As promised, a MurtaghxNasuada story :)

Ono eru ai Draumr Nuanen – You are a Beautiful Dream

I hereby disclaim.

Spoiler alert! Spoiler for the last book and the end of the series.

It had been like a dream, those several weeks when he had believed he had truly been free.

It had been a dream and it had become a dream, dreamt endlessly in the dark cellars and ornate bedrooms of his prison alike; it emerged from his memory like a legend of another lifetime, a tale of freedom, companionship and heroism alien to the destiny of Murtagh, son of Morzan.

It became a song he sang to the red dragon from the day of his hatching, in the mournful mutual understanding of their bond, to alleviate his pain and terror of the world he had finally come out into, into the rough hands of his chosen Rider. It was something he taught his dragon to long for as much as he did, with all the knowledge and awareness that it was not for them.

And there, in that dream, she was.

Nasuada.

Only once did he talk to her during his stay – imprisonment – among the Varden; yet once was enough. From the hostile world she stepped into the prison of his stubbornness, wishing to meet the troublesome newcomer, and brought him the bright light of the day reflected in her dark eyes.

It might have been then that everything was decided.

But who was he to explore the tangled paths of fate.

Murtagh was aware, of course, of Nasuada's election to the leader of the Varden, and that she was the one who commanded Eragon and Saphira when they battled him and Thorn. These were roles they were both playing, in accordance with their position and destiny.

Only occasionally did he allow himself the pointlessly painful thoughts of what might have been, if only, if only, if only! and the burning, helpless jealousy of the life Selena had chosen for Eragon.

It could have been him, there, then… with her.

But in the dream, untarnished by current animosities and untouched by trying times, was the dark-skinned, almond-eyed, mossy-haired figure of the girl who made countesses look like peasant women.

And so Murtagh fought – not like he had any choice in this matter – and fought to forget there was any tomorrow, just as he strived to erase the yesterday and, as far as possible, the today. There was only him, Thorn and the dream, burnt into his heart beyond attempts at forgetfulness.

Up to the moment when he heard Galbatorix order Nasuada's death.

Murtagh froze. This could not happen. It simply could not. He could not stay silent after hearing this. It was plainly impossible. There had to be a way –

Galbatorix did, obviously, know about the dream. And about Nasuada. He had broken into Murtagh's mind and learnt his true name, how could there be anything left unknown to him? Perhaps it amused the cruel king; perhaps it filled him with perverse satisfaction.

The same variety of perverse satisfaction with which he ordered Murtagh to kidnap Nasuada himself and made sure it was through the younger Rider's hands that she felt the king's discontent with her.

And gradually the scars on his heart began to ooze, and his soul scorched as, with meticulous precision, the touches of hot iron on her ebony skin imprinted themselves on his very being, and slowly it started to dawn on him that this was too much, too much to bear, too terrible to withstand, too - unspeakably – horrific -

- and it was his fault -

With carefully self-inflicted malice he took in her maltreated form, her shadowed eyes, her torn clothing, the lesions on her body – the doing of his own hands – and suddenly it was important, so very important, most important, that she should know – everything – so the words flew from his mouth, tousled and crumpled, he wanted her to see, to understand –

and ask her forgiveness, if he dared –

and alleviate at least some of her suffering, if not the anxiety of helplessness in the hands of the enemy.

So once again they sat in a prison, only now it is her who was imprisoned, backs against the bare, hard wall, and they talked at length about lives, losses, longings, fate and its specific sense of humour. It struck him as strange, unreal, that in such circumstances the dream enveloped the two of them and in a manner came true – perhaps in the only manner possible for the Kingkiller and the Nightstalker – that the pair of jailbirds, he – the resigned slave honoured at the court, she – the abused yet still resisting captive, that they had found their own haven of quiet, defiantly light-hearted and achingly deep understanding.

The next night she wept in his arms.

Nasuada's shrieks as she was subjected to the worst torture so far pierced through Murtagh's heart, and at the first possible occasion he ran to her, mortified of what he might find. He found her sore and battered, yet attempting to ease his concern – too apparent on his features – with a weak, beaten smile.

Wrapped in his coat, she limped to the wall and slid down, for the first time unable to hold back the sobs and the tears; and for the first time, sick with worry and wishing to bring her even the slightest comfort, Murtagh touched her arm.

After restraining the initial impulse to jerk away from the torturer, she took hold of his hand and allowed him to pull her in, laying her head on his chest, and as she did that something snapped inside Murtagh, and he knew that his heart had been changed.

Their hearts had been changed and now they realised to the fullest, both Murtagh and Thorn, that they were no longer who they had been.

It was not a matter of causes, nor a matter of righteousness; it was not a matter of vengeance, nor a matter of heroism; what solely mattered was the rigid certainty that Nasuada had to be freed and would be freed, if it took their lives to achieve.

With this they felt liberated, because they recognized that with this, anything was feasible. It was enough that she trusted in them.

("Why?"

"You know why.")

With this they could plot the most improbable escapes; they could defend cities and vanquish armies; he could battle Eragon with deadly resolve; he could shout the Name of Names into the face of Galbatorix, break Nasuada's chains and lead her to Thorn, in such a manner eventually introducing the two of his most dear to each other.

And then it was over and they were both free, for the first time since they had known each other; and despite the myriads of wild possibilities stretching in front of Murtagh's eyes he knew without a doubt that the regained freedom marked their good-bye.

There was no place for Murtagh Morzansson, the loathsome Rider of the red dragon, in the life of the Lady Nasuada, leader of the Varden. The dream had to remain a dream not to become a nightmare.

For the last time he lay his hand on her and whispered words which brought health back into her strained body. For the last time he observed the relief blossom on her face, a little piece of comfort for his strained heart.

He took her hand and led her to the side, Thorn following carefully.

"Nasuada, there is something I want to tell you."

She looked him in the eyes.

"Yes…?"

And Murtagh leaned forward, so that his lips brushed against her ear, and whispered several words which each and every time stirred his soul.

In her tearful eyes he saw surprise, compassion and, most of all, understanding; and there was nothing left that needed to be said.

So he let her fingers rest on his cheek for the briefest of moments before drawing back and gently lowering her hand in a careful but devastatingly final gesture.

"Goodbye, Nasuada."

Goodbye, Nasuada-friend-of-Murtagh's-heart.

"Goodbye," she whispered.

And then they were gone, like a dream shying away from wakefulness.