needed Nasuada. Those days were essential to him, when he would hurriedly take the road to the castle, to the large training hall adorned with the banners of the Varden, for the fencing lesson hour, where he would teach and she would obediently follow his instructions. He dreamed of the moment when a skillful maneuver with his blade would corner her, allowing him to bring his body closer to hers to disarm her. And then quickly pull away from her, with his blushing cheeks easily justifiable by the intense exercise – though it wasn't true. After a slight bow, he would pick up her fallen sword from the floor and offer it to her again, to start all over.

Nasuada was always kind to him, and all indications showed that she liked him. She had no reason not to, since his need for her was a buried secret deep within his heart. He could never conceive of speaking to her about the tangled web of his emotional world. As for the formal distance she maintained between them, it was natural for a noble girl who spent every hour of her day in contact with the royal family and the entire class of nobles at the palace in Surda.

Murtagh's heart and mind were occupied with these thoughts and feelings while Ajihad himself watched the scheduled meetings between the two young people for Nasuada's lessons with a vigilant eye. The leader of the Varden was not particularly pleased with the gradually growing familiarity he observed between them. He viewed the boy's presence near his daughter more with negative feelings than with affection. He had to admit, however, that Murtagh was always polite and serious, and had never given any reason to be considered dishonest. Yet there was something in the tone of his voice and the way he moved that Ajihad detested. Without realizing what disturbed him so much about the son and assistant of the swordmaster, an instinctive aversion made him treat Murtagh with politeness but also with excessive coldness. This happened every time he saw Murtagh coming to the castle to replace Tornac in the lessons.

As much respect as Ajihad had for the father—a feeling influenced by the fact that Tornac, like himself, had raised his child alone—he felt an equal amount of antipathy towards the son. The complete dissimilarity of his features from those of his father left him suspicious. Tornac, with his very light hair, blue eyes, and completely different body and facial structure, looked nothing like his son. These feelings bothered Ajihad greatly, as he was always fair in his judgments of others. However, there was little he could do about what he felt. He treated Murtagh with formal politeness but also adopted a cold demeanor that kept him at a distance. "He's just a child who grew up without a mother," he often repeated to himself, and logically accepted not rushing to judgment about him. However, emotionally, this thought offered little comfort.

Once the swordmaster recovered, he resumed the lessons at the castle. However, over the following year, there were many times when Murtagh had to replace him; especially when summer ended and the dampness of a cold autumn brought back the same health problems for Tornac. A persistent cough, often accompanied by shortness of breath and chest pain, tormented him, and no remedy provided long-term relief. He frequently felt his strength abandoning him, but Tornac was not one to easily give up on life. He watched the boy he once abducted from Galbatorix's guards grow and gradually mature, as a budding love knocked on the door of his heart, and he felt joy. Murtagh was free to live as he wished, to do whatever crossed his mind, even to travel to the ends of the world. Tornac understood that the time had come for his 'little son' to spread his wings and fly.

.*.*.*.

Murtagh often wandered around the castle. The guards at the gates had come to know him well, so they no longer stopped his entry. They let him pass through the outer wall, allowing him to mingle with the crowds of soldiers, suppliers, and merchants without ever asking questions. He occasionally even passed through the second castle gate to find himself in the inner gardens and courtyards of Borromeo, places where he could easily blend in among the servants, assistants, and maids, who bustled around performing their chores or executing the nobles' orders.

He had long since bribed one of Nasuada's attendants, and she—understanding the longing that tormented the young man—compassionately informed him of some of Nasuada's innocent daily habits. The woman was convinced and led him to a small cobblestone courtyard at the back of the castle, between two fortification supports and the ancient inner wall. Among the vertical masonry of the wall, some pieces of stone corbels, remnants of an old staircase, still stood out.

In times long forgotten, this staircase led to a wooden corridor suspended in the air by beams through the battlements. Defenders could move all around the wall on this corridor, stretching their bows to shoot iron-headed arrows at enemies beyond. However, since the outer walls were built, the main defenses against enemies had been transferred there.

The lords of Aberon had ensured that this old wall was raised by about three meters, reinforcing it with new stone battlements. They also fortified it with numerous towers and a stone corridor, even installing ballistae systems aimed at the skies above the city, due to the fear of attacks by the dragons and riders controlled by Galbatorix. They even added a narrow bridge connecting it to Borromeo Castle, allowing warriors to move from the fortress to the wall and, if necessary, retreat back inside. The old staircase was rendered useless, and the wooden corridor was left to rot, half-collapsed, until one day the father of King Larkin ordered its complete demolition. Some of the stone steps, however, remained, reminding of earlier times when the wall's defenses—and its very height—were nothing like the present.

So Murtagh would climb up there, half-hidden among the stone corbels, and from that height, he would watch the lower courtyards and surrounding terraces. According to the attendant, Nasuada had the habit of going up to the wall every evening at dusk. She would cross the narrow bridge that connected it to the palace and from there head to the opposite terrace from the young man. Between two turrets, she would linger, contemplating, waiting for the night to fall until the moon rose.

On those days when the moon rose early and the castle gates had not yet closed for the night, Murtagh would climb as high as the ruins of the ancient installation allowed, waiting for her presence. Unseen by her eyes, he would await his love to appear on the walls. From his vantage point, he could see soldiers and maidservants in the lower courtyard, sometimes standing in secluded corners already darkened by the shadows of dusk, sometimes sitting on the few stone benches, whispering into each other's ears, weaving and unweaving the threads of love. His own heart would then fill with great longing until Nasuada appeared, her image filling his gaze. When she came, he would watch her secretly from a distance with dreamy eyes fixed on her slender figure, admiring her prematurely matured beauty.

Tonight, the dusk was sweet. Sweet was also the appearance of the girl, whose loose hair was carried by the light breeze, sometimes fluttering, sometimes wrapping around her shoulders. Nasuada had climbed onto the wall, crossing with her swift, light steps the stone bridge that connected the castle with the terrace between the two turrets. With her hands resting on the low part of a battlement, she gazed from this privileged height at the mauve colors of the horizon, where the sun had just dipped into the haze of the plain, seemingly merging sky and earth into one. The western wind, like an impatient hand, had swept the crimson clouds to one side of the sky, and the disk of the moon had emerged. Gradually, the torches of the castle began to light up from below.

Earlier, perched on the corbel that was once the last step of the staircase, Murtagh never took his eyes off her beauty. Half-hidden in the shadow of the newer support of the fortification turret, the young man felt his heart race faster at the sight of her. The curls of her ebony hair fluttered, making him long to wrap them around his fingers. He yearned to bring his face close to hers, to gaze tenderly into the depths of her eyes. Oh, if only he could drink the nectar of those sweet lips in one breath... He closed his eyes, hoping he was not dreaming and that her image would not change when he opened them. Deep inside, he wished time would stop for a while, so he could savor these moments a little longer.

Taking a deep breath of the sweet air, he tried to calm the need he felt for her. The Deer Moon* was approaching swiftly, and soon it would be time for him to turn fifteen. In the year that had passed since their first meeting, his love for her had matured, and the tangled skein of his feelings for her had unraveled. He loved Nasuada and was now more than certain of his love for her. He was also sure that he would continue to love her for as long as he lived. If only he could tell her! If only he could find the courage to speak to her about his feelings!

At the moment when the young man's mind was stirring the deep feelings of his heart, it suddenly skipped a beat. Directly in front of him, on the narrow path of the wall used for the movement of the warriors, he caught a suspicious movement. A man was walking hunched over, trying to hide his form behind the battlements. Murtagh's sharp eye caught a glimpse of the gleam of a dagger in the man's hand as he stealthily approached the guard stationed in front of the turret. The young man sprang upright. One moment the guard was at his post, the next he was out of sight. No longer able to see the unknown man from where he stood, Murtagh realized that he was moving towards Nasuada.

… Nasuada!...

Someone had just overpowered a guard and was walking towards her with a dagger in hand. His beloved was in danger! Without losing a moment, without a second thought, without hesitation or fear, he began to climb the three-meter distance from where he was upward like a cat. These three meters separated him from the top of the newer addition to the old wall and the corridor he could move upon.

Bracing his feet against the protrusions of the blocks and thrusting his hands into any loose crevice between them that he could discern in the fading twilight, he soon found himself at the top. With swift movements of his well-trained body, he sprang onto the narrow corridor and began to run towards the terrace. His rapid footsteps on the paving stones must have already alerted the other guard, who was stationed at the first turret, and Murtagh hoped inwardly that he had managed to defend Nasuada. He didn't have his sword with him, not even the hunting knife he usually kept in his right boot with the handle sticking out.

When he reached the small turret, he saw with horror-filled eyes the body of the other guard lying in a pool of blood on the corridor, in front of his post. How had the assassin managed to get here so quickly? Without losing a moment, Murtagh drew the sword from the dead man's sheath, stepped over the fallen body, and ran as if his feet had wings towards the terrace where he knew Nasuada was standing.

He saw the assassin dangerously close to the girl, who was holding a knife in front of her with both hands. With a leap, Murtagh sprang to the center of the terrace.

"Scoundrel!" he shouted. "Here... to me!" At the same time, he attacked the man with all his might.

The stranger turned around, surprised. He believed that he had eliminated the two guards on this side of the wall and that his victim—despite the knife she held resolutely in front of her—was at his mercy. With the stiletto he was holding, he was not prepared to face someone with a sword. However, he cast a sly glance behind the young man, and from this movement, Murtagh realized that the assassin was not acting alone. His accomplice then emerged onto the terrace from the base of the small turret and attacked the young man. His presence explained the second dead guard. It seemed that the two miserable partners had moved quickly, attacking simultaneously, agreeing to eliminate the sentries of the two turrets. No one had noticed them, so their presence did not raise an alarm. Murtagh prepared to defend himself while also protecting Nasuada. This second assassin was holding a sword.

That there were two opponents and one of them better armed did not deter him at all. He chose to attack the one with the sword first, neutralizing the more dangerous opponent. It didn't take him many moves to realize that, despite his audacity, the assassin was not a skilled swordsman. However, the thought of the other man, who threatened Nasuada with a stiletto, made the young man put all his might and effort into the fight. With the corner of his eye, he saw the girl skillfully defending herself, keeping the assassin at bay with her knife and agilely evading one of his attacks.

Pretending that he would attack from the man's right side, then with a swift turn, Murtagh moved the other way and tried to disarm the assassin. But he failed. The man saw through his feint and, with a sardonic smile on his lips, taunted him with a vulgar gesture. He was certainly not a good swordsman, but he had perhaps discerned the young man's hesitation to kill.

For Murtagh, this confrontation was nothing like the many hours of practice he had spent at the school fencing with Tornac. Nor did it resemble the lessons he often took on to train the younger aristocratic students. Murtagh had never taken a life, except for those of animals while hunting. The thought that he had to do it now because otherwise Nasuada's life was in danger made him realize that he had to finish this opponent. His beloved might hold off the other for a little while longer, but Murtagh couldn't risk her life by delaying attempts to disarm or wound the assassin. The blade of the soldier's sword in his hand was sharp. He had to kill! With unstoppable force, he attacked the opponent, putting all his strength and skill from his training so far. This man was nothing but a murderer! He had to die! Both of them had to disappear from this world. They hadn't just killed the two guards; their real target was Nasuada.

… Nasuada!...

He imagined his beloved dead, with her throat slit by the stiletto, like the soldier... her slender body floating in a pool of her own blood... her beautiful eyes staring at the world, without seeing it... like the soldier...

...Never such a thing! Never!...

With a wild cry of anger and hatred that filled his soul, he pierced one of the assassins with his sword. Then, without delay, he turned towards the other. The man had cornered the girl between the battlements. The capable Nasuada had not only managed to keep him at bay but had also inflicted a wound on his arm with her sharp blade. The sleeve of his torn shirt dripped blood onto the stones of the terrace. Murtagh attacked him with great fury, wounding the other shoulder, the one holding the knife. The intense pain made the man cry out, drop his weapon, and turn towards Murtagh, pathetically begging for his life. The young man's rage overwhelmed him; the smell of blood had enraged him. No plea could stop his hand and blade when Nasuada's life was in danger. With a strong kick, he knocked the man down and prepared to pierce his neck with the sword, holding the hilt with both hands.

"Stop! We need him alive!" It was Nasuada's voice that halted his blade, moments before it would have thrust with force towards the assassin's neck. She approached him and, with a dissuasive gesture of her hand, lowered his. "This man is not resisting. We need to turn him over to the guards to interrogate him," she whispered gently.

Following the movement of her tender hand, Murtagh's blade lowered slightly, though it never ceased to threaten the assassin's neck. He looked at the fallen, sniveling man, with excessive ferocity and disgust. His agitated heart pounded in his chest. Sweat poured from his forehead, stinging his eyes. He had just taken a life, and his clothes were splattered with the blood of his slain enemy. He stood like a wild beast over its prey, with bared teeth, steely eyes, and nostrils flaring as he inhaled the scent of blood in the warm air, a blue vein throbbing at the side of his forehead.

All his instincts demanded that he strike. He had killed moments ago and was ready to repeat the act. This murderer had threatened Nasuada's life. The wretch, however, understanding that only the girl would show him mercy and not Murtagh, begged pathetically at the feet of the one he had tried to kill. And Nasuada, the noblewoman of Aberon, the daughter of the leader of the Varden, his beloved, had pitied her assassin, stopping Murtagh's punishing blade.

She grasped Murtagh's arm firmly, pulling him a step back. "Don't! It's not worth it." Her tone was gentler than before. Her voice sounded sweeter than it had ever sounded in his ears. Her hand tightened more on the tense muscles of his arm. "Listen! The guards are coming. We must turn him over to them, to be interrogated properly."

Murtagh heard the heavy boots of the soldiers pounding on the stone corridor. The angry voices of his fight a little earlier and the clash of weapons had apparently roused the guards and set off the alarm in the castle. Perhaps someone had seen that something was happening on the wall. The young man lowered the hand that held the blade and turned towards the girl. Her face seemed serene to him, her forehead proud, and her shoulders as upright as ever. But under the rays of the moon, deep within her eyes, he discerned a gleam he had never seen there before.

"You saved my life," the girl said, gently touching his cheek with her hand. "Thank you for that. I promise I will never forget it."

.*.*.*.

"A palace servant, known to many, was one of the two," Jörmundur said with a voice full of disdain for Nasuada's would-be assassin. "The other, as the man revealed, was an agent sent directly by Galbatorix. The king paid them with gold to target the leader of the Varden." Ajihad's right-hand man squeezed Murtagh's shoulder approvingly. "We are indebted to you, lad. If it weren't for you..."

"Lady Nasuada is capable of defending herself," Murtagh replied. "I just... happened to be nearby and saw one of the guards fall by the assassin's knife."

As soon as Borromeo's guards arrived on the rooftop and Nasuada briefly described what had happened, they were all led into the castle, before King Larkin himself. While the castellan and the soldiers dragged their wounded captive to the dungeons for interrogation, Jörmundur followed them. Ajihad, with a serious face and a voice full of authority, requested that Nasuada retire to her chambers with her governess, and she, without a word, obeyed. The leader of the Varden remained to converse privately for a while with the King of Surda and his heir.

All this time, Murtagh had been asked to wait in a corner of the hall. The young man was not injured, only visibly distressed. He still held the bloodied blade tightly in his hand, the same blade he had used to kill his opponent. His face and clothes were smeared with blood, and his agitation was obvious. The palace doctor, who was summoned, rushed to Nasuada's chambers as soon as he discovered that the blood staining Murtagh was not his own.

Larkin's servants brought a basin of water before Murtagh so he could wash himself. He followed their advice, handing over the dead soldier's sword first. Then the oldest of the servants offered him a cup of watered wine and insisted he drink it all. Murtagh drank obediently. He felt the agitation from the fight with the assassin subside within him. His anger gradually abated.

Abruptly, he felt unbearable exhaustion, but also great joy. Nasuada was alive! She was as strong and resilient as ever, and her would-be assassins—one dead, the other in the dungeons. The thought that he had just taken a life should not overshadow his joy at saving his beloved. That man would have mercilessly killed the young girl. What had Nasuada done to deserve such a fate?

A short time later, Ajihad motioned for him to approach, and Murtagh bowed before the throne. In a formal tone, Larkin asked him to recount everything that had happened.

The young man responded with zeal, without omitting any detail of his adventure. Deliberately, he did not include in his account the reason for his presence near the ancient wall, but fortunately, neither the king nor Ajihad asked. Once everything that needed to be said was said, Ajihad ordered a Varden guard to lead Murtagh to one of the rooms assigned to the rebels, stating that he would visit him later himself. Murtagh obeyed. He was more eager to learn the latest about this strange attack on Nasuada than to follow Ajihad's order.

Later, other men and women of the Varden gathered in that room, discussing the event. Many of them approached him to thank him. His involvement in saving their leader's daughter had become known, and everyone reacted in their own way. A silent bow, a kind word accompanying a handshake, a friendly squeeze on the arm, or a pat on the shoulder was his reward for the role he played. Murtagh saw people around him looking at him—even those who did not approach—with eyes full of admiration, gratitude, perhaps even expectation. He understood then that not only Ajihad but Nasuada herself was highly esteemed and accepted among the Varden.

When Jörmundur later returned from questioning the assassin, they all surrounded him eagerly, wanting to know the details. Jörmundur provided them with all he had learned from the interrogation.

He continued to squeeze Murtagh's shoulder approvingly. "Nasuada is a capable girl, and the weapons masters who have trained her are highly skilled," he responded to the young man's humble reply. "But the truth is, against two assassins... and she all alone..."

Murtagh rubbed the tip of his nose awkwardly with his fingers. What Jörmundur implied was unbearable even as a thought in his mind; otherwise, he would go mad. "Why Nasuada?" he dared to ask. "You said earlier, adjutant, that the assassins were paid with gold to target the Varden. But... Nasuada?"

Jörmundur's lips twisted into a hard smile. His facial features became stony. "Galbatorix wanted to strike at Ajihad himself. He obviously thought, with his vile mind, that he would damage the Varden by causing their leader the most pain. He did not send his assassins to attack the leader, something he knows is difficult—if not completely impossible—but sent them to take the life of his own child."

Hearing these words, Murtagh froze in horror. What kind of monster, what dark soul could harbor such thoughts? To make such decisions? His mind flew swiftly to his own past, and he felt—once again—gratitude flooding his heart for Tornac. Years ago, one night, Tornac had dared the risky act of secretly escaping, just the two of them, from Galbatorix's guards. Murtagh knew what he had been saved from that night… he might have been a small child, but… he remembered. What would his life have been like inside the palace of Uru'baen, near such a king, if Tornac hadn't risked his life that night? The young man proudly lifted his head and squared his shoulders. Long ago, he had vowed to forget his origins and his name. Not to remember. Tornac was his 'only' father, and this life he now lived was his 'true' life.

Jörmundur continued relentlessly. "The assassin was interrogated. The man confessed everything. I am not in a position to know what his fate will be; the judgment is up to the King of Surda. Whatever awaits him, he deserves it. From what I understand, no one would want to be in his place. Perhaps, in the end, he was unlucky that you decided to spare his miserable life."

Murtagh swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat from the memories and his previous thoughts. He tried to tell Jörmundur that it wasn't his will to spare that scoundrel's life, but Nasuada's. But Jörmundur grabbed him by both shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. "One thing you can be sure of: Your act of helping Nasuada will not be forgotten, neither by Ajihad nor by any of the Varden."

At that moment, the wide double doors opened, and Ajihad appeared in the entrance. He nodded reassuringly to those who surrounded him and, decisively making his way through them, approached Murtagh. With eyes shining with authority and a formal demeanor, the leader of the Varden stood before him, addressing him in a voice that was heard by all. "I must admit, Murtagh son of Tornac, that I owe you the greatest debt a person can owe. You saved my child, my only daughter, and that is something I will never forget as long as I live. For this act, I am indebted to you." Ajihad placed his right hand on his chest and bowed his head slightly in front of the young man as a gesture of gratitude and thanks.

Murtagh looked him bravely in the eyes. Something in Ajihad's tone showed that the usually cold man had accepted him. However, facing this man, his instinct told him to measure his words carefully. "I did nothing more than what anyone who saw someone in danger would have done. Nasuada defended herself skillfully with her knife. Even without my intervention, she would have survived until the guards arrived."

The leader of the Varden assessed the young man for a moment, judging his words. The pride of Tornac's son was always evident, and, as Ajihad believed, not just for his skill with weapons. However, his words and measured demeanor showed that neither his act nor the great acceptance of it by others had sparked the slightest hint of arrogance within him. This earned Ajihad's deep respect for him.

"Even so, I remain grateful and indebted to you," he said. "Perhaps one day I will be able to repay this debt." Then he nodded to two guards who were following him to approach. "You can return home now, son of Tornac. Since it is late, my two guards will accompany you there. Give my regards to your father and tell him that he should be proud of his son. Also, tell him that I congratulate him on the work he did teaching my daughter and wish him good health."

Murtagh bowed and left, followed by the two guards, while Ajihad remained watching him as he walked towards the exit of the hall. Despite the gratitude he had just expressed to this boy, and despite the eternal obligation he owed him, the same aversion that always accompanied Murtagh's presence unexpectedly struck again. Murtagh's proud demeanor, the way his eyes looked at his interlocutor, his entire body movement, and even his voice brought back unpleasant memories for the leader of the Varden from his past. Especially that voice, which always gave Ajihad the impression he had heard it before. He even avoided remembering where or associating this boy with the person to whom this voice's memory referred.

Ajihad took a deep breath and beckoned Jörmundur and some members of the Varden council to approach. The thought that, even after the good Murtagh had done for him, the subconscious dislike he felt for him persisted, troubled him. The dissimilar features of this young man with his father could mean nothing. Surely, he must resemble that unknown woman whose ashes and bones might have been left behind on the blood-soaked lands of the empire; just like those of his own beloved wife. Murtagh, after all, was nothing more than a child who grew up without a mother. Someone to whom Ajihad now owed the greatest favor.

*The Deer Moon, one of the names for the full moon of July, when the antlers of deer grow.