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Nasuada did not care that she was queen. She did not care that this was absurd and pathetic and she was neglecting her various royal duties, as everyone from Elva to Farica was quick to remind her. Murtagh was here, finally and she would not leave his side. Since his arrival and subsequent healing by her most skilled magicians she had waited in the room with him, hoping he would wake up. Trianna had assured her that he did not have any lasting physical harm, that this was only the after effects of an overuse of magic. Nasuada did not have magic of her own, and hardly understood it. She could not help him in that way, though she would gladly have siphoned her energy to give him a better chance. But she could stay, so that when Murtagh awoke, he would know that he was safe, and that he was not alone.
Most of the time she sat by his bedside in a chair, monitoring his breathing and occasionally smoothing back his long dark hair from his fevered brow. She dripped broth and water into his mouth. Alin, the cultist he had rescued offered to help her care for him, but she refused. She did not need her help. She did not know what the relationship between them was, or what had befallen Murtagh and she resented this scrap of a girl for knowing what she did not. She was perfectly capable of caring for him herself.
After three long days with no change, she allowed herself a moment of weakness. Murtagh was unconscious and seemed determined to remain that way. No one else was in the room. Her nighthawks stood guard outside, but she had instructed them to admit no one. So, against her better judgement, against every bit of logic and strategy that she had long been trained in, Nasuada stood up from her chair and carefully settled herself on the bed beside him. She knew it was uncouth, improper and highly ill-advised. She did it anyway.
The fluttering of Murtagh's heartbeat was distressingly faint. She gently placed a hand over his heart, that she might hear if it stuttered and rested her head on his muscular chest. In a different life, this would be their position every night. A tear escaped her eye, for the sake of what almost was and now could never be.
She had missed him. She'd admit this to no one, but in the sanctity of her own mind she acknowledged it. She had been elated to recieve his letter, troubling though it was and accompanied by news of the burning of Gilead. As ever, her feelings for Murtagh were tangled and mixed, fear, of him and for him, anger, at him and at the world for how it mistreated him, sorrow for herself and for him and always a deep well of caring and compassion, born during his captivity with the Varden and nurtured against all odds during her time as a captive in the very palace she now ruled.
After five days Nasuada was growing desperate. She had taken no food, had hardly slept, afraid that if she left him for even a moment Murtagh would pass into the void. She slept beside him every night Now, desperately listening for the faint beating of his heart, watching his eyes flicker beneath their lids and wondering what terrible nightmares he faced.
"Please. Please wake up. I need you. You're the only one I can trust, and I know, I know you think you're unwanted, or unworthy, but nothing could be further from the truth. You don't have to best a witch or defeat a great wingless dragon to prove yourself to me. All you have to do is stay. Stay with me. Please. I can't lose you now. Not after everything."
Just when she was beginning to believe all hope was lost, Murtagh awoke with a gasp. The first sensation he felt was a cool hand on his chest guiding him to gentle dreams. The first word he heard was "stay"