AND SUCH A WORD IT WAS...

               ❛❛      a  thunder  is  the  proper  term  for  a  flock  of  dragons.    if  ever  you  had  heard  one  in  full  flight,    you  would  understand.   when  ten,   twelve,   or  more  dragons  flew  past  overhead,    the  very  air  would  reverberate  around  you,    as  if  you  were  sitting  inside  a  giant  drum.    besides,    what  else  could  you  call  a  group  of  dragons?   you  have  your  murder  of  ravens,    your  convocation  of  eagles,    your  gaggle  of  geese,   your  raft  of  ducks,    your  band  of  jays,    your  parliament  of  owls,    and  so  on,    but  what  about  dragons?    a  hunger  of  dragons?    that  doesn’t  sound  quite  right.    nor  does  referring  to  them  as  a  blaze  or  a  terror,    although  i’m  rather  fond  of  terror,    all  things  considered:    a  terror  of  dragons    . . .    but  no,    a  flock  of  dragons  is  called  a  thunder.      ❜❜

𝖆𝖗𝖌𝖊𝖙𝖑𝖆𝖒:      silver  hand   /   shining  palm.    a  dragon  rider    ;    a  person  marked  with  the  ɢedwëy  ignasia.    ﹙ ⚔ ﹚    argetlam.tumblr.com  is  an  independent,    selective  multi  muse.    follows  back  from  @fledrmaus.    playground  loves  written  by  tink    (22,    she/they).    read  before  interacting.    ﹙ ⚔ ﹚    currently  re–reading  inheritance.

recommended  reading:    gloomstalk,    talesspin,     starfrckled,     alagaesias,     melnchly,    livedtough

She makes him smile, makes him fee light in a way he is unaccustomed to. Indeed, even trapped, both of them in their own prisons, her presence made him feel light. It was not something he deserved to have found, not for a moment, but he did. It was something he held onto in the dark moments. Now is not dark, not in the way it was, not in any way different than it always is, but still she makes him smile. 

He knows there is an answer to this question, or, in fact, there are two: to say yes, or to say no. One is the truth, and one is not, but that doesn’t mean that either would not be said lightly. There is a strain between them, one that will never quite go away, but she raises the clouds from his chest. “Of course not,” he picks. “Anyone would be a fool to try to cross you.” 

There is part of him that feels unguarded once he enters the light, almost childishly unprotected. It is not a physical vulnerability, but emotional. Knowing that this moment holds the ability to crush him, despite the fact that his heart should not be the one that aches. It does, though. Always the thought of her makes his heart ache, and the sight of her does no different. He has done nothing to earn it, though. Nothing at all. There are times, of course, that he wonders what would have happened, had things been different. He wonders about a life that could be had, wonders if this life would be had as them instead of only the him that wanders, scarlet dragon by his side. But what would that make him? What would that make her? She could not accept him, and he could not be accepted. Even now, he does not know if either have changed so much. Perhaps this sneaking was all they were ever meant for. 

She offers him a refreshment, though he does not need one, would not ask for one had one not been offered. He does not want to impose, despite the fact he has climbed through her window. He does not dare ask for more than his presence being tolerated. He wonders, some part of him, if she will ask after him, and supposes that even if she doesn’t now, the conversation will turn to what it is he has been doing. He does not want to talk about himself, but equally does not know how to ask about her. He does not spend much time these days interacting with people in any manner approaching personal, and the art, if he ever knew it, has been lost to him. “Yes,” he says softly, another smile, softer, playing at the edges of his lips, “that will suffice.”

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒  𝐃𝐎  𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄  𝐖𝐇𝐎  𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑  𝐎𝐍  𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇  𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌.        for  example        :        they  have  now  graduated  from  drinking  wine  together  out  of  the  same  small  bottle        ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒        𝚝𝚘  𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖  𝚌𝚞𝚙𝚜.        nasuada  tilts  the  pitcher  with  steady  gentleness        (  ONCE,        TWICE  )        and  meets  murtagh’s  gaze  across  decorated  pewter.        𝖎𝖓  𝖔𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗  𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖆𝖓𝖞,        she  might’ve  rattled  off  platitudes        ;        mentioned  that  the  wine  is   𝗦𝗢𝗨𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗡,        𝗥𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗥  𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗚           [   .  .  .   ]           𝗔𝗖𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗  𝗧𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘.        disingenuous  words  die  not  on  the  tongue  but  far  beyond  that        ;        unfathomable  that  there  could  ever  be  such  empty  phrases  between  them.        the  years  do  change  those  they  still  affect,        𝙱𝚄𝚃  𝚂𝙾𝙼𝙴  𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙶𝚂  𝚆𝙾𝚄𝙻𝙳  𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙰𝙸𝙽  𝙰𝙻𝙻  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙰𝙼𝙴.        when  they  first  drank  together,        each  utterance  was  weighed  against  pounds  of  nasuada’s  very  flesh        ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒        𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆  𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒔𝒕  𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒅  𝒊𝒏  𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔  𝒂𝒏𝒅  𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕.

nasuada  surrenders  the  decanter  to  the  no  man’s  land  which  sometimes  doubles  as  her  desk.        𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐓𝐒  𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒  𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒,        pushes  one  of  the  cups  towards  him.        it’ll   ᵈᵒ  ⁿᵒ  ᵍᵒᵒᵈ   to  get  lost  in  a  parallel  drawn  from  today  to  a  time  long  past.        𝙎𝙃𝙀  𝙃𝘼𝙎  𝘽𝙀𝙀𝙉  𝙐𝙉𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙄𝙉𝙀𝘿  𝙁𝙊𝙍  𝙔𝙀𝘼𝙍𝙎,        and  cold  stone  no  longer  taxes  her  bones.         ❛❛   𝔱𝔯𝔶  𝔦𝔱.        i’ve  withheld  an  opinion.        ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒        OF  COURSE,        i  do  drink  it,   ❜❜         explanation  quickly  added,        spoken  through  a  rueful  smile        (  𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎  𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐  𝚊  𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕  𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝,        𝚊  𝚗𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎  𝚘𝚏  𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢.  )         ❛❛   it’s  been  popular  at  court  since  it  was  brought  in  by  ambassadors,           [   .  .  .   ]           𝘢𝘯𝘥  𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦  𝘪𝘴  𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩  𝘢  𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘪𝘭𝘦  𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.   ❜❜         𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑  𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒  𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄  𝐁𝐄𝐄𝐍  𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄  𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍  𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋  𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄        ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒        frankly,        nasuada  hardly  tastes  her  first  sip,        taken  without  fanfare        (  unspoken  permission  to  follow  suit.  )        𝖓𝖔        ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒        him,        she  won’t  bore  with  stiff  formalities.        nasuada  thinks,        slightly  amused,        that   IT’S  TOO  LATE  FOR  THAT  ANYWAY.

                    this,        this  picture        ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒        𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦  𝐢𝐧  𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝  𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐩  𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭,        older  and  debatably  free        ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒        seems  uncannily  like  illusions  gaIbatorix   𝙼𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃’𝚅𝙴  𝙱𝚁𝙾𝚄𝙶𝙷𝚃  𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙳𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙼𝚂  𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝚃𝚆𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙴𝙳  𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾  𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃𝙼𝙰𝚁𝙴𝚂.        except,        of  course,        in  those  phantasms,        they  would’ve  been  wearing  finery.        there  would’ve  been  children.        𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔  𝑎𝑛  𝑜𝑙𝑑  𝑚𝑎𝑛  𝑡ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑡  𝑎  𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛  𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ  𝑎𝑠  ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓  𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑  𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡.        AND  WHEN  SHE  LAUGHED  AND  SPAT  IN  HIS  FACE,        when  she  could  tell  almost  right  away   which  was  genuine  and  which   𝖙𝖍𝖊  𝖎𝖒𝖕𝖔𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗  𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖎𝖓𝖌  𝖜𝖔𝖊𝖋𝖚𝖑𝖑𝖞  𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖙        ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒        the  satisfaction  remains  years  later.        even  now  it  bears  an  effect  on  nasuada’s  expression,        carefully  disguised  against  the  cup  to  her  mouth.

It isn’t so much that he’s frantic over anything specific, at least not really, but more that he is always frantic over something. He is frantic over everything, always. This is relaxed. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t also have something on his mind, but it–the way his mind works–is complicated. He tries not to think too much on it, which is part of why he enjoys his solitude. He doesn’t have to concern himself with his feelings when he is alone. It’s harder when he’s with people, and more so when those people don’t want anything specific from him. 

Of course she should be unsatisfied by his answer, because it’s true that this is not the first time they’ve been close. It’s just been that before he’s taken that as a reason to expand his circle further outward, to turn around and walk the other way. Even he doesn’t believe his own excuse, but he doesn’t want to look further into that. He wonders if this isn’t a mistake, and knows that of course that it is. But it is late, as the clock calls to remind them, and when it’s late, inhibitions change. 

He doesn’t know where to put his eyes, and he doesn’t know what to do with his body. He doesn’t belong here, he knows, but still he is here. It could be said that it has been long since he belonged in a place such as this, but he never truly has. He was raised in such a place, and he was forced into one before beginning his self-imposed exile, but he had never belonged, not in either. He isn’t sure there’s anywhere in this world he belongs. There is a scar on his back to show that he never belonged. 

He watches her uncertainly, sadly. He knows that his presence here depends on her, and that isn’t something he likes. He does not like feeling indebted to people, like anything of his depends on someone else. He has always insisted that he is his own man, and does not like when that is not true. He doesn’t know if it’s true now. 

Something in his expression, in his stance, lightens as she asks after Thorn. The beast is his dearest friend, his sole companion. He is half of him, the same as Murtagh himself is part of Thorn. They share a soul. “He is. Very big. And healthy.” As healthy as either of them can be, but he feels that they are. They are both still struggling, but they have found something nearing peace. 

He thinks she is beautiful as she smiles. He always has, though it is not something he’s been allowed to see very often. “Maybe it is.” As though he doesn’t keep his distance from as many people as he can, man or woman. Then he is told to sit, and though he is questioning why exactly he’s even here, he still does. “Do you invite all men who enter through your window a seat?” 

                ❛❛      why         ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒         are  you  worried  for  my  virtue  ?      ❜❜                FEIGNING  INCREDULITY  WITH  A  HIDDEN  TWINKLE  TO  HER  EYE.           this  almost  certainly  isn’t  what  he  was  asking  after           ;           𝖎𝖙  𝖎𝖘,           however,           an  easy  way  to  provoke  him  to  speak.           either  through  defensiveness  or  jest         ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒         she  cannot  yet  be  sure.                ❛❛      if  so,           𝐁𝐄  𝐀𝐓  𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄.           no  intruder  lasts  long  enough  for  me  to  utter  such  a  sentence.      ❜❜

                his  compliance  is  uneasy         ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒         but  compliance  nonetheless,           and  transports  murtagh  into  𝙉𝘼𝙎𝙐𝘼𝘿𝘼’𝙎  𝙂𝙄𝙇𝘿𝙀𝘿  𝘾𝙄𝙍𝘾𝙇𝙀  𝙊𝙁  𝙇𝙄𝙂𝙃𝙏.           looking  at  him  proper,           now,           she  finds  her  first  assessment  holds  up.           HER  GUEST  SEEMS  WELL.           𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝  𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦  𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝  𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐥,           but  much  better  than  when  last  she  saw  him           .       .       .            which  isn’t  saying  much.

𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙳‒𝚁𝙴𝙳  𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚂𝚄𝙽  𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴  𝚂𝚄𝙻𝙿𝙷𝚄𝚁  𝙸𝙽  𝚃𝙷𝙴𝙸𝚁  𝙴𝚈𝙴𝚂,           𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙽𝚄𝙼𝙱𝙽𝙴𝚂𝚂,           𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙷𝙾𝙲𝙺         ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒         𝙽𝙰𝚂𝚄𝙰𝙳𝙰  𝙸𝚂  𝙸𝙼𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂𝙴𝙳  𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙻𝙻  𝚁𝙴𝙼𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁𝚂  𝙷𝙾𝚆  𝙷𝙴  𝙻𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙴𝙳.           𝙵𝚁𝙴𝚂𝙷  𝙵𝚁𝙾𝙼  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝙻𝚄𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝚂,           𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙲𝚄𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙲𝙺,           𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙿𝙸𝚃𝚂  𝙾𝙵  𝙿𝙴𝚁𝙳𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽.           𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙼𝙴𝙻𝙻  𝙾𝙵  𝚂𝙾𝙾𝚃  𝚁𝙸𝚂𝙴𝚂  𝙸𝙽  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙽𝙾𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙻𝚂  𝙰𝚂  𝚂𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝚀𝚄𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚂,           𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽,           𝚃𝙾  𝚂𝙴𝙴  𝙷𝙸𝚂  𝙵𝙰𝙲𝙴.           𝚆𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙶𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝚃𝙾𝙽𝙶𝚄𝙴,           𝚃𝚁𝚈𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚃𝙾  𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙺.           𝙸  𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙸𝚅𝙴  𝚈𝙾𝚄  ?           𝙸  𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴  𝚈𝙾𝚄  ?           𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙺  𝚈𝙾𝚄  ?           𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴  𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴  𝙸  𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁  𝙷𝙰𝚅𝙴  𝚃𝙾  𝚂𝙴𝙴  𝚈𝙾𝚄  𝙰𝙶𝙰𝙸𝙽  ?           𝙳𝙾𝙽’𝚃  𝙶𝙾  ?           𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝚂𝚄𝙽  𝙾𝙽  𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙳𝙴𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃  𝚂𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙴𝚂.           𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝚂𝙲𝙴𝙽𝚃  𝙾𝙵  𝙳𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷.           𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙵𝙴𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙾𝙵  𝙷𝙴𝚁  𝙱𝙾𝙽𝙴𝚂  𝙲𝚁𝙰𝙲𝙺𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙱𝙰𝙲𝙺  𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙾  𝙿𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙴.           𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝙵𝚁𝙴𝙴𝙳𝙾𝙼.           𝙰𝙽𝙳  𝚅𝙸𝙲𝚃𝙾𝚁𝚈.          

                her  eyes  hurt  from  staring  into  the  elven  illuminator.           𝖔𝖚𝖙𝖘𝖎𝖉𝖊         ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒         the  sounds  of  a  quiet,           velvety  night.           ᴛʜᴇ  ᴀɪʀ  ɪꜱ  ᴄʟᴇᴀʀ.           ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ  ʜᴀᴠᴇ  ᴘᴀꜱꜱᴇᴅ.           and  yet,           yes           .       .       .            nasuada  does  often  think  long  and  hard  on  the  aftermath  of  their  escape           ;           the  words  exchanged,           the  scars  removed.           for  a  selfish  second,           she  really  had  been  tempted         ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒         DON’T  GO,           I  DECREE  IT.           but  what  would  that  have  made  her  ?           𝚖𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚑  𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝  𝚋𝚎  𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝  𝚘𝚛  𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚢𝚎𝚍  𝚘𝚛  𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍.           those  who  tried  have  paid  a  hefty  price  for  their  attempt.           both  he  and  thorn  are  creatures  of  suspicion,           licking  at  deep  wounds.           HER  HIGHNESS  IS  NO  DIFFERENT  IN  THAT  WAY.

                WHOLLY  UNPERTURBED,           not  a  single  stutter  in  practiced  movements.           his  turned  back  betrays  naught  but  the  wing‒beat‒like  raise  of  both  shoulders         ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒         A  DRAWN  OUT  SHRUG.           smile  concealed,           a  huffed  laugh  swallowed  by  sounds  of  clattering  kitchenware.

𝙼𝚄𝙲𝙷  𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙼𝙾𝙾𝙽,           𝙷𝙰𝙻𝙵  𝙾𝙵  𝙼𝚄𝚁𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙷  𝙸𝚂  𝙰𝙻𝚆𝙰𝚈𝚂  𝙷𝙸𝙳𝙳𝙴𝙽.