Murtagh

He was warm, and a soft weight lay upon him, holding him down with comforting closeness. That much he knew.

A haze of milky brightness formed in front of him. He blinked, unable to make out any details within the smear of light.

It seemed important to rise, but his limbs refused to respond. He lay limp and slack, save for his breathing.

The flow of air into his lungs was smooth and unlabored.

Again he tried to move. His arms stirred slightly, and a small groan escaped him.

A hand—dark and smooth—descended to press against his chest.

“Stay. You were badly hurt. Rest while you can.” The voice was gentle, reserved, but still firm.

He knew the voice. How many times had he heard it in his dreams? How many times had he yearned (and feared) to hear it again?…Yet he wondered: Was he dreaming still?

Once more he struggled to sit, but the effort defeated him, and he sank back into softness. Despite his inner protest, his eyelids descended, and the waiting darkness embraced him.

And he knew no more.

***

The golden light of late afternoon fanned across the plaster ceiling. A sweet smell of flowers pervaded the air, and water—as of a small brook—trickled nearby, while soft coos of drowsy doves sounded among rustling leaves.

A gentle breeze stirred a pair of white muslin curtains.

Murtagh lay beneath a heavy blanket, on a large four-poster bed. He felt no desire to move. His whole body was relaxed to the point of immobility.

A frown formed as he continued to stare at the ceiling. He knew that ceiling. He had grown up looking at just such a ceiling, and seeing it again made him feel as if nothing of the past few years had really happened.

He almost believed it.

Ilirea. I’m in Ilirea. His stomach knotted at the thought of again facing…her. But how?

He started to rise and heard, “Ah, ah! Please take care, Kingkiller.”

His eyes widened, and he turned his head to see a young woman sitting next to the bed. Flaxen hair fixed in a neat braid, and a simple servant’s gown of green. Pale skin surrounding eyes the color of a summer sky. A ripening bruise and a pair of scabbed scratches marred her left cheek and temple, but otherwise she appeared fresh-faced and well fed, if somewhat worried.

“Alín,” he breathed.

Behind her, Thorn sat crouched by the sill of a great dormer window, large enough for the dragon to pass through. Even as Murtagh saw him, the dragon lifted himself off the floor and stalked over dwarven rugs to the end of the bed.

Alín stood and smoothed her dress. “You must be famished, Kingkiller. Rest here, and I will fetch you something.”

Before Murtagh could object, she hurried from the room, her skirt swishing with each step. The chamber’s heavy oaken doors creaked as they opened and shut. In the hall outside, Murtagh glimpsed a pair of guards standing at attention.

Thorn extended his neck until his nose touched Murtagh’s outstretched hand. You live, the dragon said.

As do you…. You came for me. Into the cave.

Thorn hummed, and his eyes glittered with ruby light. Of course. You needed me.

Tears threatened to spill down Murtagh’s cheeks. Thank you.

Thorn dipped his head. You will never again have to crawl into a cave alone. Not so long as you are my Rider and I am your dragon. And then Thorn spoke his true name, and Murtagh heard and felt the difference in the dragon’s self. His heart near to broke with relief, and pride too, that after so very long, his closest friend and bonded partner had finally won out over his fear.

Then tears did fall from Murtagh’s eyes, and he wrapped his arms around Thorn’s head and held him tightly. Ah, that makes me happy. There is something you should know as well.

Oh?

I am not who or what I was either. And Murtagh spoke his true name, in all its flawed extent, so his very essence was laid bare.

Thorn’s inner eyelids snicked closed, and he gently licked Murtagh’s arm. You are free.

We both are…. I’m sorry. I should have been more careful in taking us to Nal Gorgoth.

A slight growl sounded in Thorn’s chest. The deed is done, the fight is ended, and we still have our freedom. It is not so bad.

Grateful, Murtagh laid his chest against Thorn’s scaled brow and savored their closeness. All felt right between them, and that, more than anything, mattered.

At last, he released his hold on Thorn and looked around the room.