First off, I tell the world that I am not Christopher Paolini, etcetc.

DISCLAIMER: In no way shape or form am I Christopher Paolini, author of the Inheritance Cycle. (Yup. In case you didn't know, it's not a trilogy anymore.) Anywho, that means I don't own, nor do I have any claim to said Cycle or the characters within.

However: I do like to play around with said characters. And, as much as I believe that Nasuada and Eragon are gonna get it on, the whole Nasuada/Murtagh shabang is too good to pass up. (No, I haven't read Brisingr yet, I'm reading Two Towers. Yeah LOTR--expect some heavy fanficcing for that when I finish it. And yes, I know, I should've read them ages ago, yeahyeah. Well I'm reading them now! But anyway!)

Back to this: obviously, the prior-title opening is a quote from Eldest, the second in the Cycle. And I do expect there to be a third work in this little series here. And I can't promise that it'll be just a trilogy. (Eldest spoiler coming up) Depending on interaction between M/N in Brisingr, I might add to the deal!

But now that I've completely bored you with this long author note, have at it! As always, I ask for a review, even if you didn't really like it. If you didn't like it, tell me why. Be constructive, not just critical. No outright, pointless hate. And, of course, if you liked it, I'd love to hear why you liked it!

Thanks! And enjoy!

--(my name is) Inconsequential

Nasuada paused, then gazed into his eyes and added in a gentler tone: "You have my condolences, Eragon. I realize that others beside myself have cause for sorrow; while I have lost my father, you have also lost a friend. I liked Murtagh a great deal and it saddens me that he is gone…Goodbye, Eragon."

Eragon nodded, a bitter taste in his mouth, and left the room with Saphira.

Eldest (Christopher Paolini) pg 24

The Daughter Dreams of the Son

Alone, finally.

All she wanted was solitude.

Nasuada ripped the dark dress from her body, flung herself naked into her warm bed. She had sent the servants out, after asking them to lock the doors, and told the guards not to bother her unless there was some great emergency.

Ajihad, her dearest father, was gone, never to shade her from blinding lights or hot sun as he had done when she was a child, never to wrap his arm around her and smile, or even to speak to her, in his strong, commanding tones. Though, yes, he had been a leader, a king, to the many people of the Varden; to Orik and Jörmunder, to the despicable Twins (though they despised it, Nasuada was sure), to the rest of the council, Ajihad had also been her father, the man who raised her.

And some shameless Urgal had felled him; Ajihad would raise his daughter no more.

Nasuada pulled the smooth blankets up to her chin, pointlessly trying to dry some of her free-flowing tears, managing only to stifle her already nearly silent sobs.

She had never been so alone in her life—never! Once upon a time, she might have relished the independence she'd been given in her father's stead; the great, almighty power. But, lying vulnerable beneath her bedding, she wished to have them returned to her. Her father. Her mother, even. And Murtagh. Yes, Murtagh, son of treacherous Morzan.

Despite Nasuada's words, much to the contrary, in fact, there had been many sequels to her and Murtagh's little rendezvous in his prison cell. As she drew the blankets around her, she struggled to remember them all, hoping to collect every remnant of him. His dark hair, deep eyes. The shape and length of his scar.

Nasuada recalled the taste of his chaffed lips, the salt of his saliva and sweat. Recalled visiting his cell. Recalled their intimate celebration after defeating Durza, the Shade, and his unruly, Urgal army.

"This means nothing, right?" Murtagh's low, purr of a voice coiled its way over her back and into her ear, as he kissed her shoulder blades, then her spine. She had shaken her head, only a few nights ago, resting it against these same pillows here. No one had cared if the prisoner was loose, not in the heat of victory, nor while their Argetlam lay comatose.

"No." She could barely speak, shivering as he kissed along her sides, licked here and there. The pair had stolen away, confident of the Rider's inner strength, his will to live. And unable to deflect their want. Such horrible friends they were, to leave their wounded hero while they enjoyed each other in secret.

Murtagh chuckled, and Nasuada shivered more.

"Is this just a brief respite, while we await Eragon's return to consciousness?"

"Yes," she murmured, before Murtagh split her lips with his tongue, ending all following thoughts.

How she had toyed with him, even in ecstasy! Even he had played along with her stupid game, the nothing game, where she told him, again and again, that he was nothing but the son of Morzan. That what she felt in her heart for him was nothing close to love; that everything they did meant nothing to her. In his cell and even her own bedchamber she had played this, this teasing game of denial.

The battle, of course, had been traumatizing, afraid that he might be hurt, and then when he found out that she had snuck back to fight! How outraged he'd been, she'd seen it in his face. Ajihad had acted the same way. Both worried and protective of their Nasuada. Both headstrong.

And then the battle ended! The battle ended and Eragon was hurt, but then he awoke and Murtagh and Ajihad went down to see to the last of the Urgals. And both protective, headstrong men died.

"You shouldn't go down there." Nasuada had practically begged, praying that Murtagh would not endanger himself anymore.

"It's the least I can do," he'd smiled, nipping her neck. "And your father might actually be inclined to grant my freedom afterwards." So headstrong.

Murtagh had promised his safe return, promised he'd be careful, body wrapped around hers, lips moving on her skin. Never inside her, but ever so close, he had pulled her to him and promised that he'd be safe.

Yet, where was he? At least Ajihad's body was present; at least Nasuada could mourn properly for her father. Murtagh's bodiless death reeked of destruction, as though the absence of his flesh proved that he had died a painful, slow death. That his last moments had been cold, dark, and alone.

On her luscious, royal bed, Nasuada shed tears for two of the men in her life who had truly shaped and influenced her, two of the very, very few. Now all she had left were the council, and Eragon, of course. But secretly, Eragon was, as far as Nasuada could tell, a poor replacement for the man that Murtagh had been.

He may have been Morzan's son, but there was more to him. He was a joker, but also a kind listener. He was an amazing kisser (this brought a momentary smile to Nasuada's lips). He was clever and quick-witted—always had her on her toes. He was her friend, and, she believed, a true friend of Eragon's and of the Varden. Perhaps Murtagh had not been willing to share his secrets, but sometimes that was best. Certainly their secret nights were meant to be only their own. Not the Twins' business, nor Ajihad's.

She dried her eyes on the blankets, slid from beneath them, shuddering in a few final gasps of grief.

"Everything," she whispered to her dress, crumpled on the floor, as she reached down and grasped the black fabric. It cascaded in a reverse-waterfall up her chocolate skin, hiding her from the cruel world.

"Murtagh," she called, looking up to the dark ceiling, squeezing out the last of her tears. "Murtagh, you meant everything."

Fully clothed, she stood straight, smoothing out any wrinkles, hopelessly- and ever-striving for perfection. She wiped her eyes again, took several deep breaths, and summoned her servants. Though Murtagh would never return to this land of the living, she knew she must—as Ajihad's heir, she had to.

The servants entered, shattering her isolation. But beneath her clothes, and behind her grim smile, if she dared close her eyes to block out the light, Nasuada was in her own dark cave of despair, completely alone. He may not have been her soul mate, not even her true love, but Nasuada felt Murtagh's absence in her heart.

They had once dreamed of having a second chance, of sharing another moment. Now Nasuada was plagued with nightmares. And she was too broken to dream of being whole again.

xfin.

Angst. Angst. Angst.

In case any of my faithful requester fans are reading this: PLEASE DON'T HURT ME! I KNOW I'M SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING ON YOUR FICS TOO. Expect them by January 1st. Sorry.