Summary: Trapped in his personal hell, Murtagh lives each day with regret. When Nasuada is captured by Galbatorix, Murtagh's life takes a turn that could very well change Alagasesia...MurtaghxNasuada

Disclaimer: I don't own Eragon or the Inheritance series. If I did, it wouldn't resemble Star Wars so much

Rating: T for angst

Song on Repeat: The Mariners Revenge by The Decemberists

No, I am not dead. Suprise suprise, I'm still lurking around fanfiction under the guise of an invisible reviewer, mostly under the Inglourious Basterds section. (I'm obsessed). I know what's coming. "Oh well, author, if you were on the site so much, why in the world didn't you update?"

Simply put, I didn't think anyone cared. It's been a good six month since this story has gotten any sort of recognition, and since I've totally and completely fallen off this Cycles bandwagon, I threw my hands in the air and said "Why bother!" But, because of a quite persuasive note from Shadowed Breath (kiss her feet if you really are excited to see me back) I decided I'm going to finish.

Against my better judgement. I was thirteen when I originally wrote out the plot for this story. My words from early on are still the unedited words of a middle schooler. I'm seventeen now. I hate my voice from early on, I hate how cliche I've made things. The characters, I do not mind. I can't recall what they were like in the books, since I don't read them any longer, thus can claim their personalities. Hopefully, these last couple chapters will be in a better voice then the earlier ones.

Ok, enough angst. On with the story!

Nasuada looked around the chamber's slowly. Grey light from a covered window accented the deep shadows around the corners. Black obsiddian covered the floors and the pillars that held up the ceiling. Green bedsheets, so dark Nasuada had mistaken them for black at first glance, covered the large majestic bed against the wall. There was a portrait opposite the bed. A dark mahgony frame held a man with a terrible glint in his eyes, arms around a rather fragile women with dark hair. In her arms, she held a pale baby.

Murtagh barely gave his room a second glance. He conntacted Thorn instantly.

'I've got Nasuada. How are you doing with Shurikan?'

'Not as well as I hoped, oh masochistic one.'

'This is no times for jokes!'

'Who said I was joking?'

'How long do you need?'

'Half past an hour.'

'Half past an hour!? Thorn-!'

'It's the best I can do. I am sorry.'

Murtagh cursed. Agitated, he turned to tell Nasuada, but found her staring intently at the protrait of his family. He follow her eyes, his eyes finding the face of his mother. Frustration and anger bubbled up in his still sore stomach, and he reached forward to touch his mother's fragile arm.

"One big happy family." Murtagh mumered. Nasuada stepped closer and grasped his large hand in her own smaller one.

"What was your mother like?" He asked her suddenly.

Nasuada did not hesitate to answer. "I had no mother." She said. "I was born into my father's waiting arms. I was carried across the desert and mountains by those very arms. I was taught to live and fight, while my skin burned and blacked. There must've been a women who held me before I was born, but I never knew her." She measured Murtagh's pale face, but his dark eyes never left the portrait of his own family. "Why?" she asked. "What was your like?"

Murtagh shrugged, his eyes never leaving the portrait. "I don't remember." He said. As an afterthought, he added; "Weak. Fragile. The painter got her right. As far as I can remember she was like…glass. Breakable and translucent." His face turned sour. "She used all her strength to escape with Eragon. It must not have even occurred to her to rescue me." He sighed. "Two days after she left, my father laid my back open with his sword—My sword. And I must carry the weapon with me, as a reminder of her weakeness. As a reminder that she had no will to save me."

Silence hung in the air between them, unbroken, unmoving. Slowly, ever so slowy, Nasuada reached out and placed her hand lightly on Murtagh's shoulder. He stiffened, but did not brush her off.

Her light fingers probed his tunic, searching for the scar. It was not hard to find. She traced the knotted scar from his shoulder, down his back and stopped at his hip. In her mind, she could almost see the small, dark haired child she imagined Murtagh to be. She could see him running from his drunk father, screaming in pain as the sword he carried met his skin. She shivered.

Murtagh turned around as he felt the tremer run through her body and stared her in the eyes. He brushed the side of her face gently with his hand, watching her lips come closer and closer.

(A/N: End difficult writing part! That part took me almost two months to write.)

There was no hesitation in the kiss this time. He slipped his tounge through her lips, which she accepted gratefully. She twisted his black hair in her fingers. His hands raced up her back, feeling as much of her as possible. He pulled and the ties of her dress, her dark warm skin revealing itself under his coarse fingers. She dragged her teeth across his bottom lip. He groaned. Her back suddenly hit the bed, and his weight on top of her elicited a quiet moan in his ear. He moved his lips to her dark throat, nipping here and there. The heat of her body was overwheliming. Their moves were desperate, the need to feel each other overwhelming them.

Murtagh's breath caught in his throat, feeling Nasuada's fingers drag down his bare chest—

'Murtagh—'

He ignored him. Her tounge was in his mouth. Searching. The shirt was being dragged off his shoulders. She was on top of him. Her lips were following the line down towards his naval

'Murtagh!'

The top of her dress was sliding down her form under his hands. She was under him now, eyes half lidded in pleasure.

'Go away!'

'Murtagh, if you do not act now we lose our window of opportunity! Murtagh, NOW!'

Murtagh hesitated before regretfully pulling away from Nasuada. She tried to hold him to her, but when he broke from her grasp, she looked heartbroken. "Murtagh—"

He did not speak, for there were no words he could find. Instead, he silently reclaimed his shirt.

Nasuada stared at her lap, shame written across her face. She slipped her arms back through her dress, covering herself half-heartedly.

He looked back at her. To see her form concealed in her clothes was almost painfully. "We must leave immediately," Murtagh said quietly. His eyes were still clouded with desire, but hs mouth was set."Thorn has gotten Shurikan to leave, and we only have a small window of time to get you out of here."

Nasuada understood, but she took her time, standing up slowly. "Of course."

After a moment of hesitation, Murtagh crossed the room in three strides, grasped her hand and kissed it lightly. "I promised you, Nasuada, you will be kept safe."

She smiled softly, running her fingers through his hair. "I believe you."

He led her through the big oaken doors to the Dragon Hold, and she gasped. It was a large circular room, the rocky walls smoothed with age and decorated with ornate paintings. The golden, round ceiling had a gigantic hole in it, open to the dusky night sky.

"Magnificent," Nasuada breathed.

Thorn sat on the far end of the chamber on a ground softened by the largest persian rug the Lady had ever seen. The large, red dragon inclined his head, giving a strange, snarling grin.

"He thanks you," Murtagh murmered in her ear. His lips next to her ear sent shivers down her spine. Her mind flashed back to his chambers, his hands pressing against her, exciting her, revealing her. With a sudden realization, she understood they would never get that moment back. Whatever chance they could have had, whatever chance moments like that would be repeated, were all lost.

Thorn walked towards them, shaking his large wings. Upon his back was a finely crafted leather saddle. Murtagh helped her onto it slowly, then jumped nimbly on it himself.

"Hold on tight," he whispered. Thorn's wings unraveled to their full length, his knee's bent, and at the last second before he jumped into the air, Nasuada wound her arms around Murtagh's waist and burried her face in his shoulder, his warmth soothing her.

Well the lovers get their moment, as always. I'm still sticking to five reviews...so let's see when you want that next chapter