#and galbatorix being just…’wait what?’

[modern-inheritance]

I know I’m the person that wrote it, but I’m rereading the Reunion fic for probably the 37th time and I still can’t get over Arya always having the mental capacity left to just cause trouble for Durza. It isn’t even like a full on breakout or anything, just “yeah I figured I was pretty low at that point so I puked on his shoes. He didn’t learn his lesson so I did it again. Make me cough up enough blood to fill my mouth? Yeah that’s going riiiiiight down the inside of your boot, right there nice and cozy and you’re going to be feeling that squishing around in your sock till you decide to stop the torture for the day. And you know what? No matter what you do to me, I’m going to be smirking every second knowing that I’ve inconvenienced you in a tiny, infuriating way.”

And the idea of Durza having to deal with squelching socks because he 1. Is too cocky to ward at all and 2. Is equally invested in this weirdass elf plaything’s freakish game of who can cause the other more discomfort. He’s sure he’s winning but he can’t stop being annoyed at the feeling of having one wet sock.

[everythingloveandanimated]

So I have a “What if Eragon stayed in Alagaesia” AU cooking up and had a couple of questions

Would Murtagh have had his break down at Ristvak’baen if he was travelling with Eragon? If they were inside together Murtagh might wait until he could be alone then scream,

OR

If he and Thorn arrived at the Tower first and Eragon and Saphira arrived just as Murtagh started screaming, Thorn would tell Eragon to wait and let Murtagh scream himself out first. But when Eragon goes to comfort Murtagh, would Murtagh just get all prickly and slam his walls up, or just be so exhausted that for once he didn’t care about Eragon seeing him so vulnerable?

Would the ordeal with the Draumars had gone the same way? Ending with Murtagh and Eragon and their dragons being tortured and broken to bend to Bachel’s will? Would Eragon and Saphira pull out? Or would Eragon resolve not to leave his brother in danger again?

I do acknowledge the fact that if Bachel had been able to capture Eragon, she would have devoted a lot of her torture sessions to him. She would’ve passed over Murtagh similar to the way she passed over Uvek.

Or, she would dedicate time to them both because you can never have too many dragon riders as your thralls. I feel like Murtagh would feel mostly guilt for dragging his younger brother into this torment and danger, but a small part of him may also be glad that they had now have an acute shared experience.

While Murtagh relives his repressed/most painful memories, Eragon is tormented by his biggest failures and his insecurities. Being the most senior Rider, have so much power and influence and and having so much riding on his decisions and choices and successes

( a very interesting plot point between the brothers would be what do they think of Bachel’s visions about Murtagh and Thorn. You have Eragon who came onto the scene unknown, untrained and untested, and now he has the most prestige and respect amongst all the races of the land. On the other hand, you have Murtagh who has been eclipsed by his father‘s shadow and judged by his own dark and bloody deeds, has precious few allies, and is universally scorned and hated. Murtagh wants his chance for prestige and respect, but questions how it will come about.

also Thorn and Saphira agree how all kinds should worship the race of dragons while Murtagh and Eragon shake their heads at their soul partners’ vanity)

(Back on track) It would be fun/heartwarming to see the brothers battle against the creatures of the mountain, battling through repressed memories and fears and Bachel. Murtagh may or may not get as injured (I’m personally rooting for getting the same battles as he did in canon just for the angst), but it would be very interesting if she posed a complicated challenge for Eragon as well. (Eragon gets a pretty serious wound of his own. And mentally berating his stubborn brother to “just sit still so I can heal you blast it! Alín is fine and you really don’t need to explore that big gaping chasm over there!”)

When they are safe in Illrea, the brothers talk a bit about their experience. Eragon asks if what they went through, was like what Murtagh and Thorn went through when they were Galbatorix’s captives. Murtagh says the methods were similar, but Bachel was far worse. Eragon fears how much of his knowledge has been passed down the ranks of Bachel’s network. Murtagh does note that the situation is very grave, and they will need to prepare quickly and act smartly. He also makes a point to talk with Umaroth about what he knows. …unless Eragon brought Umaroth with him… would he make that a habit of caring Umaroth with him? He definitely kept Glaedr close by.

Anyway, that’s my idea dump/ramble. Any feedback would be welcome and appreciated.

[umunschaas]

I'd say it ties in with what Murtagh said about how the system was sound, but Galbatorix was a bad ruler. I don't think that Galbatorix simply took over all the old stuff, so a good part of the system was indeed his and he just didn't care to fill his role as a (good) ruler in it. He got the power he wanted and probably already moved on to different stuff in his head.

The scene where he explains to Nasuada how unfair magic is and how someone should regulate that (which she ends up doing even) is pretty interesting too. He's way too far gone to care about the unfairness and I believe him when he said that he wasn't afraid of any mages (Eragon only won with a ton of eldunarya, luck and an idea at the right moment), so it really was only to use his brain and solve something morally difficult like it's a math problem.

Also him being perfectly fine to wait in Uru-baen for Eragon and the rest to show up personally. No need to win battles, if he wins the war.

One's gotta respect how Galbatorix really pulled everything trough and always had something new to do. From destroying the Order, over getting himself on the throne, to enslaving all the eldunarya he had and then finding out the name of names. Plus some little side projects, like convincing the Ra'zac to work for him for example.

... if he just had been a little less mad...

[saphira-approves]

Does anyone else do math when they’re bored? Specifically fandom math?

I know I’ve done it before on this blog with Murtagh Maths, so today I present a topic already debated that I decided to start from scratch… atomic physics!

So, fun thing about existence, matter can be converted into energy. Really neat trick! The thing is, when matter is converted into energy, it’s a LOT of energy. Ever heard of a little formula e=mc^2?

Yeah, so, obviously, e is energy, m is matter, and uh… c is the stand in for the speed of light. You know, real biiiiig number. And it’s squared.

BIIIIIIIIIIIIIG number.

So the energy from this equation is equal to the mass of the object MULTIPLIED by the SQUARE of the SPEED. OF. LIGHT.

oh god. that’s an even bigger number.

But! What does this have to do with our near and dear Inheritance Cycle?

Well, before I actually address that, let me bring in one more idea. Fans of FMA will be familiar with the concept of Equivalent Exchange, which is very similar to some of the laws of physics: matter and energy cannot be created from nothing, and neither can they be destroyed. Matter can be converted into energy, energy can be converted into matter, but you cannot unmake matter or energy.

Now, anyone remember that terrifying spell that was Galbatorix’s last act, waíse niatt? Be not? Essentially, he destroyed himself—he stopped existing as solid matter.

But wait! We just covered that matter cannot be destroyed!

Instead of being destroyed, Galbatorix stopped existing as solid matter—and his matter was converted into energy.

Oh.

Uh.

Oh no.

So, assuming that Galbatorix, being apparently very buff, weighs a chunk more than the USA average of 80kg (~180lbs), let’s put him right at 100kg (~220lbs). Plug that into our neat little equation from before: e=220c^2=1.977x10^19 joules.

If you’re not familiar with scientific notation, 1.977x10^19 can be written out as 19,770,000,000,000,000,000, or nineteen quintillion seven hundred seventy quadrillion.

For reference, a single joule (a unit of energy) is about enough energy to lift an apple one meter. A single ton of TNT is equivalent to about four million joules.

The atom bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima detonated with about eighteen trillion joules of energy.

Of course, the spell might not entirely convert all of Galbatorix’s mass to energy; there could be some Dustatorix particles floating around the destroyed throne room. Alternatively, the spell itself could have been so massive an undertaking that it drew its power directly from the energy it created, claiming an enormous chunk of destructive power to fuel a little arson. Whatever the case, Mr. Paolini Sir, the numbers! are! terrifying!

Anyway. I’m gonna go to bed now.

[thebluemoonwolf]

The Mourning Save

Summary: After crash landing in the modern world, Oromis has to figure out a way to support the first person he's been stuck with in the last 100 years. What better way to do that with something easy like streaming? Everything is going well until he can't ignore the call to his own time anymore. What he didn't expect to happen though, was bringing along extra baggage.

Chapter 13

Looking around, the elves looked ready to battle and just after the Blood-Oath too. Knowing that made you extremely uneasy. You exchanged the normal greeting to the elves, and waited for the Queen to explain yourself. 

   "It seems," she said, "That it is high time we elves step beyond our forest borders and fight the Empire."

You kept your hands clasped behind your back, and focused on the power that was infused into your mask so that your thoughts wouldn't stray. 

   "So some say, but if I could ask, why have you called me here, in the presence of your assumed generals?"

You didn't spare Oromis a glance, too afraid you would give away some type of secret. You knew how elves played their games, waiting years and decades, weaving the truth they wanted you to hear. 

   "You and Epona are a great asset to us, unlike Eragon, you have no obligation to any authority in Alagaësia." 

Epona, are you listening? 

Her mind was always connected to you, but even as the celebration came to a close, you could feel her mind was also still in a haze. 

   I am here. 

   She knows more than she is letting on.

   As do most elves. 

You wanted to be as respectful as you could, but it felt like you were being baited into a trap of your own making. 

   "It is what it is, my authority and that of Epona's is our own. What of it?" 

The elves at the table seemed to go stiff, and you think for a moment you have somehow overstepped. You mentally pulled for Oromis to help you in some way, but other than the distant melody his mind always provided, you were left alone. 

   "It is to my understanding... that you were quite a thorn in the lord of Tierm's side."

You kept your posture still, calm, and collected. 

   "Is that all you know about me?"

The Queen stayed silent, and when it became clear she would say no more on that particular subject you continued to speak. 

   "Do you intend to use me as a figurehead then?"

   "No, far from it actually. I want you to help my people in the war against Galbatorix. Our friends, and fellow fighters, The Varden have been attacked, and it is time we helped them."

You and Epona shared the same emotion, confusion. 

   "You want me as a fighter?"

   "I want you as a strategist, Weasel. Show me why you were given your name."

You looked around the war room, the rest of the elves seemed indifferent if you joined their ranks but it felt so sudden you wondered if you were still off because of the Blood-Oath. 

   What do you think, Epona?

   I think it is high time to show our skills in battle. I want to sharpen my fangs against the men who hold my brethren hostage!  

You could feel her anticipation and excitement, disguised as blood lust. 

   "I will do it on the condition that I do not swear fealty to you. Me and Epona want our will as our own."

You could feel Queen Islanzadí stare past your mask and into your soul. It took Epona's strength to hold your ground. 

    "The Weasel will still swear to not reveal the location of Ellesméra, and other elf settlements and battle plans that they will be privy to, of course."

Oromis voice was a surprise to you since he has mostly let you navigate this minefield by yourself. Which meant that you were dangerously close to setting one off. 

   "Yes of course, I will not put your people in danger while they are under my command."

The Queen and her various generals seemed to agree with that plan, probably because Oromis had your back. 

   "The current plan we have laid out is to make our way toward the town of Ceunon, they have begun to take our trees to help Galbatorix's troops."

Then the room erupted into strategic lingo you almost lost in the Ancient language but with the help of Oromis you kept up pretty easily. The siege would have surprise on its side since the elves have not been in battle for close to a hundred years. When you had given your best opinion on how the attack should plan out, you advised for you and Epona to appear and help in the battle itself. 

   "I have done well with my sword, your majesty. Oromis can attest to that. Me and Epona want to help take down Galbatorix as much as anyone."

The Queen thought this over, each second was enunciated with a tap of her long slider finger. 

   "I would prefer Epona and you stay here, under the protection of Ellesméra. We can only have so much hope, as I am sure you can understand."

You spared Oromis a glance, and anger filled your vision. 

   Be still, she is only saying what she believes is the truth. 

Oromis voice echoed in your head, and still the intimate feeling of sharing your mind so completely made you want to shrink back but you would get used to it. Releasing the tension in your body, your voice came out as steady as you could make it. 

   "This is not something I will be moved on.  You need all the help you can get and you have a dragon and its rider willing to do just that, your majesty."

You observed the elves at the table, and noticed she must be communicating with them separately from you. Their eyes would look unfocused, and their heads would nod or somehow acknowledge something that was not said to you. Finally after some time the Queen spoke. 

   "As long as you agree to have one of the spellcasters I appoint to follow you into each battle, are we in agreement?"

    What do you think, Epona?

   I think… This is the best deal we can achieve with someone so cautious as the Queen.

   "Epona and I agree to the terms you have set, your Majesty."

You were then instructed to swear in the ancient language not to reveal any sort of elven city or plan even if you were in the hands of the mad king himself. The war generals said their peace to you, and welcomed you, most wearily, into the Queen's plans to help Alagaësia. 

On the ride back to Oromis hut, you were not so kind with your mouth as you were in the war room. 

   "She thinks you can do nothing! That you cannot fight! Did you hear what she said to Eragon when me and him both stepped foot in this city? That because of his disability he would be no more useful than a figurehead!"

You were practically pulling out your hair with rage. Epona was gliding along next to Gleadr, using the massive dragon's draft to barely even have to flap her wings. You were riding on the back of Glaedr, Oromis right next to you, but just like in the war room he was saying nothing.

   "Are… are you alright Oromis?"

For the first time you had noticed how slow he seemed. He kept his gaze forward, but sweat was gathering around his face as if he was fighting off fainting. 

   "The Blood-Oath Celebration takes a lot out of both dragons and elves. It has affected me more than I had expected, don't worry. It will wear off in a few days."

When you finally arrived at the hut and diligently hopped off Gleadr, you noticed Oromis has a lot more trouble. When he landed on the ground, it was by Glaedr's quick reflexes that Oromis did not completely fall. Most of Oromis weight was placed on Gleadr's snout as they slowly made their way closer to the hut together. The action felt so private, you looked away out of respect. 

   "I could use some help getting inside too, you know."

Heaving his arm around your shoulder you were surprised just how much he leaned on you. He wouldn't live that much longer, he said so himself but you ignored it so vigorously you became blind. This solidified his words and set heavy weight upon your heart. You knew he didn't want to speak of it, so you moved on to your new position. 

   "Queen Islanzadí acted as if she knew more about me, but what is there to know?"

Oromis, who placed his weight entirely in his chair as he sat down, felt just as confused as you. 

   "I'm not sure, only you and I know of where you truly came from, and even Eragon didn't really grasp the full picture but maybe she is just piecing it together by little things you yourself wouldn't notice."

Finally relinquishing your mask and placing it in your satchel, you rested your head in your hands. You tried to think of a way she could have guessed you were different but nothing could come to mind. 

   "Alright, you got me, I have no idea what could give me away."

   "For one, your accent. The mask I gave you disguises your voice, it changes the sound but not the intonation. It is clear if someone pays close enough attention that you are not from any part of Alagaësia, from the highest point of the Dwarven mountains to the deepest Urgal villages of the Spine."

Okay, fair enough you guessed. That hasn't occurred to you because nobody mentioned any sort of accent, mostly your voice is what kept them at bay. 

   "And also," continued Oromis, "Your mannerisms. Sometimes I still catch you checking your pocket for your phone or something else you always kept on you back in your world. The way you address people is also odd. You do not realize the standing people have as you should. You treat them so informally sometimes it worries me that one day someone will find your ignorance insulting upon their person and start a blood feud."

You sighed, hugging yourself to ward off your anxiety. 

   "Are you serious? Blood feuds are so-"

   "Exactly!"

Oromis was staring at you now, his hands had slammed on the table startling you. When he noticed his mistake, he relaxed and explained more calmly. 

   "Blood feuds still happen here in this age, at first I thought maybe your time in Tierm had taught you, but kneeling to authority rarely becomes a thief."

You stared at him. 

   "Ouch…."

   "It is what you need to hear."

You averted your gaze. He was right, try as you might all the various titles and standings eluded you and you haven't been careful. You felt guilty and stupid, and you didn't want to talk about the mistakes you made so you switched the subject. 

   "Me and Epona will be heading to Ceunon soon."

   "I was there when you devised the strategy."

You didn't know what to do, a rift was building between you two and you felt responsible. 

   "I'm… sorry." 

You could feel Oromis shift in his chair, and a sense of shame washed over you consuming all your thoughts. It was coming from Oromis. He opened his arms, just as he had when you were first flying from the Crags of Tal'naeír. An invitation, and you took it, leaning into his arms you curled your whole body as close as you could to him as you shared each other's embrace. 

   "I didn't mean to speak to you so violently. I am just scared for your wellbeing, please ignore what I have said today and just be more mindful."

You gave a hum of acknowledgement and cuddled closer to him. 

   "Eragon will leave for the Varden soon won't he?" You asked. 

   "He will once he finds out, his oaths bound him as such."

He rested his head on yours, and enjoyed the quiet company of the other. 

The next day after spending the night in his arms, you were not surprised to see Eragon saying that he had to leave. You had to help Oromis up, and also to get him outside. He didn't complain about the needed help, neither did you feel any sort of contempt for needing help. What you felt was a sense of compassion emanating from his entire being, a thankful sort of feeling. It wasn't for helping him, you realized, it was from being there for him. 

   "Oh my god Eragon, your ears are pointed!"

You practically yelled at him, but once he explained what happened during the Blood-Oath you understood what happened after he was carried away. He explained he needed to leave, and Oromis understood, giving him a few gifts before he departed. One of which was a belt that had many jewels secretly hidden in it. Oromis also gave him a special drink that would help if he ran out of energy, and that he should also use it sparingly. Eragon and Saphira said their goodbyes, and to your surprise both Saphira and Epona shared a very emotional goodbye that was said with emotions and images rather than words. With the wind at Eragon's back, it was finally you and Oromis alone. 

      "That drink you gave him reminds me of a health potion."

You said as Eragon faded into the horizon. Oromis just gave you a sly smile. A few more minutes passed before Oromis said anything else. 

   "The Celebration changed Eragon into a combination of both elf and human,, and said that he didn't mind the change, but I'm curious. How would you react if the dragons did that to you instead?" 

You thought about it as you took the time to prepare tea, and once the pot began to whistle you had your answer. 

   "For me… to be changed in such a way would make me a little mad, honestly. Every moment I've been here in Du Weldenvarden every elf has made a point, indirectly or not, that I will never be as fast, as quick, or as smart as them. If the dragons changed me into what they made Eragon I would be insulted. Could I have not defeated Galbatorix as I was? Did I really need to change? Are humans really that useless?"

You poured the tea for both of you, and didn't wait for it to cool as you took a burning sip. 

   "It is not that I envy the differences your race has, it is that I would be seen as useless otherwise. I hope my answer doesn't offend you Oromis."

He looked at you long and hard, but he seemed satisfied with your answer. 

   "I will never be offended when you speak what you truly mean. It only helps me understand you better."

A few days of peace had passed between the two of you, but the stress of war seemed to cling to the trees. 

   "When will you be leaving for Ceunon?" Oromis asked one evening as you were both reading scrolls. 

You thought about the war room, and ran through the plan again in your mind. You and Epona would show up at the rear, and after the siege of the town the elves would make their way south toward Gil'ead. 

   "Within the week the Queen should contact me and then Epona and I will be off." 

You subconsciously twindled your knife between your fingers, a trick you learned back in Tierm. You haven't used them in such a long time after having become used to the elven made sword that was given to you. 

   "I will be coming with you."

That made your knife slip between your fingers and impale the ground, inches from your foot. 

   "W-what? Aren't you like the highest kept secret… like ever?"

He chuckled and looked up from his scroll, taking your face in his hands and bringing you into a gentle kiss.

   "They will be looking for a dragon and its rider, not an elf that will blend in with everything else."

   "I feel there is more to this than you're letting on Oromis."

You eyed him, but it always made you feel completely safe when you were this close to him. 

   "I have been in hiding for too long, if you are going to fight then I will be by your side as I should be."

Keeping his gaze you asked, 

   "So… Will Gleadr stay here? So far away from you?"

He hummed, thinking for a while before he responded. 

   "Gleadr and I have discussed this, and we have both agreed to the… as you would say… 'terms and conditions.'" 

You laughed as he released you from his tough grip. Each day as you both waited for the Queen's contact, you tried to learn more words in the ancient language, trying out wordings and various combinations with the help of Epona. Oromis taught you some things he knew too, but from your training with Eragon you already knew the words of death in the ancient language. Which you thought was the most important. 

Another mind touched yours, and you recoiled putting up barriers. You confirmed what you were expecting this whole week. Queen Islanzadí informed you to make your way toward Ceunon. The fighting was about to begin. Strapping the needed things onto Epona's saddle, she inclined her head toward Gleadr, and they touched noses briefly.

   Fly with the wind at your back and fire in your belly Epona, I will be awaiting your return. 

And with Oromis hugging you from behind on the saddle, Epona took off, roaring and streaming a long breath of fire. 

Today marks the day you would enter the first battle of many. You would kill many innocent people too. The image of the soldier back in Terim invaded your mind as you realized he would not be alone in your consciousness. 

————————————————————

Tags: [@overlordspirit18] [@raiikuii] [@panic-based-riot]

[weirdponytail]

Modern Inheritance: Limits (Semi WIP)

Summary: "Brom, I just want them back! I don't want anyone else to die and I want them back!" "I know, kid." "...I hate this fucking war." "...Yeah. Me too." Everyone has a limit on what they can endure without cracking under the strain. Some people can move that limit when they must, push themselves a little further to shoulder more so that others don't have to take it on or see them hurting. But often it's those people who break the hardest when their limit is finally reached. 

Arya stared up at the plaster coated stone of the embassy ceiling. The events of the last twenty four hours played over and over in her mind, threatening to drown out her attempts to rest.

Ajihad was dead. The man everyone had been so sure would lead them to the gates of Urû’baen was gone.

Even after a lifetime of loss, Arya felt Ajihad’s death hit particularly hard.

The man was a genius strategist and unparalleled negotiator. Under his guidance the Varden had not only survived but thrived even as Galbatorix increased his campaign against them.

That wasn’t all. He was not just a military leader. Ajihad had been a personal friend to Arya, Fäolin and Glenwing. Despite being decades younger than the elves, the fallen commander always kept his eye out for them and encouraged all three to speak openly to him if any problems arose. He was kind, just and one of the most honorable men Arya had met during the entire hellish war.

Unbidden, the memory of the last occasion Arya had spent one on one time with the Varden’s leader crept into her mind.

It felt like months had already passed, but just over two weeks ago Ajihad had strode into Arya’s tiny room in the medical wing with a thermos of her favorite tea balanced on a fresh set of her fatigues in one hand and a packet of notes in the other. Arya had expected him to give a few short condolences and exchange hurried niceties before launching into a formal debriefing about her captivity, the events that led to it, and the information that she had either collected or divulged during that time. It was procedure, after all, and with the Urgals army fast approaching Arya understood that there would be little time for anything but the necessities.

But the Varden’s leader did nothing of the sort. Instead, using mugs borrowed from the cabinet of the nurse’s station, Ajihad sat and shared tea while he talked with the recently revived elf. They sat together, Ajihad somehow still looking regal and powerful while relaxing in a ratty old chair and Arya sitting cross legged on the edge of the hospital bed, barefoot and shirtless but very grateful for the pants and sports bra that provided more protection than a the hospital’s light pants and open backed shirt.

Ajihad spent well over an hour telling her of the things that had gone on since she last left with Saphira’s egg. Everything from an incident where Coop, the one legged veteran who owned the Varden’s traveling bar, had used his prosthetic to knock out the instigator of a drunken brawl, to the Ingeitum clan’s recent efforts to restart production of small tanks and new artillery, was discussed. It was informal, relaxing almost, and for Arya it brought an almost desperately welcome break from the constant questions about her state of mind and the well meant but invasive queries about her captivity and torture.

The tea had long since been finished when Ajihad paused, the boyish grin left from telling of Coop’s improvised assault fading from his lips. He steepled his fingers and settled his elbows on his knees before asking if Brom had told her about the current situation between the Varden and the elves. When Arya answered in the affirmative, an edge creeping into her tone, he simply nodded. He knew that she would do everything possible to put relations back in order.

Still. She could see the questions in his eyes.

He didn’t ask them. Instead, Ajihad gave her sincere condolences on the deaths of Fäolin and Glenwing. He did not apologize for their deaths, nor did he dither on about what could have been or should have been done, but he recounted their strengths and character, how much they meant to specific people in the Varden, and how much their support had meant to him and Nasuada during the early years of his leadership. It was heartfelt, and held no awkward silence or uncertainty as to how to address their deaths. Ajihad knew the importance of acknowledging their loss, while also understanding Arya’s need for privacy in processing their deaths.

As he took his leave, Ajihad pulled three objects from the pocket of his vest and gently folded Arya’s fingers over them. The subdued gleam of two hammered steel badges, bearing the Varden’s seal and hanging from black ribbons, met her gaze when she carefully revealed the gifts. Under them, another medal, plated in dull brass with a sky blue ribbon, detailed a wolf leaping over a wall of snarled barbed wire.

As she tilted the medals in her hand, Arya’s breath caught in the back of her throat. Etched carefully into the metal so that they became clear when light shifted, the glyphs that she, Glenwing and Fäolin had chosen for the motto of their tiny special ops unit shined back at her.

With a sudden lurch Arya sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, chest aching.

Even in their deaths, Ajihad had provided Fäolin and Glenwing permanent proof that though they were not human, they would always be a part of the Varden. It was a thought that Ajihad turned to solid fact during his time as leader, ensuring that the elves felt accepted and trusted in the fight against Galbatorix. It was why losing him felt like losing a another part of the family Arya had found in the Varden’s ranks. A family that was quickly shrinking as the conflict reached the start of it’s crescendo with Eragon and Saphira’s arrival.

At the thought of family Arya’s mind turned to Nasuada. Barely into adulthood and carrying the same strength and wit that Ajihad often displayed, Nasuada’s love for her father was obvious. The two doted on each other as much as they butted heads, stubborn and unyielding in their conviction to help the Varden despite the danger.

If only I had been faster. She still couldn’t shake the sound of the young woman’s wail that reverberated through the tunnels. Even in the warren of passages that the Urgals had escaped through she had heard the agonized sound clearly. I should have used magic to drive the Urgals back. Then maybe Ajihad, Murtagh and the others would have gotten out.

Arya tightened her grip on the sheets, feeling her nails dig into her palms through the material. No. I can’t do this now. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced the lump in her throat down. Took several slow, deep breaths and settled back into the bed. There’s too much to do, too much at stake. Doubt and grief can come later. We’ll mourn later.

Right now, sleep. Then take the day one step at a time. The Council meeting tomorrow. Prep for travel back to Ellesméra. Keep an eye on Eragon and Saphira, make sure no one tries anything while we’re in chaos. Make sure the Council doesn’t try to steamroll Brom’s advice.

She breathed in again, closed her eyes. Loosened the fists she had made and forced her tired body to relax as she let it out. The tightness in her throat hadn’t gone away fully, and the heavy feeling in her chest remained. But it could wait. It would have to wait.

Keep on keeping on. It’s all we can do.

Resigned to sleep yet still uneasy, the elf subconsciously rolled over in the bed and reached out for the comforting, familiar warmth of Fäolin’s body beside hers.

Her hand fell through open air to land on cold, empty sheets.

Arya’s eyes snapped open.

~~~

Brom rubbed his face, chewing once again on the stem of his empty pipe. Arya had banned him from smoking in the embassy, but he was in no mood leave his room, much less go outside.

A heavy shroud covered Tronjheim in the wake of Ajihad’s death earlier that day. People were openly crying in the tunnels and crowded together for solidarity in their grief. The Rider didn’t want to be drawn into it. Instead he preferred to reflect on his emotions and the events alone with a shot of strong bourbon and his pipe. Sometimes one or two close friends were welcome, but the number of people he counted as such had dwindled over the course of the war till less than a handful remained.

Brom sucked in a breath through the pipe, tasting the remnants of his years of smoking in the wood. He hadn’t known Ajihad all that well, but the man made quite an impression on him the times that they had met face to face as well as when the two exchanged letters about the Varden. Brom found his decisions sound and his leadership to be well in line with the values that the Varden had been founded on. His death was a blow to the group for sure, both in a strategic sense and an emotional one.

The question of who would take over the Varden now haunted the Rider’s mind. Brom had been almost completely out of contact for the fifteen years he watched over Eragon in Carvahall, never mind the handful of years he spent infiltrating Morzan’s mansion. He had no idea who would be best to succeed Ajihad, but knew one thing: the Council was not to be trusted with the final decision.  

Brom growled in quiet frustration. In his opinion a majority of the current Council were a bunch of power hungry, manipulative jackasses.

But still...the Council was an important part of the Varden’s structure. Without them t–

Brom bolted to his feet, chair clattering to the ground as a ragged scream ripped through the embassy. The Rider was out the door and in the hall when a resounding crash followed not a moment later.

Brom staggered as Arya’s door opened easily, fully expecting it to be locked when he jammed his shoulder against it. He stumbled into the darkened room and stopped, feeling a twinge of tightness in his chest as he took in the somewhat familiar scene.

Arya was sitting on the floor below a fresh hole in the plaster that hid the pipes and utilities anchored to the stone walls. Her shoulders, littered with angry red and raw scars that peeked out from the loose collar of her nightshirt, shuddered every few moments. Her left hand clenched over her face to hide her eyes while her lips pressed tight together to prevent any hint of sound.

Her right hand was limp at her knee, torn and bloodied. Deep bruises already bloomed at her first two knuckles where skin still remained.

Brom carefully stepped over scattered chips of plaster and sank to his knees in front of the crumpled elf. “Hey now…” Arya’s jaw clenched tighter and she turned her face away from him at his soft words, still covering her eyes. “Don’t do this, girl. We’ve talked about this.” Gently but firmly, the Rider grasped the woman’s left wrist and tugged.

A long second passed as Brom kept up the pressure, feeling the silent trembling through the limb until she finally dropped her hand. Arya looked up at him through the tears that streaked her face.

“There we go.” He gave her a soft smile. Eragon was his son, it was true. But family reached further than blood, and he’d be damned if he didn’t see the woman before him as his daughter. He had watched her grow from a small child, eager to fight in the name of her people, to a woman that now endured a multitude of wounds in the hope that her deeds would lead to a better future for all the races.

It wasn’t the first time he saw her like this. Wasn’t the first time he had consoled her after years, decades of pushing aside her own feelings for the sake of others, for the sake of the war, finally shattered through her carefully constructed walls. She had seen him the same way before as well. They both knew it was not likely it would be the last.  

So he did what he had done before. What they both had done. “Don’t hold back, girl. I’m right here.”

Arya shuddered. Squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. But she didn’t resist when Brom pulled her into his arms.

Instead she gave a choked cry, seized a fistful of his shirt, and sobbed hard into his shoulder.

[issamhysa]

Being in love with Murtagh would include...

BEWARE! SPOILERS FOR LIKE,,, THE ENTIRE SERIES

You and Murtagh meet when he first comes to the Varden with Eragon

You’re Nasuada’s closest friend and handmaiden, so you’re always at her side, which means you always know who’s coming in and out of the Varden

Murtagh sees you standing with Nasuada off to the side and he’s immediately taken with you

He doesn’t get to stare for long, because as soon as he does, he’s imprisoned in Tronjheim

You kinda bring him up in a conversation you have with Nasuada while you’re brushing her hair

Your interest is seemingly really evident cause Nasuada gives you permission to go see him

And you do

That’s how it all starts

Nasuada would come with you at first, to make sure you were safe and find out as much as she could about Murtagh

But after some time, she stopped

You often bring him sweets from the kitchens, or books when Ajihad doesn’t allow him to visit the libraries

You also sit on the other side of the cell just to listen to him talk

He doesn’t know why, but something about you makes him feel safe

He starts to open up to you faster than he would anybody else

Murtagh tells you about life in Urû’baen

You tell him stories of what life was like with your brother before he was taken from you

And so, you two spend nights in each other’s company, telling stories and making jokes

But you find yourself slowly falling for him

“Love is a dangerous thing at these times, Y/N. Be careful.” Nasuada would often tell you

You know she’s right, but you don’t mind

And surely enough, neither does Murtagh

You two share your first kiss before the Battle under Farthen Dûr

Obviously, you get separated during the battle

You fight alongside Nasuada and Arya for the most part

But you often find yourself fighting with the herbalist

You start to wholeheartedly believe she pops out of thin air

Anyways

After the battle, you make sure Nasuada is alright before setting out to find Murtagh

You stand by Eragon and you wait

Until the tunnel collapses

Ajihad is dead, and Murtagh and the Twins are gone, thought to be dead as well

And your heart is shattered

You mourn Ajihad’s death with Nasuada and the rest of Varden

And you mourn Murtagh alone

However, you soon decide that it was no time to mourn

Your resolve to see this through strengthened when Nasuada became the leader of the Varden and named you her bodyguard

Years later, you sat with Nasuada in her tent, helping her get ready for the Battle of the Burning Plains

A strenuous battle, you knew, but one you were sure to win

At least, that’s what you thought at first

You were busy fending off the king’s men when you hear a piercing shriek 

It sounded nothing like Saphira

You barely had time to kill the last soldier in your way before you saw the red glint in the sky, much like a glowing ruby

Another rider

You didn’t let it distract you, since you knew that Saphira and Eragon were on it

However, when they landed and Eragon managed to remove the helm of the opposite rider, your heart sank

Murtagh

He was alive

And working with the king

You were so stunned, Arya had to tackle you to the ground to avoid being impaled by a spear

The battle was over, Hrothgar was dead, and so were countless of the Varden’s men

You did not return to Nasuada’s tent, instead, you sat around the fire with Angela the herbalist, listening to her speak her nonsense

Not that you were paying much attention, as your mind was elsewhere

As time went by, your heart hardened

It had to, for if it did not, you would be burdened with the thought of Murtagh eternally

And so you hardened your heart and strengthened your mind

It wasn’t an easy task, but with Arya’s help, you managed

During the siege of Dras-Leona, you completely refused to leave Nasuada’s side, despite he telling you she could handle herself

You knew she was more than capable, but being the leader of the Varden made her a target

And you refused to lose another person you held close

However, as night fell, you grew weary

Nasuada commanded you to return to your tent, and you did so begrudgingly

You couldn’t help the thoughts that swirled in your head at night

Thoughts of you and Murtagh, of what should not- no, of what could not be

You weren’t able to dream for much longer, for as soon as you began to drift off, chaos ensued

You grabbed your sword and ran out of your tent, only to find Thorn and Murtagh staring defiantly back at you

You could faintly make out Nasuada’s form on Thorn’s back before the dragon took flight

And you could do nothing but watch as Nasuada was taken away

You were frustrated as hell

Mostly with yourself for letting your own needs distract you from your main task, which was protecting Nasuada

You felt like you failed her

Eragon felt the same way, and so you two found a bit of comfort in that, but you both knew what needed to be done

And so you stormed Urû’baen together

You were no magic user, but Eragon knew that you would not rest until you saw Nasuada alive

So he allowed you to accompany him, Saphira, Arya, Elva, and the others

In the king’s throne room, you were suspended along with everyone else but Eragon

You were relieved to see Nasuada was alive, but the sight in front of you made you ridiculously uneasy

Murtagh and Eragon stood facing each other

The duel went on for some time until Eragon was declared the winner by Galbatorix

Murtagh and Eragon exchange a few words, and before you know it, Galbatorix and Shruikan are dead

With the spell holding you broke, you rush over to Nasuada to make sure she’s really okay

You can’t help but glance at Murtagh

Only to find him staring back at you

He and his dragon leave shortly after, though

While Nasuada heals, she tells you everything that happened but focuses mostly on telling you about Murtagh

“He was being controlled, he had no say in what he did. But he did tell me that he cares for you, and that it pained him to think that you hated him. Go. Find him.”

You’re taken aback by this, but decide to do as she says

You and Murtagh meet in a clearing a few miles away from the Varden’s camp, thanks to Eragon

He sits near Thorn while you sit in front of him, the two of you silently studying each other

He’s changed a lot

His hair seems a bit longer, he has new scars all over, and he looks more tired

Nevertheless, you think, he’s still Murtagh

Different, but it’s him

He tells you everything that happened, from Thorn hatching to the shift of his true name in the throne room

Despite yourself, you find yourself forgiving him for what he did

He had no fault in this, it was all Galbatorix’s doing

How could you blame him knowing that?

You two talk for hours and hours and old feelings are slowly rekindled

When he stands up, he offers you his hand

“Come away with me. We can start anew, just the two of us.”

You hesitate, knowing you would have to tell Nasuada of this

Murtagh decides to wait while you go back to camp

Nasuada is sad to see you go but tells you she had been expecting this from the beginning

And so with tearful hugs, you say your goodbyes to everybody before joining Murtagh

Together, you head north

Neither of you knows where you’re going for sure, but it doesn’t matter. You’re together, and that’s enough.

[chobit92]

The Princess and The Shade: Chapter Ten

(It’s Christmas Eve. Mari is seven years old now. She is sitting in front of the large Christmas tree in the banquet hall. Small jars hang all over the branches with little dancing lights inside. The lights are made by magic. The decorations consist of strips of silk draped over branches and wood carvings. Some of the wood carvings are of characters from the book of goblins. A few carvings are of a princess. Murtagh has been around more often lately and Galbatorix has included him in their lessons. She is surprised by how much Murtagh knows. He knows all about the dragons and what happened to them. Mari thinks it’s sad. She has also learned that Murtagh doesn’t have any parents. She sighs and gets up. She goes to the kitchens. She can smell cookies. Evelyn is making tea.). 

Evelyn: Ah there you are. Do you want a cookie? Mari: Yes please. Evelyn: I thought you might. (Evelyn hands her a cookie and she sits eating it.). Mari: Where’s Murtagh? Benz: Your father has taken him out I think. Mari: Where have they gone? Benz: Only around Uru’baen. They haven’t gone far. I’m sure they’ll be back soon. Evelyn: Taking him out on that blasted dragon. He’s just a boy for goodness sake! Mari: They’ve gone out with Shruikan? Why couldn’t I go? Evelyn: You’re far too small to be doing things like that dear. Mari: But I want to fly! Evelyn: It’s dangerous. Now finish your cookie and get off to bed. (Mari sighs.). Mari: I’m never allowed to do anything. (She finishes her cookie and leaves the kitchen going up to her room. She gets up on the windowsill and looks out the window. She looks up at the stars for a while. Then she hears a thud. She frowns. Thud. Thud. Thud. Then she sees something in the distance. Something big getting closer to the castle. She gasps as she realises it’s Shruikan. As he gets closer she can just make out her father on his back garbed in his black and gold robes, his bald head gleaming in the moonlight. She then sees what looks like a smaller person sat in front of him. Then Shruikan veers to the right and disappears from view. She sighs and stays sat on the windowsill looking out at Uru’baen. The great wall that surrounds the city. The guards can just be seen. From this high up they are as small as ants. Beyond the wall is a river with a large ornately carved bridge over it lit up with lanterns. She has learned from books that this city used to belong to the elves. It was called Ilirea. She has never seen an elf and she wonders what they are like. She wonders what the rest of Alagaesia looks like. She’s never even left the castle and yet Murtagh is always leaving the castle and now her father has taken him out on his dragon. She doesn’t understand why she couldn’t go. She sighs again. A little while later Evelyn comes bustling in with Murtagh.). Evelyn: Why aren’t you in bed? Mari: I’m not tired. Evelyn: Come now off to bed. Both of you. Mari: You’re not my mom. You can’t tell me what to do. (Evelyn looks shocked. Then she puts her hands on her hips.). Evelyn: I am your aunt and I don’t like this new attitude of yours young lady. Mari: Well I don’t like a lot of things! (Mari goes back to staring out of the window. Evelyn sighs.). Evelyn: I want the both of you in bed by the time I get back. (Evelyn leaves the room. Mari looks at Murtagh. He offers her a small smile.). Murtagh: I went out with your dad. Mari: I know. He takes you out but not me. He’s my dad. Why is he taking you flying and how come I don’t get to go? Murtagh: I don’t know. Come on we should get to bed before she gets back. Otherwise she might send for the king. (Mari sighs and gets into bed. Murtagh gets in next to her. She pulls the sheet over their heads and giggles. He smiles.). Mari: What was it like to fly? Murtagh: It was scary at first. I thought I was gonna fall. Mari: But it must have been fun to fly. Murtagh: It was kinda fun. Maybe you should ask your dad to take you. Mari: I’m never allowed to do anything. Murtagh: Hey. We’re the crafty goblins. (She giggles.). Mari: Yes. Murtagh: So the crafty goblins would find a way to fly. Mari: Yes. They would. But how do I do that? Murtagh: Well I don’t know. You could ask your father. If that doesn’t work you’ll have to think of something else. Mari: Maybe I could ask Shruikan to take me flying. Murtagh: Maybe. But I wouldn’t. Mari: Why not? Murtagh: Well I think it’s considered rude to interfere with someone else’s dragon and it would be dangerous to go near him after what happened last time. Mari: But I have spoken to him since then. He doesn’t seem to mind. Murtagh: Really? He talks to you? Mari: Well no. But I talk to him. Murtagh: How often have you been doing that? Mari: Only a few times. My father is always in there so I have to wait until he’s busy. Or asleep. Murtagh: You are crazy. You could get yourself into trouble. Or worse. Mari: The crafty goblins like getting into trouble. Murtagh: Yeah, they usually cause most of it. (They both start giggling.). Evelyn: I thought I told you two to go to sleep. (Mari laughs harder. Evelyn pulls the sheet back.). Evelyn: Enough talking. Sleep both of you. You have to be up early tomorrow. Mari: It’s Christmas! Evelyn: Yes. And the sooner you go to sleep the sooner you can have your gifts. Mari: We have gifts! Evelyn: Now come on. Stop being difficult and go to sleep. Both of you. No more talking. Mari: Okay. Murtagh: Night Evelyn. Evelyn: Goodnight dears. (She kisses them both on the head then leaves the room. As soon as she is gone Mari pulls the sheet over them again. She giggles and he chuckles.). Murtagh: Sssh. You don’t want her to come back do you? Mari: Oh yes. We need to watch out for the mad hunter. He hunts at night and he eats princesses who aren’t asleep. Murtagh: Then he won’t eat me. Just you. Mari: He might eat you. Murtagh: No he won’t. Mari: You are a prince, he might eat them too. Murtagh: I’m not a prince. Mari: But you must be. I am a princess and my father has kind of adopted you so you must be a prince now. Every castle has a princess and a prince. Murtagh: Okay. But where’s the queen then? Doesn’t every castle have one of those too? Mari: Um. Evelyn can be the queen. (He laughs.). Murtagh: Okay. We should sleep now. Before the evil queen comes and puts a spell on us. (She giggles.). Mari: Night Murtagh. Murtagh: Night.

[incorrecteragonquotes]

Eragon Movie Recap Part 7: Raiding Party

Prepare yourself for something shaped vaguely like a daring tale of adventure, rescue, and camaraderie.

We pick up where Part 6 left off. Eragon knows a nonzero number of things about magic. The Ra’zac are dead. Brom was a Dragon Rider back in the day. It seems that our team is finally making some good progress.

We begin back at Durza’s fort. He’s sitting at his desk, casually reading a nice, big book. We aren’t told what it is, but we do get to see a couple of pages, and there’s definitely at least one pentagram in there.

A party of Urgals enters the room, lead by that one guy whose foot Durza stabbed before putting him in charge of the operation. Presumably, they’re here to report on the failed ambush at Daret, but Durza speaks first - he already knows what happened. He is just that spooky. And he is not pleased.

Durza expresses his displeasure by poking the lead Urgal with a fingernail and waiting for him to drop dead. I would like to take a moment to observe that Durza’s fingernails bear a very strong resemblance to Galbatorix’s. Maybe they share a manicurist, or they taught each other their favourite nail care techniques over a long weekend? It seems that Durza likes to use his fingernails as an offensive magical weapon, though whether he does this to use magical fingernail properties or simply for the aesthetic is unclear.

After a few moments, the lead Urgal does indeed drop dead from the fingernail poke. Not one to waste time, Durza promotes another Urgal to team lead. The Urgal accepts this change, but is clearly nervous about being addressed directly by the spooky man. Ultimately, the Urgal just stands there looking tired.

Durza is also tired. He is tired of waiting for Eragon to die. He is tired of other people’s failure to force this event. So Durza takes matters into his own hands. Or rather, his own fingernails. He visits Arya on her table and gives her a Magic Poke Of Doom.

Meanwhile, far away, Eragon is sleeping. Suddenly, he experiences a vision of Arya unlike any he’s seen before. She’s meandering oddly around a misty, green-tinged, dream-like forest. Then, cementing this vision as different from all that came before it, Arya addresses Eragon directly. She asks him for his name and he answers, entranced. She takes a moment to inform Eragon of her plight and adds some additional infodump details for good measure. But wait! Unbeknownst to Eragon, Arya’s entire appearance was staged by Durza. With his intel planted and trap set, Durza ends the transmission.

Eragon wakes up from his info session and immediately begins preparing to leave on his new quest to rescue Arya. Brom, holding his trusty sleep knife, wakes up at the commotion. Eragon knows more now than what Brom has told him, and Brom recognizes this straight away. He questions Eragon, and tries to hold Eragon accountable for his dodging of the question, but is met with predictably poor results.

Brom tries to explain the gravity of the situation and the magnitude of the decision Eragon is making. They’ve nearly reached the Varden, but Arya is being held in Durza’s fort in Gil’ead, which is in the opposite direction. Eragon is worried that Arya will be killed if he doesn’t rescue her, but Brom reminds him that as a military operative she is prepared to die for her cause. He makes a compelling argument - all of the Varden’s sacrifices up to this point have been for Eragon’s sake, so Eragon’s plan to walk into Durza’s fort jeopardizes everything the Varden has worked for.

Eragon, naturally, fails to listen to Brom’s concerns in any meaningful capacity. Saphira tries to vouch for Brom, but is met with no more success. Eragon throws a few scathing remarks at Brom, including a claim that Brom has forgotten what it means to be Dragon Rider, before departing with Saphira, leaving Brom behind as they fly towards Gil’ead.

After soaring speedily over the countryside, our dynamic duo touch down on a rocky hill with a good view of Gil’ead. It’s unclear how long the flight took, but from the editing I’m willing to guess it was one long day of flying, which isn’t actually all too bad. What is bad is the fact that Eragon and Saphira are still disagreeing. Eragon has done some scheming, and he figures that he has to do the infiltration at night, alone. Saphira protests - after all, they can’t be much of a team if they aren’t both there - but Eragon spouts some nonsense about strength and ends the discussion.

Under the cover of night, Eragon disguises himself in a very loosely-fitting cloak and tries to blend in. Perhaps one does indeed simply walk into the enemy base. Things are going pretty smoothly, but Eragon is semi-subtly being stalked by another dude in a loosely-fitting cloak. But wait! We’ve seen him before. This is the mysterious stranger from Daret! What’s he doing? His presence here can’t be a coincidence, but does it really matter what Cloak Man is doing if Eragon consistently fails to notice him?

Before we move on, I would just like to take a moment to appreciate that Eragon’s walk into the fortress is one of the best atmospheric moments in this movie. The fort is this looming, menacing entity filled with mystery and danger. As our hero passes the point of no return, he comes to understand the meaning of this place - the lines of chained prisoners drudging their way through the corridors, the cloaked figures staring and whispering behind their masks, the torchlit hallways filled with the echoing commands of the prison wardens. It’s a very intriguing setup, and it would be amazing if only it had a little payoff.

Walking through the fortress, Eragon finds a big, circular hallway-room. He’s alone in here, so he decides that disguises are for chumps and takes off his hood. He wanders around for a bit before activating dragon-o-vision to locate Arya. What a pleasant surprise! They actually did use it more than once! Eragon draws his sword, uses magic to open to open the cell door, and is immediately greeted by Arya telling him that he really messed up.

Durza walks in and confirms Arya’s warning. He insults Eragon for a bit, talking about how underwhelming the new Dragon Rider is, and then he and Eragon begin to fight. It is immediately clear that Eragon is thoroughly outmatched.

Eragon fights with both sword and magic, but Durza fights with smoky Shade teleportation, magically flying weapons, and magically flying weapon racks. Understandably, Eragon can’t keep up. When Eragon begins to show signs of magic fatigue, Durza mocks him before dramatically launching a spear at the now-defenseless adversary.

Before the spear makes contact, however, Brom dives out of a hallway and into the spear’s path, saving Eragon by taking the blow himself. This raises a few questions. If Gil’ead was so problematically far out of the way, how did Brom get here on horseback nearly as quickly as Eragon and Saphira? They had a ludicrous speed advantage because of their flight. And surely a resourceful, experienced fighter like Brom would have a better method than this for deflecting a single spear. Why was this his first choice? This action made sense in the book because the lack of alternate options was justifiable, but this isn’t the case here. As such, Brom’s injury here strikes me as very contrived.

Eragon tries to salvage the situation by throwing Brom’s sword, Zar’roc, at Durza. Durza deflects the projectile easily and quips about Eragon’s incompetence, but wouldn’t you know it! Eragon did something smart! Eragon uses the quip time as a distraction, readying his bow and shooting Durza in the face. Defeated for now, Durza dissipates, smiling. This impressive maneuver wasn’t performed by Eragon in the book, but I guess the guy has to look useful somehow.

With Durza no longer a threat, Arya is free to move from her rock. She and Eragon support Brom as they struggle towards an exit. Soldiers are coming from every direction now, and there’s no use in attacking them. But just when things are starting to look dire, Saphira saves the day by weaponizing the ceiling. Most of the soldiers are taken out by the falling rubble, and Saphira deals with the remaining few herself.

As Arya and Brom get ready for flight, Eragon looks up to see Cloak Man on a balcony, aiming an arrow in his direction. But don’t worry! He was only aiming for a stray soldier immediately behind Eragon, not Eragon himself.

At Cloak Man’s suggestion, Saphira leaves with Eragon, Brom, and Arya. Cloak Man stays behind, but he seems to have the situation under control. Guards fire arrows at Saphira & friends as they leave. Eragon makes a big deal out of how they need to climb higher, Saphira makes a big deal out of how she can’t carry this much weight, and none of the arrows hit anyway. And so, our heroes fly out into the night, hearts heavy with their bittersweet victory.

That’s it for Part 7! This part covered about 9 minutes of screentime. So much happened this time! We got to see our first Shade Showdown, Arya got to do something new, and more exciting changes are on the horizon. As always, thank you for reading, and in particular I would like to thank you for your patience - it’s been a while, but I’m thrilled to finally be able to share this latest part with you all. And in case the sparse update schedule has you worried, I want to make it clear that the Recap will eventually be completed - I have no intention of abandoning the project early, life just gets in the way of things sometimes.

Remember to tune in next week when we visit such questions as “are evil fingernails part of the standard villain kit?”, “does Cloak Man know the secret to teleportation?”, and “who’s responsible for replacing the weapon racks in Gil’ead?”. See you then!

[vreugd-madelon]

The Inheritance Cycle Series Review

The Inheritance Cycle by Christopher Paolini is a 4 book long YA Fantasy Series. Eragon, Eldest, Brisingr and Inheritance are the names of the individual books. I listened to the books in English on Storytel, but I know that all together they are 2,894 pages.

It all begins when Eragon is walking through the woods looking for food and finds a mysterious stone. Being poor, he thinks that he may convice someone to buy the pretty stone off of him or trade it for some food. He brings it into town, but no one seems to be willing to take it from him since he found it in the Spine. Suddenly, one night at home, a screeching sound are heard, and the stone begins to crack.

I rate Eragon 4.5/5 stars, because it was an amazing introduction into the series. We are just as new to the world Eragon sets foot in as he is, and those book in my opinion are the best. We learn all of the thing he does at the same time. We never break from Eragon's POV, so with all that is happening in the world, the reader is just as clueless, and shocks of revealing come at the same time. To me it's stunning at how well Eragon is able to learn while on the road. And there is one death in the book that actually already made me cry as I cared for him. One thing I disliked in the beginning was Saphira's voice, since she is a woman I expected it to be more graceful instead of gravelly. But than again she is who she is.

I rate Eldest 5/5 stars, because while with most series there is a second book syndrome where it's of less quality, I didn't find it with this series. I just wonder where the story will take me. One of my dislikes is that I can't see the names of places and ancient language written down. So this makes it much harder for me to connect places to races and see how they are travelling across the world. I do like the detail in the training Eragon and Saphira get from Oromis and Glaedr, all while other POV's are introduced which makes the story move forwards even more; namely Roran and Nasuada. Both Eragon and Roran experience great character growth in this book, and it pleases me greatly. Another thing I find quite interesting is how both this book and the first have major battles as their climax. While in the first it seemed like a natural course for the plot, in this one less so. Nonetheless I must say the end and the battle that takes place, are incredibly well written, and made it the rating that it is. Now that I have listened to over 20 hours of audiobook, I must say that all together I don't find Saphira's voice as troubling as I did in the beginning of this venture.

I rate Brisingr 4/5 stars, because I had to take two breaks while listening to the books. I don't know why, but continuing after Eldest just didn't feel right. I foccused on other series before coming back a couple of weeks later. I must say that the beginning was really interesting with Eragon and Roran on their own journey to hellgrind. It really showed their brotherly bond and Eragon's resourcefulness. There were also a couple of scenes that stirred my emotions; 1. When Saphira mends Isidar Mithrim, the rose saphire of the Dwarves, it gave me chills. They way the mending and the result was described was so beautiful. 2. When Glaedr shares the dragons most valued secret, it brought me close to tears. It was described earlier as the most powerful and unique things, and to hand it over was such a deeply personal gesture of trust. Near the end many important backstories are revealed, which still keeps it all interesting and it gives an understanding for certain characters. The deaths at the end made me ugly cry, and the worst thing; I sat on a train with people looking at me. Awkward.

I rate Inheritance 5/5 stars, because this was the most amazing ending to a series I had in a long while. First of all I think Roran and Katrina are so cute together, and they are truly a relationship goal with how far they are willing to go for each other in their love. The battles and the seiges of Aroughs and Dras-Leona, and eventually Urû'bean as well, are describes with such detail that it feels real and dangerous as we get both the POV of Roran, the human with a hammer, and Eragon, the Rider with a flaming sword. They are Aroughs is full of ingenuity from Roran and Dras-Leona is full of fear for Eragon. Even while this is the last book in the Series, we get to know so many new detail about Alegaesia. Creatures like Snalglí and the Nïdwahl make their first appearance. We see Saphira's POV, where she calls humans round-ear two legs and Elves point-ear two legs. And Urgals call humans, the hornless. I found the best name for a sword ever and it belongs to Angela, the herbalist. Albitr, or as she likes to call it; Tinkledeath. I laughed every time when that name came up. Later on we get to see Galbatorix in the hall of the Soothsayer, where he tells Nasuada his past plans and actions. We get to see a glimps of his mind, and it's both terrifying and enlightening.

The ending is what I likes most. And I don't want to spoil too much, but for the last couple of chapters we see the aftermath of the battle of Urû'bean. A new monarch chosen, cities claimed, trades made. The new problems that arose are dealt with and resolved. The last thing we know is that Eragon travels east, with the greatest treasure Alegaesia has ever known.

The Inheritance Cycle - 4.5 Stars.

I give it this because while many aspects of the series is amazing; plot, side plots, characters, world building. There are somethings that bothered me, especially in the beginning and even throughtout; the dragons voices. They are rough and coarse while I somehow expected them to be smooth and elegant. Yet it always fit their character. The pacing was incredible. Even while I still don't know exactly where one book ended and the next began, because I read them all so shortly after another. My favorite main character is Saphira. The scenes where she dis extraordinary things were incredibly well writing and her POV's made me laugh. My favorite minor character is Sloan, because he got exactly what he deserved. The covers are absolutely incredible as they each depict a dragon alive during the series. Eragon: Saphira. Eldest: Thorn. Brisingr: Glaedr. Inheritance: Fírnen. The only one left out is Shruiken.

If you have any questions send me an ask here on tumblr or tweet me. If there are any books that you want to recommend, be sure to let me know!

P.S. There is a companion book for this series, Eragon’s Guide to Alegaesia. It addresses the reader as a new rider and it has some facts about Alegaesia. It has 3d elements in it, such as fur or cloth. Fold open notes and even the future predicting knuckle bones. It’s not a must to have, but a nice addition to your bookshelf.

P.S.S. There is talk of a 5th book in this series. Can’t wait!!!

[eragontrash]

Fic I never finished

    There’s something about the rain.

He was staying in Carvahall. His mother's birthplace was not something that he had ever expected to see, but for some reason he and Thorn, the dragon to whom he was bonded, had decided to make this place their home. As Murtagh watched the storm from the doorway, he couldn't help but think of the reasons that had led him here.

They had gone north just after the war needing time to think and to heal. Better to leave now, they thought, than face the wrath of the people. With Galbatorix gone, all of their anger would have turned to him. From the time he was born, he had spent his every waking moment afraid for his life and now that he had Thorn to protect, he wouldn't dare stay at that viper’s nest of a court no matter how badly he missed being in the know. So north they went. It had seemed as good a place as any. They came across few people and those they met had stayed well out of their way. Eventually their solitude had grown tedious and they started their journey south.

They came to the capital, now renamed Illyria, to find it a much better place than when they had left. Queen Nasuada, the former ruler of the varden and now queen of all mankind, had welcomed them joyously. Life in Illyria was far different than it had been so far north, much louder and more boisterous. And while Murtagh was happy to once again be at the center of things, Thorn disliked the crowded spaces and noise that always accompanied the city, so they had begun to plan their departure.  

The day came for them to take their leave when it was announced that a dwarven embassy would be coming to the capital led by none other than King Orin himself. Nasuada had hoped to mend the bridges between the dwarves and the rider but could not think of a way to do so.  The night before they were to arrive she had come to his chambers to find him preparing to depart that very night.

“Where will you go?” Nasuada asked upon walking in the room.

“We don’t know yet. I know you think that I should wait to speak with King Orrin but dwarves have long memories and I doubt that they would forgive me so easily for such an act. ‘Tis better to leave now than to anger them by staying. Besides,” he added seeing the hurt look in her eyes, “I doubt that Lord Drakas wishes me to stay. It’s better this way.”

Lord Drakas was a Surdan Lord who had been sent on behalf of King Orran to serve as his ambassador. He owned rich lands in the eastern part of Surda and was well known to be a fair man. From the moment he arrived he made it plain that he would try to court the queen. For the first few weeks she seemed to ignore his attempts, but he was persistent. As relations with Surda grew more strained the possibility of an alliance through marriage began to seem like a necessity. And so Nasuada had turned her attention to the Lord Drakas.  

“Have you considered your family?” she inquired, smiling.

“I have  none. At least, none that I would be willing to go to.”

“Have you forgotten Roran? He’s built himself quite a castle in Carvahall. One big enough to accommodate even a dragon. Just something to think about.” She wiped her eyes and strode out of the room.

He had had no better plan, so it was to carvahall he came. It took some convincing but Roran, at Katrina’s urging, had agreed to let him stay. Now here he stood. He and Thorn had not been here long but already they found themselves quite comfortable. Carvahall had surprised him with how welcoming the villagers had been. After all, it was his mother’s home, they reminded him. It was only natural that he should find comfort here. The village appealed to him for two main reasons: the first being that, while it was for enough away to be peaceful, it was not so remote as the areas in which he had stayed during his trip in the north, so that a steady amount of news still filtered in. the second being he had the opportunity to learn about his mother, even before she had died, Selena had spent very little time with her eldest son.

Thorn nudged him, shaking him out of his musings about his mother.

“Look.” Thorn gestured with his mind to the child running up to them.

Ishmera had been playing out in the woods with a few other children before the storm had hit. Now she came hurdling towards them. She stopped panting just before colliding with Murtagh. The child was soaked through and panting. She grabbed his arm and started pulling his back out into the storm.

    Urgency clung to the girl like mud. He quickly followed. There was no point in asking where they were headed. Ever since the girl had been born she had never spoken a word. Despite the best healers, no one could find what was wrong with the girl. Normally she carried around a book with little pictures inside and simply pointed to whatever she needed but it was nowhere to be seen. The book had been his idea, something he remembered the nannies at the palace had used for children with similar delays. He reached out to the girl's mind to find it shut off by panic. All he could make out was that there had been some sort of accident with one of the children. He quickly scooped the girl up and onto his back and began running in the direction she had pointed.

[modern-inheritance]

Modern Inheritance: Keeper (Immediate Post-Galbatorix time period)

(A/N: This was just going to be a few ideas slapped together, and then it turned into...this...big thing. I don't feel like do a lot of notes right now, but be warned, there's going to be a bunch of new concepts tossed out there, and there are some instances of wound description. There will be other stories from this time period at a later date, but for now, take this.

Arya and Glenwing are informed by others that Islanzadí was gravely wounded by Barst after the citadel has fallen. While Glen tends to her mother, Arya waits outside the tent and grapples with the prospect of losing her remaining parent only a handful of years after reconciling with her. And then a particular bird drops from the damn sky.)

~~~ MODERN INHERITANCE: KEEPER

Everything here smelled of blood. 

Arya braced her hands on her knees, forcing herself out of Trancing. The half-sleep state had snuck up on her mind despite the stress and chaos of healers and doctors and medics rushing too and fro across the churned up soil. 

Apparently preparing for the end of all things after over seventy years of conflict, navigating a trap-laden fortress of a castle, being nearly talked to death by a megalomaniac, watching the love of one's life fight their half brother, and then fighting and taking down a dragon larger than what large could even define could make the unfortunate person experiencing such a day quite exhausted. 

Shaking off the last traces, Arya leaned back in the folding chair and strained to hear anything past the canvas of the tent at her back. 

Nothing. Warded. 

When the healers had finally slowed and led them to the tent the elven Queen had been evacuated to, both her daughter and Glenwing had pushed to enter. Glen had only made it a single step inside, his head just past the tent flaps, when he had thrown his dented metal arm back and shoved Arya away. 

“Stay out.” 

“The fuck do you mean–”

“Arya, stay out.” Glen took her by the armored shoulders and walked her three paces back, almost into the frantic flow of medical personnel constantly surging between the tents. “You don’t need to see her like this, and I can’t focus if you’re in there and can’t compartmentalize. She needs the best right now, alright? And she would never forgive me if I let you see her in this state.” 

His eyes were bright, hard chips of liquid gold burning from the inside. “Please. Stay out unless we call you.” Glen gave her arms a quick squeeze. “We– I – will do everything we can. But if it’s clear, then…”

Arya reached up and seized his wrists before leaning forward. He joined her out of instinct and long built trust, their foreheads pressed together in a moment of quiet. 

“Just keep fighting. Don’t waste time with me, just fight to the end.” She wasn’t shaking, but her eyes were closed. “Please.”

“I understand.”

With that Glen slipped away into the tent.

And so Arya sat on one of the rickety folding chairs outside the tent. She had spent some time pacing until the thin layer of muck made of dirt and blood binding together in a paste coated her boots. After that she sat again and now found herself shaking off the half sleep state, still waiting, still out of the loop.

That’s when she heard it. 

Arya bolted to her feet, head snapping up. That call. Among the cacophony of the camp, the pitched struggles still being fought in pockets out on the plains of Ilirea, the screeching and screaming and croaking of hundreds of thousands of carrion birds. One stood out, one piercing, warbling cry, keening and slicing through the cacophony.

Heart pounding, eyes glued to the dust and haze above, Arya began to run. 

‘Not another one. Not today. Not here.’

Slipping between soldiers, leaping over supplies. A white speck the only thing that had her attention, the only thing important in that moment. The white dot wobbled and grew, following her as best it could on turbulent, low winds from the fires until the young elf burst through into a tiny clearing. Barely the size of three tents crammed together, a single piece of open land not flooded with people or bodies or equipment. Some long buried boulder or mass of roots sloped the ground up a foot higher than the rest, leaving the patch unusable except for a measly breath of fresh air.

Without a single thought beyond the damn determination to keep one more member of her dwindling family alive, Arya slammed a foot down as she crossed the threshold and leapt into the open air. Throwing her weight, twisting, she opened her arms. 

“Blagden!”

Bloodied wings went limp, surrendering to exhaustion and long-stalled pain. With a morose crackling croak, Blagden, white raven of the Knotted Throne, plummeted from the sky like a rock straight into Arya’s chest.

Arya folded herself around the wounded bird and hit the ground with a solid whumph. The shock half absorbed by her armor vibrated her sternum and yet she refused to let it transfer to Blagden’s broken body, coughing as the air drove from her lungs. 

“I have you.” The words were a wheeze. “You’re safe, Blagden.”

She could feel the rapid beating of the raven’s heart through the fingers holding him to her chest, his lungs heaving. His right wing was crooked even as it lay open, feathers tickling her neck. Sticky gore clung to his talons, strips of flesh still tangled in the shaggy fluff of his ruffled throat. 

Careful, supporting his broken wing, Arya rose up to a crouch. “Don’t you dare give out, you damn bird.” Blagden merely grumbled in response, a short hiss of pain when the woman shifted to kneel and rest his body on her lap. “Shh, okay, just…fuck, okay, I’m going to…I’m going to heal your wing, alright?” 

Arya reached out with her mind, ironclad barriers encasing the mental tendril. Her brows lowered, exhaustion creeping in again with just the minor exertion, when she encountered wards around the raven. Some were familiar, the spicy richness of sandalwood and sparking ozone so distinctly her mother’s magic that it made her heart twinge with a renewed fear of loss, but the other was…different. Like…like the cool, smooth, immovable stone carvings in Tronjheim, but half blanketed with soft moss. Crackling campfires, smokey and oddly similar to her own strains, the feeling of music without the sound, a sudden flash of flat stones skipping across a pristine lake–

It took everything she had left for Arya not to hug Blagden to her chest as the raven’s mind brushed her own and the image of her face above him, lightning brow tipping down, determination set at her lips, morphed into a face she only ever saw in hazy Recall dreams of years long past. In fairths and pictures and the few aching memories shared. 

‘Da.’

“I won’t break them.” For the first time that day, tears dropped from Arya’s eyes. They wet Blagden’s feathers, rolling light streaks through the collected soot. “He stays with you. I promise.”

Glenwing was always healing any injured bird that he came across. He left the windows of their flat open most nights, an open invitation to any feathered friend to come rest out of the elements. Arya herself had helped on occasion, Fäolin lending his hand all those years ago when a third set of steady fingers were needed to help calm a nippy eagle or cradle a jackdaw deadset on flying before it was ready. 

It was with those memories in mind pushing aside her parents, Arya found the gaps in the wards. Energy, warm and buzzing, trickled from the fingertips gingerly holding Blagden still. Apologies, something so unfamiliar between them, poured from her lips as the bird thrashed and cried out with harsh squawks as the hollow flight bones realigned like broken straws. They fused together smooth and strengthened, the energy moving on to fix bruised muscle, torn tendons and ligaments stressed beyond their limit from his flight–

And then the magic snapped like rotten rope, a surge from within the white raven’s own mind lashing out like steel blades to sever the connection. The mental ricochet felt like it slapped straight to the center of Arya’s forehead, a sting and a throb of a promised headache pulsing to the surface as she cursed and curled forward, catching herself on a hand before she completely folded in and smothered the ungrateful feathered wretch. 

“Blagden, I’m trying to–”

It was almost pathetic, really. The way the bird flipped and flopped off her lap and managed to stagger to his feet with his undamaged wing outstretched. “A Queen’s touch only may apply! Only she will make me fly!” He hissed, loud and threatening, as Arya reached for him again. “Touch again and learn it well! Your bite’s not the only one to give hell!”

That ripped a broken, choked laugh from Arya’s throat. 

It was all too much. 

The laughter, so incredulous and disbelieving at the gall this spicy raven always had boiling in his feathered body, transformed to ragged, gasping sobs. Fuck, why did she feel so small again? After everything that day, after confronting Galbatorix himself with Eragon, Saphira, Elva, Nasuada, Murtagh and Thorn? All of them little pieces in that mad king’s sick game, their lives and struggles all turned to seemingly useless specks of dust before his discovery and manipulations. After standing, blood cold, staring up at an ice blue eye with nothing in it but malice and hatred for all things and so…so much larger than she had thought possible, only to later meld minds with the smaller of its kin, Thorn and Saphira both, and feel dragonfire bathe her skin before making that fated leap to end its miserable existence…

Not once had she felt small. 

It was here, kneeling on a torn up knoll with her sobs drowned out by the keening, wailing and screams of the wounded, the dying, the mourning, the lost and the found, being confronted by this damn two foot tall menace of feather and saucy tongue refusing to be healed by anyone but her mother, who lay, likely dying in a tent some distance away…it was here that Arya suddenly felt seven years old again. 

So small. Barely a foot taller than the raven himself. The same raven that had perched on her father’s casket until it had lowered at the base of the ancient tree and had sung for days on end, mourning the man who had made him as he was. The friend he had become. 

And now. Now he might sing again. Sing for her mother as they wrapped her body for the long journey back. Cry his funeral tune for days more. Clawing at her ears, piercing the bittersweet veil of the ended war. Reminding, for days and days and weeks and months that her mother was dead, as dead and gone as her father.

The feeling had her crying harder, the images of that casket long buried dragged up to dance with her new fears. Islanzadí, dying? How was it not impossible? How was there even such a chance? After so long at war, witnessing and experiencing and feeling it all in every shape and form and in every role of soldier, leader, wounded, captive, saboteur, assassin, bodyguard. The mourning mate and the warrior lover side by side with the man she loved the day one died and the day one triumphed. 

She knew people died. She knew elves were not invincible, had screamed that fact at the Lords of House with her scars laid bare and her rage boiling. How dare they think that elves, hidden as they were, were untouchable, invincible, when Glenwing had his arm taken, when Fäolin didn’t even have life anymore, after her heart just about stopped too many times to count, actually gave out more than once?

But…but Islanzadí…she wasn’t an elf. She was their Queen. Her mother. And after Da, Arya should have known, did know, that the quietly whispered promises to a tiny child at night that they would never, ever leave her were lies to make her and them feel better…. But how could Islanzadí die?

Burning anger followed close behind. Arya struggled to stop her chest from heaving, teeth set, ragged near squeals of air pushing forward and back against them as her body clawed for the chance to submit to the emotions. She scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of scuffed palms, dirt and avian blood smearing at her cheeks. 

Galbatorix may be dead, yes. The promise she made to Brom all those years ago finally fulfilled, yes. But damn it all to whatever emptiness awaited the lost souls of the blood soaked war now ended–

‘I still have work to do. Now is not the time for tears and a fucking breakdown!’

“Right–right now–” Arya hiccuped, trying desperately to get tears off her cheeks with the rough straps at her shoulder. Their presence was a dim and hollow reminder, one that should have been bringing fiery hope but now felt heavy. The dragon egg, tucked at the small of her back in the hastily emptied and secured medic’s kit Glen had repurposed for her on the fly as they ran, was free. Her mother would have been overjoyed. 

If she lived to see it. 

“Right now, I’m the–the best you–you’ve got.” 

Vision blurred, tears and dirt and blood clinging to her eyelashes, Arya dug into one of the side pouches on her leg and scrambled her fingers around until they met wax paper. She tore the packet out and ripped the paper away, the large muslin sheet flapping out like a flag. Swallowing a fresh wave of tears, the elf tied to opposing corners in a knot behind her neck and slipped her arm through the loop. 

“Get in.” Still rough with contained sobs, but firm and carrying at least a hint of her mother’s command, Arya opened the makeshift sling slightly. “Get in and I’ll take you to her. You can’t…you can’t balance right with your wing like that.” 

When Blagden did not move, wing still limp at his side, Arya reached out her fist. “She needs us.”

The white raven lifted his head, ruff rising. “Paths entwine, root and vine.” With a bit of a wobble, Blagden strutted forward and hobbled up onto the offered perch and allowed her to transfer him into the cloth’s embrace. “Our strength grows with your blood and mine.”

And that was how it came to this. Arya, sitting again outside the warded tent, eerie false silence as the world faded in and out around her. A bloodied white raven nestled in a sling against her chest, looking almost comical were it not for their surroundings. 

Blagden had allowed her to carefully wrap his wing with strips of the muslin. He kept his promise of a painful nip as well, squalling his indignation at being restrained when Arya stopped him from marching into the tent like some knee-high, feathered general checking on his second-in-command. The puncture to the back of her hand burned, but it was a welcome distraction in the chaos.

The raven eventually settled. He slept now, head tucked into the cloth, talons flexing in his fever dreams. Arya gently rubbed her fingertips at the crown of his head, the spot he ‘loved a good tickle,’ as Islanzadí always said despite the halfhearted grumbling Blagden always made at such a description. His feathers were already wrecked, and she didn’t want to risk stripping them of even more of their precious oils by stroking his back. 

Time passed, though Arya could not tell how long. The smoke from the raging fires and lingering dust of the king’s explosion nearly blotted out the sun, robbing her of any sense of time yet again. 

A battle frazzled elf carrying a large crate of fortified nectar bottles hurried by, hastily placing two of the six bottle carry cases down at Arya’s feet. In a flash she caught his arm as he made to pull away, stopping him dead. His features, splattered with mud and flecks of blood, were hazily familiar, but Arya couldn’t spare the energy to find his name in the moment.

“How long–” Arya fumbled, at a loss for a point that she could draw reference from that the man would also know. She went with the first thing that came to mind despite the excess it would add. “How long since the explosion?”

The elf yanked his arm free, already moving on with the barest glance at a scratched timepiece hung around his neck. “About four hours. If you can stand, grab a crate from block eight and start passing these out to healers and the wounded!” And then he was gone, his call to action trailing into the masses of people looking for loved ones or tending to the injured.

‘Four…four hours?’ 

Just four hours?

The tent flap suddenly slapped against the middle support, one of the occupants stumbling out into the grey light. Arya bolted to her feet and caught Glen around the shoulders as he nearly pitched into the dirt. 

“Easy! I got you, I got you.” The man feebly clung to his CO’s forearm, legs unsteady. He could feel himself being guided back, collapsing into one of the folding chairs hastily set up outside the hundreds upon hundreds of healing tents. “Sit.”

Glen raised his bleary gaze to Arya’s face. He had to tell her. “Arya–” 

“Shh.” There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice. “Here, drink this. It’s got the powder in it.” Something pressed first to his palm and then his lips as it was raised to his mouth. “Just…take a minute.”

Sweet, thick nectar slid down the medic’s parched throat. The gritty feeling of fortification powder did little to dissuade him once the liquid touched his tongue. He leaned back, dizzy, draining the bottle before tearing it away with a ragged gasp of air. “Arya–”

“No.” Arya’s voice lacked any bite. It cracked at the edge of the word. Through his steadying vision he could see the shine of tears clinging to her lashes, the pallor of her face beneath grime and streaks of blood. And yet…as always…the fire in her eyes. Different from any time he had seen it before, but still there. “Glen, I can’t…I can’t hear what you’re going to say right now. Just…take your time. Let me take care of you. Please?”

Numb. Exhausted. Blood, blood so akin to hers, caking the joints and creases and crevices of his prosthetic. Tightening and tangled in the fine hairs on his remaining forearm, flakes of it falling from his knuckles as he gripped his knees.

Glenwing nodded, and, feeling every one of his hundred and twenty six years, slumped back in the rickety chair’s embrace.

When he was next aware of his surroundings, cool water was pressed against his arm. Arya knelt before him, her face hidden by the bow of her head as she gently scrubbed away her mother’s blood from his skin. A clean bucket of soapy water was at her knee, several soiled rags in a rough hewn bowl beside it. His prosthetic wasn’t gleaming, but it was as clean as battlefield washing could get it without removing the plates. 

Bandages, soft gauze and clips keeping pads in place, had replaced his left pauldron above the prosthetic. Tape over his right ribs. The slight tug of three stitches, her knots feeling as perfect as he had taught her, over his right eyebrow. Wounds he hadn’t felt, dressed and tended.

Arya’s voice was a shivering murmur, the woman still trying so hard to contain the tangled emotions at war in her chest. “I hope you…don’t mind some company.” She squeezed out the washcloth and used a mug to pour fresh water onto the fabric to avoid spoiling the bucket. “He’s cranky.”

Still bleary, Glen tilted his head down further and found a haphazard pile of feathers nestled in his lap. Blagden let out a half croak of protest, his bandaged wing flopping as he tried to make clear his displeasure. There was blood soaked into the white flight edges, soot turning his startlingly bright form a dingy grey. 

“I healed his wing.” The tremor in Arya’s tone rose for a moment. She turned Glen’s hand over, began clearing the grime from his palm with shaking fingers. “He…he won’t let me do anything besides the bones.” Another fresh wash of clear water. “He wants her.”

Droplets of blood-tinged suds dripped from Glenwing’s fingertips. As his CO pulled away again, wringing out the rag a third time, he caught her wrist. 

Still armored. The moisture made the aramid weave glitter.

“Arya.” 

“Don’t.” 

Carefully shifting a grumbling Blagden to the crook of his metallic arm, Glen gently seized Arya’s elbow and stood. She followed his motion out of ingrained instinct, trying to steady him, grasping his forearm. 

The exhausted medic barely wavered, however. “Arya, look at me.” The younger elf refused, shoulders rigid, teeth set and face obscured by the wild, singed fringes of her hair. Glen gave her no choice, his heart bubbling as he cupped her jaw and turned her back. “Arya, listen.” 

His palm was wet. Not from the water, but from the tears cutting streaks through the soot and blood on Arya’s skin as she finally looked at him. 

“Glen, please.” He could feel her shaking. She was begging him, pleading. “Please, I can’t…I can’t take this right now.” 

Damn it. She really always expected the worst. It’s what made her so fierce, always made her come up swinging. But right now was not a time that required fight. Not from her, at least. 

“Arya.” Glenwing gently squeezed his war sister’s cheek. No, they weren’t war siblings anymore. She was his sister now, forever and always. Kid sister, who he would watch over and take care of just as much as she watched over and took care of him. And right now, he could ease her pain in a way she needed more desperately than any time before. 

“Arya, your mum is alive.” 

The green eyed soldier stared at him. Stopped breathing. 

“Islanzadí’s alive, Ari. She’s stabilizing.” 

A strangled noise, half released pain, half relief, and all bewilderment at the revelation, clawed its way from Arya’s throat. And then she tipped forward and fell against Glenwing’s shoulder, arms almost limp from the shock of it hanging around his body and let out a sob that he could feel deep in his chest. 

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Careful of the raven cradled in his arm, Glen followed his sister to the ground as her knees gave, holding her to his chest with a hand on her back. “It’s alright, Ari.”

He let her sob into his half-removed armor, cheek pressed to the side of her head as he stroked her unraveling braid and squeezed as tight as he dared. All the while he spoke, repeating himself over and over. Trying to prepare her for the inevitable.

“Arya, she’s alive, but she’s still hurt. We had to stabilize her fast. The only way we could was to take her arm at the shoulder.” 

The feeling of muscle, pulverized, shredded, slippery arteries threatening to retract into flesh, all giving way under scalpel blade and held in place by unforgiving clamps made his throat convulse. A piece of a person separated, so clearly removed, across the tent. The white, purplish hue to the hand, so clearly lacking any bloodflow. 

Deep, deep in his mind, Glenwing wondered if that was how his hand had looked to the healers that night now years in the past. 

And then he shook himself and focused on the present, the woman shivering against him, thanks tumbling from her lips only half intelligible. 

“She’s still weak. We’re putting her in the Dream State for a few days. The healers are going to keep working, they’re doing everything they can to preserve nerves and repair her collarbone and ribs, but it’s slow going, okay? She’s alive, and she’s stabilizing. That’s the important part right now.”

A few more long moments passed, the two of them clinging to each other, before Arya pulled away and rubbed her eyes dry with a scarred wrist. “Can…can I see her?”

Glenwing gave his sister a gentle smile and wiped away the last of her tears with his thumb. “Let them keep working, okay? She’s still in rough shape, and like I said, she’ll kill me if she learns I let you see her like that.”

A small nod and shaky breath in and out. “Okay.” Her smile was bright, eyes still shining, but there was that fire, that spark of hope and tenacity in the face of everything around them. “Thank you.” 

They both slumped into the folding chairs, Glen passing Blagden off to Arya. He didn’t comment when she half wrestled, half shoved him into a bloodied sling across her chest. Just grinned and touched the back of her hand. 

“Now. It’s my turn.” The exhausted medic lolled his head to the side, eyes flicking over his CO’s battered and burnt armor, catching on open spaces where pieces had cracked or fallen away during the pitched throne room battle. “Will you let me take care of you?”

Arya let out a soft laugh. “Don’t you dare go trying to heal anything. I’m alright. Just bruised and banged up a bit.”

Glenwing’s golden eyes were hard when Arya looked to him, pulled by his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t feel that?”

“What, you grabbing me? Of course I do.”

“Arya,” He chose his words carefully. “You look to have a lot of burns on your right side. Just from what I can see.”

Arya blinked. ‘Burns?’ She turned her gaze downward, following where Glen had indicated with his own eyes. 

Most of the armor pieces on her right arm were gone. A few measly shards of spidersilk aramid hung limply at the connection points, edges and fragments sharp as glass. The undersuit was…adhered. In some places. In others it had burned away entirely, the tissue beneath bright cherry pink in rippling flares while shiny tissue spidered out around them. 

Glen grabbed her hand, fingers interlacing with hers, when she went to twist the limb to further examine the damage. “Take it easy, don’t move too much.”

“Bit late for that.” Arya stared. What the hell had happened? She had barely fought at all, Eragon and Murtagh taking the brunt of the close quarters combat on themselves while Saphira and Thorn had rushed–

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Glenwing looked up from carefully wetting pieces of the adhered undersuit with the remaining water from the bucket. Arya had fallen silent for several minutes, eyes glassed and far off, when he began working on getting her free from the charred remains of her armor. He wasn’t exactly surprised at her muted pain reception, adrenaline still pumping even now in his own body, likely covering the pain of any of the injuries she had wrapped while he Tranced outside the tent. But Arya always hated burns, and always made that fact known whenever she had one. 

Arya stared down at her skin as the last strip of undersuit was gently worked off her right arm. Tongues of flame stood embedded in her flesh, licking up her forearm, thankfully missing her joint and skating up to her shoulder like liquid dragonfire had become one with her body. 

“Shruikan breathed fire on me.” She cocked her head. The patterns were honestly quite pretty the longer she looked at them, raw flesh aside. 

Glen reached to the back of his webbing, servos and mechanical joints whirring to manipulate his arm in ways a normal limb could not naturally bend. Burn ointment. Lidocaine ointment. Gauze. “Mm-hm.” He began smearing a mix of the medicines over the burns, quietly thanking whatever the hell may be out there, real or imagined, that the pain was yet to begin. These would not feel good when Arya finally registered the full extent of their spread. 

“I had to go through it.” Even through the numbness of shock and exhaustion, Arya couldn’t suppress a sigh at the cooling feeling creeping over her skin. “Wouldn’t have been able to kill him if Saphira and Thorn hadn’t helped me.”

“That was nice of them.” Loose wrapping. Give it a little bit of air, space for any swelling. Once they both had rested they would reassess. Crazy as she was, Glen had no doubt Arya was going to pester him to let her keep some of the burns as scars. And it was only right, after all, having earned them by killing–

“Wait, what?” 

Blagden’s ruffled head appeared above the edge of the sash. “Be kind, rewind! The thread of fate is confused this time!”

Both Arya and Glenwing stopped their motions and stared down at the beleaguered raven. 

And then pointedly ignored his quip.

“I think the thermal shock is what exploded the armor.” Arya reached up and massaged the right side of her neck. Tiny scratches made themselves known under her fingertips where splinters of the aramid had sliced microtears in her skin. “Explains why my neck itches like mad here.”

“No, wait, hold on!” Glen grabbed her hand and pulled it down. “You killed Shruikan?”

“Saphira and Thorn did all the work getting his head down. And they came up with the plan.” A ghost of a grin touched Arya’s lips at the mention of Murtagh’s partner. “Thorn’s got a very kind consciousness. He’s confused, but he’s very sweet.”

Glenwing stared. As surreptitiously as he could, he used a free finger to palpate her wrist, checking her blood pressure in the most rudimentary way possible. “Ari, slow down a second, okay? You killed Shruikan?”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” The mumble would have alarmed him further had he not seen the bright green fire in her eyes, no hint of any muddling beyond that of exhaustion. “But Eragon and Saphira told us what Elva felt. There could be no saving him. And he was going to kill Saphira and Thorn and everyone else if I didn’t take the opening, so…” She shivered, and Blagden burrowed his head deeper into the sling. “I…I gave him rest. We could give him that much, after what Galbatorix put him through.”

Arya took a steadying breath again and shot Glen a wan smile from beneath troubled brows. “I hated that damn spear.”

Glenwing squeezed her hand. “He’s not being used anymore. That was the best thing for him.”

“True. But it still feels…wrong. To kill a dragon.”

“I know.” 

The conversation lapsed, Glen focusing on the extent of Arya’s burns while the woman leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. The few minutes of Trancing here and there was doing wonders for the both of them, bringing the world back to clarity. 

As he tucked the final tail of the bandage and sealed it with a clip, Arya raised her head and blinked away waking dreams. 

“All good?” 

The medic grinned and rubbed his sister’s head roughly. “Good as it’ll get for now.” He ducked a halfhearted swat and tapped his forehead to hers. He had seen the flicker of her eyes towards the tent, the glimmer of ache. “Do you want to go find Eragon and Saphira? Or Brom? Waiting is going to be more difficult than doing.” His voice was soft. 

Arya stretched and winced as the movement sparked pain along the wrapped burns, quickly soothed by the numbing ointment encasing them. “No. No, they’re all needed elsewhere. Eragon’s working on the citadel wounded, and Saphira’s doing evac. Brom’s–” She paused, a whipcrack tendril of thought finding the old Rider among the thousands upon thousands in the camp. “He’s helping Jörmundur.” She looked past the tents arrayed before them, where the elven command center was nestled in the distance. “If you’re clearing me, then I think I need to find Däthedr. He’d have taken command.”

Glen raised an eyebrow. Of course she’d try to dive into work. In all honesty, he was itching to get back into some normalcy, as odd as their normal was. Taking stock and helping the wounded after a pitched battle always gave him a sense of strange calm, as if the differences made both on and off the field were evening out in alignment. 

Motion caught his eye, snapping his attention to the throng flowing back and forth in the makeshift alley. People were parting, moving to the sides as if a force of nature split their river. 

He tapped the uninjured back of Arya’s right hand, tried again when he touched the nerve-severed portion by accident, and pointed. “I think Däthedr’s already found you.”

The Queen’s aforementioned second was breezing up the muddied lane, the handful of the Lords of House that had not been left behind to tend to Du Weldenvarden fast on his heels. 

Both Glen and Arya pushed themselves up to standing as they neared. Däthedr dismissed their tired salutes with an equally tired wave of his hand, bandages already smeared with dust from the thickened air flashing at his forearm. “Enough of that. I think we can forgo our culture’s formalities at a time like this. It is good to see you both made it out of the citadel.” 

“It’s good to see the lot of you in one piece as well, sir.” Arya gave her mother’s advisor a half smile, one that wobbled at the edges when she straightened and gestured toward the tent at their backs. “If you’ve come about the Queen–”

“Finli has already informed me that Islanzadí lives.” Däthedr’s eyes softened, and, maybe with as much surprise to himself as Glen saw on the faces of the Lords of House, the elder elf stepped forward and gently hugged the woman before him. He pulled back after a moment and cleared his throat awkwardly, as if suddenly realizing that the lot of them were in public. “I wish I could say I am here solely to provide support, but time and power moves quickly. We are here to speak on official matters.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” Glen stepped forward to be shoulder to shoulder with his still somewhat bewildered CO. The hug seemed to have caught her off guard just as much as the others, completely unused to the calm and collected Däthedr of all people giving in to what equated to an emotional outburst. It didn’t help that Blagden, woken by the movement and determined to take part in official duties, had begun clambering out of the sling and up her cracked cuirass, using beak and claw to haul himself to a wavering perch on her left shoulder. “Queen Islanzadí is still being tended to, and she is to be put into the Dream State to heal for the next two days at least. With all due respect, I’m afraid you’re going to have to handle the politics on your own.”

Däthedr nodded, head dipping lower than usual. “Understood. We are not here to speak with Islanzadí, but to speak with Arya, and, by extension of your role, you, Glenwing.” He returned his attention to Arya, who seemed to have shaken off her shock, if not the raven clinging to her pauldron. “Nasuada, Eragon, Saphira, Brom and the other leaders are gathering at dusk. The choice of the Broddring ruler is to be made. Our own ruler must attend.”

Arya blinked, then pinched the bridge of her nose, elbow braced against the back of her scarred right wrist where the bandages did not reach. That headache that Blagden’s earlier snap had started was beginning to bloom between her eyes. “Right.” The word came as a barely contained sigh. Really? Now? “Regency. You need my okay to go ahead with electing the Keeper.”

“Keeper?” Glen’s hand at the small of her back was a brief touch, probably invisible to the gathering of elf lords and ladies in its speed. The message was clear, an offering of physical support if she needed it. The question he voiced, while genuine, a subtle way to allow her to catch her metaphorical breath.

It made her grin inwardly. Maybe he should go into politics. 

“Keeper of the Knotted Throne.” Her responding quick tap of her knuckles to his assured him she was fine. “It’s basically a regent, put in place when our ruler is incapacitated until the king or Queen is able to resume duties fully, until they die, or until they pass the throne on to someone else.” Arya dropped her hand and squared her shoulders, ignoring Blagden’s half startled ‘whoop’ at the movement as she fixed her gaze on Däthedr. “They need my permission to put a Keeper in place since I’m the Queen’s next of kin. The Right of Blood, remember? They’re trying to see if I’ll push a claim.”

“Ah.” Glenwing tilted his head slightly. He had only heard Arya invoke Right of Blood a handful of times, all within the last few years, and only within Eragon and Saphira’s band of protectors. Blödhgarm was a reasonable man, and his thinking frequently aligned with Arya’s when it came to commanding the spellcasters that were technically under Eragon and Saphira’s control. 

But cultural standards and hierarchy frequently tied his hands when it came to a few points of contention, and Arya had found her Right of Blood, given by her status as Islanzadí’s daughter and her military rank, allowed them to circumvent such blocks. When Arya spoke with the Right invoked, she spoke with the Queen’s authority, a temporary power but a very high one indeed.

Her use of it during the fateful meeting after Nasuada’s failed kidnapping had been what revealed her parentage to Nasuada and Orrin, and while a rather heated debate on the differences between nobles and primagenature monarchy for humans and elves had followed, the Right had been useful in the end. 

Again, Däthedr bowed his head. Arya’s lips tightened slightly at the lower than normal dip, recognizing it for what it was. Deference. “Yes. We need your permission to name a Keeper.” There was no wary light in his eyes when he met her gaze, just honest exhaustion and a will to find a raft of normalcy in the new storm of uncertainty. 

She could put this in his hands. Her Da had put his faith in him, and so did her Mum. He would not lead the Lords of House to a weak leader, and he would not allow them to manipulate his nomination, nor the Keeper’s judgment. 

Arya sighed again, and this time made no attempt to hide it. She was sore, and she was tired. The sooner she and Glen got to work, the sooner she could forget those facts. Forget that her mother was laying in the tent behind her, arm gone, fighting it out in the Dream State. 

“Alright. I put aside my claim through Right of Blood. You know her better than most, Däthedr.” She nodded firmly. “I trust you’ll find the right person to fill the role, one that the Queen will approve of.”

In the back of the gathered lords, a few shifted slightly. Whether they thought Arya would have pressed claim or were miffed she had so clearly appointed Däthedr to lead the search was unclear. 

“Thank you. However, I’m happy to report that the choice has already been made now that you have given your consent.” Däthedr gestured toward Islanzadí’s tent. “Queen Islanzadí thought it wise to set in place a…living will of sorts. There were…” He paused, grey eyes flicking to the preening Blagden almost too quickly to notice. “Some fears that Islanzadí could be gravely injured or killed on this day. The nomination for Keeper of the Throne was chosen well in advance, as well as Islanzadí’s nomination for her successor should she be killed.” He swept his outstretched hand back, indicating the gathered Lords. “The Lords of House agreed then, and still do now, with the nomination. All that is left is to present the title to them.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak, but Blagden beat her to it. The white raven lifted his head, ruff proudly raised, and uttered a sharp croak.

“Wyrda!”

Arya scowled at him from the corner of her eye, voice harsh.  “Cram it!” How a raven managed enough expression to look offended, Arya had no idea. He took the chance to nip her ear, growling softly. “Knock it off!” 

Once the feathered terror had taken a few shuffles away from the side of her head, Arya put her hands on her hips, left palm settling on the guard of her father’s blade. A flicker of thought at the sword’s name, amusingly kinned to Blagden’s call, flitted through her mind before it was gone again. 

“That makes this far easier. I’ll leave it to you and the Lords of House to alert the Keeper and prep them if they accept.” She shrugged. Entertaining the idea that the nominee, hand picked by her mother, would refuse the position was a nauseating prospect, but if chaos was what awaited them, then they may as well meet it head on. “If they refuse the position, just let me know when you come up with another one and I’ll do this song and dance again.” 

Arya tilted her head towards Glenwing. “We’re going to head for block eight. Help where we can.”

“Very well.” Däthedr suddenly planted his staff in the mud and squared his shoulders. 

“Arya Shadeslayer of House Tialdarí, of House Varden. You have been chosen by Islanzadí Dröttning, Queen of the elven nation, to assume the mantle of Keeper of the Knotted Throne, and to rule as Queen Regent until Queen Islanzadí is fit to resume her duties or pass them on.” 

Däthedr’s voice rang clear in the crowded space, unmistakable power bonded to the truth of the Ancient Language. “The Lords of House are in agreement and stand united with Queen Islanzadí’s choice, made in sane mind and with due diligence done as required by our laws. This nomination is unanimous.” 

Däthedr locked his grey gaze to Arya’s burning green.

“Do you accept this title, position, and the responsibilities it entails?”

It felt as though the entire camp had gone silent. 

People in the lane stopped and stared, frozen by the authority lent by Däthedr’s voice. Though many had not understood the words, the overall feeling was clear. Something was about to change, a ripple through the fabric of the world ready to race out to enact it.

This was history.  

…Odd how making history still felt fresh during such an already historic day.

And as the last of the sounds of Däthedr’s words rang, even time held its breath.

Arya stared back into Däthedr’s eyes.

And managed only a single croaked, dumbfounded word:

“Huh?”

[murtagh-thorn]

Safe & Warm

Pairing: Murtagh x Rider!Reader

Summary: Murtagh keeps the reader safe and warm on a stormy day.

A/N: D/N: dragon's name. I tried to keep the reader as nondescript and gender neutral as possible. Thank you for the read and comments/notes/reblogs are greatly appreciated. If you want to make a fic request or stay updated on my Inheritance Cycle fanfic writing, my inbox is always open. I also love talking about the Inheritance Cycle if you just wanna come say hey. You can also read this fic on AO3.

You hadn’t meant to stay out for as long as you did. You’d seen the rolling grey clouds in the distance, casting an eerie shadow over the training grounds that were part of Eragon’s Riders Academy. In spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that you’d been an accomplished Rider for many years now, coming across a maneuver you just couldn’t pin bothered you to the point of obsession. You had been one of Eragon’s first students and were considered a senior Rider by the younglings at the Academy, as was your dragon, D/N. Many of the Riders and their dragons had retreated indoors. Eragon had called for you to do the same hours ago, but you just wanted to try it a couple more times. You almost had it. And since your dragon was just as determined as you and hadn’t been bothered by the prospect of getting a little wet, you had persevered.

You were now proud to say you had set out to attempt your goal. You hadn’t mastered the maneuver by any means, but you at least weren’t failing epically. But you were also more than a little wet. Drenched was more like it. As you’d ridden your dragon back into their cavern that connected to your quarters, D/N had given their cavern a thorough rinsing.

You slid off your dragon’s back with a sigh, ready to put on some warm, dry clothes—

 Shit!

What’s wrong? D/N asked.

 I was supposed to meet Murtagh in the library! Fly me over after I change and get a cloak?

D/N snorted. You’re on your own two-legged. I’ve gotten wet enough for the day. You dry off far more easily than I will.

 Pleeeaaaase?

No. D/N settled down into the small, cushioned indent on the floor that served as their bed. They laid their head down and closed their eyes in a clear statement that they wouldn’t be moving anytime soon.

You sighed and quickly changed, wrapping a thick cloak around you and checking your reflection in the mirror. Although you had known Murtagh for a few years before becoming romantically involved with him, you still wanted to look your best. Not that he hadn’t seen you in embarrassing situations before—but you didn’t want to place yourself in one if you didn’t absolutely have to be. Such as showing up to meet him looking like a wet rag. Satisfied, you pulled your hood over your hair and made your way towards the door leading outside.

Being one of Eragon’s older students—most arrived young, around ten or twelve years of age, while you were in your early twenties with your dragon reaching their fifth year—you had traveled with him on several occasions to the court of High Queen Nasuada. There, the two of you and your dragons had run into Murtagh and Thorn four years ago. Eragon had told stories of his brother, who was enslaved to Galbatorix along with his dragon. Although he didn’t sugarcoat Murtagh’s deeds, he made sure all his students knew how Murtagh and Thorn had helped them in the end and had never worked for the king willingly. While you, D/N, Eragon and Saphira had been in Ilirea, you’d become close with the outcast Rider and dragon as they did numerous quiet deeds to remedy their reputation. They weren’t a favorite of the people by any means and of course there were those who still hated the pair; but they were in much better standing than they had been.

Eventually, Eragon and Saphira had convinced them to return to the academy with you to help train other Riders and dragons. After much convincing—particularly on your part—they’d accepted. The two of you and your dragons had become fast friends and now, here you were.

You were pulled back to the present as you braved the weather outside. Not only was it still raining, but the wind blew the raindrops underneath your cloak to soak your clothes. Holding your cloak closed with your hands only gave the wind room to shove aside your hood and soak your hair. You might as well have stayed in your wet clothes from earlier. There’d certainly been no point to toweling your hair.

Finally you made it to the library. A few other Riders, elves and some visiting dwarves meandered about. Otherwise, the place was mostly empty. You did your best to dry your soaked shoes on the mat and hung your dripping cloak on one of the wall hooks to dry. However, your hair, shirt and pants were still soaked through. Maybe if D/N hadn’t been so stubborn and flown you over, you wouldn’t have been in the elements for so long.

You sighed and began weaving through the bookshelves, tables and chairs to your and Murtagh’s favorite spot in the library. Several small cubby holes had been built in the walls with circular windows gazing outside onto the training grounds. You and the Red Rider had quickly grown a love of the large one in the leftmost corner of the library. More than big enough for two, the two of you loved to cuddle while reading your favorite books. Murtagh had told you earlier he’d found a new one he thought you’d be interested in. Although you weren’t sure how much he would want to cuddle given your sodden state.

You rounded the corner and caught sight of him. His boots were in a pile on the floor and he lounged inside the spacious circle, one elbow resting on a knee and looking pensively out the window at the falling sheets of rain. He struck a handsome profile in the lamplight and you merely gazed admiringly, nearly melting at the sight. The book he’d mentioned before sat invitingly on the side table. He was dressed in a maroon tunic (one of your favorites), brown trousers and gently bounced his socked feet. His soft, dark hair was pushed back in the front and you could just see the slope of his nose in front of the picturesque scenery outside the window. He painted such a peaceful picture. So of course, you had to ruin the moment with a sneeze.

Murtagh’s eyes snapped over to you and his gentle smile quickly disappeared. His eyes went round at your clothes and hair. “I see you didn’t take Eragon’s advice and come inside before the storm hit.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Typical.”

You shivered as the chilly air inside the library seeped through your bones. You rubbed your arms and smiled proudly. “D/N and I can do the maneuver now though.”

He laughed. “Well, at least the cold you’ll probably catch will be worth it.” He stood and gestured to the cubby.

You climbed in, surprised when he didn’t join you. “Where are you going?”

He ran a gentle finger over your cheek and you melted into his hand. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just wait here.” He threw one last smile at you before disappearing through the bookshelves.

You shuddered and watched the rain fall and trees sway outside the window. It was even cooler by the pane of glass. You missed the warmth Murtagh’s body usually provided and hoped he’d be back soon.

The gentle pat-pat of the rain blowing against the window had nearly lulled you to sleep when you heard a voice calling your name and a hand gently shaking your shoulder. You turned to see Murtagh carrying a tray containing two steaming mugs. A thick blanket was draped over his shoulder.

“What is that?” you asked, nodding towards the mugs.

“[Tea/coffee/cocoa],” he replied. He set the tray on the table and wiggled into the cubby beside you.

You quickly grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to your chin. Murtagh chuckled as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders and kissed your still damp hair. He twisted to hand you your drink, grab his own and retrieve the book. The drink flooded you with warmth instantly and you snuggled closer to Murtagh’s chest as he opened the book to the first page.

[lovelyfandomthings]

5 + a, bring on the angst!

“nobody cried, nobody even noticed” Inheritance Cycle short fic 

**Tw** attempted s*ic*de, drowning

Murtagh sat on the floor the cold of the cobblestone slowly seeping into his body, he didn’t care, he barely even felt it. His mind felt numb, a white emptiness surrounded by swirling black and blue clouds of pain and sorrow. Murtagh didn’t know how long he sat there staring at the wall, unseeing, unmoving as water from his clothes and hair pooled around him on the floor.  It could’ve been hours, it could’ve been days. There was a knock at the door. He stirred slightly, but didn’t respond. He wanted them to go away, everyone to go away, it all to go away. The door opened the old hinges protesting loudly. Murtagh snapped his head around, glaring, ready to yell at the unfortunate servant who had entered his rooms without permission. His eyes found a familiar figure. Tornac. He stood in the door, his broad shoulders almost concealing the view into the hall. There was a silence,

“Murtagh, what have you done?”

His voice was gruff yet soft, Murtagh looked up at him, telling himself to answer, willing his lips to open and form words, anything, yet his traitorous body would not obey. Tornac stepped further into the room

“‘C'mere boy” he picked Murtagh off the floor and set him on his feet as though he weighed nothing more than a small child. Murtagh vaguely realized he was shaking violently, goosebumps standing out on his arms. Leading him to a chair Tornac wrapped him in blankets then began to start a fire in the grate. Pilling the kindling into a small pyramid in the center. It was several long moments before Murtagh spoke. 

“You came”

Tornac turned to him, backlit by the small flames that had just sprung to life

“ ‘course I came, you didn’t come to train, i thought maybe he king had sent for you again but-”

“He did”

There was long silence. Tornac threw a log on the fire sending up a shower of sparks into the air and causing warmth to begin spreading through the room. Steam began rising off Murtagh’s clothing as the room became warmer, and still neither of them spoke. Murtagh was afraid Tornac would ask why he was soaking wet but he didn’t. He just sat by the fire occasionally poking it with a long iron stick. Waiting.

“He, Galbatorix, called for me and he asked me-” Murtagh took a shaky breath “he asked me to go to the village Cantos he said, he said I was to kill them all”

“Who?”

“The people there, all the people there”

“Ah”

“I- I won’t do it, I won’t kill the innocent, children, farmers, they don’t deserve death” 

“I know”

There was a beat then Murtagh continued

“I left his throne room and I went to the north tower”

Murtagh closed his eyes, reliving it in his mind, the disbelief, the fear and the strange certainty of what he would do. 

“I went to the top, the observatory” 

In his mind Murtagh saw again the stairwell of the tower, people, servants mostly walking up and down the spiral stairs. They had spoken to him, greetings he supposed but it had sounded muffled insignificant. He had walked with calm conviction, to the top of the tower than to the edge. His whispered admission that he would not allow himself to be used by the empire. 

“I jumped”

Tornac inhaled sharply, 

“I jumped and landed in the moat, I thought it would kill me”

The shock of the freezing water, his desperation for air as he clawed his way to the surface gasping and spluttering he had dragged himself to the bank. He lay there, covered in mud his mind slowly going from burning fear and shock to a numb fog. There was no noise from the castle, no search, no screaming

“Nobody cried, nobody even noticed”

This final statement seemed to ring through every fiber of his body. The truth of the statement. Suddenly the barriers in his mind shattered like fragile glass. A flood of anguish crashed through him, the realization of how truly alone he was seeming to suffocate him like a tangible thing, sucking the air from his lungs and closing his throat. He felt strong arms wrap around him, 

“It’s okay boy, it’s alright”

Murtagh gasped for air, every breath feeling impossible, a struggle for his life. He couldn’t ever remember being held like this. It was warm and caring, an expression of familial affection he found alien and strange yet deeply comforting. He felt his cheeks become hot and realized he was crying, salty tears streaming down his face making Tornacs heavy wool coat damp. Finally Tornac released him. 

“You are not alone in this world Murtagh, and although it may not seem as such, there is a way”

Murtagh looked at him, his face blurred

“You must leave here”

Murtagh wiped his eyes and face roughly with his sleeve

“What do you mean?”

“You can go to the estate of Fitllegrad, he hasn’t sided with the king in the past, he will shelter you for a time”

“When?”

“Tonight, gather your things, we’re leaving in a half hour”

[saphira-approves]

What do you feel about being called a doormat Saphira? In your post about autistic Eragon i read one of the comments and looked at their blog and they went on their really random ramble that ended with a fairly long section about Saphira being a doormat and Eragon being a dick to her and everyone else yeah I blocked that person

I pity the fool who could call Saphira a doormat, to her face or otherwise.

The only reason the story moved forward at all is because Baby Saphira, IN HER EGG, took a risk and decided to hatch for Eragon even though it could have been a trap laid by Galbatorix. She decided “hey, this kid’s not too bad, and I’ve waited a couple weeks and haven’t felt anything I don’t trust,” and she chose Eragon. And from that moment, she decided to stick with him, no matter what.

Later, when Eragon’s feeling like crap or throwing tantrums or being unreasonable, Saphira doesn’t take it lying down. She takes it responsibly. She basically says, “I’m sorry you feel this way, and that you feel the need to lash out at those around you, but I know you feel horrible, and that if I left you alone, you might hurt yourself.” She takes the Responsible Parent route, to not blow up and make the situation worse; and boy, do I envy Eragon that.

(Not to say that Saphira’s job is to parent Eragon, but that more parents should learn to control their reactions when dealing with “problems” that could be better solved calmly, just as most people should learn.)

Saphira is not a doormat. She is a creature of action, not inaction. She knew what Eragon was really feeling better than he did sometimes, and knew that trying to steer him would make matters worse, so she listened and gave him quiet support, and offered wisdom and advice that nudged him in the right direction.

She simply did it calmly, and thus effectively. But a doormat? Never.

[ofheroismandsacrificearchiv-blog]

the torment of wanting more || a durzelle drabble

:: based from a roleplay being written with @shiftingmuse ::

word count: ~ 2200

Packed snow crunched beneath her boots. Wispy flecks of snow swirled by with the wind. A yellow ring of haze edged the moon, and as Belle dipped to sit upon a crumbled rampart, her backside burned on the frigid stone. Summer nights were cold on the mountaintop and nigh unrecognizable.

It was contradictory to sit outside alone when he was actually there, in the fortress. There, probably in his study, pouring over tomes of ancient scrawling script and maybe even preparing her next lesson. Durza was there -- not away, bedding the concubine Galbatorix delighted in occupying him with. Pain squeezed in her chest at the thought, paired with that horrid swell of dullness in her stomach. She wished she didn’t have to think of it. She wished she didn’t have to torture herself with the thoughts of what he was doing when he was away, when he wasn’t at Belle’s side, but she couldn’t not. 

Her cheeks burned, due in part to the biting cold but also for the blood rushing to her face with her angered pulse. She hadn’t been able to meet his eyes for days, stretched over weeks of dreadful lessons and stifling moments together in the study. Why couldn’t she just swallow the pit forming in her throat and move on? Knowing of his meetings with the king’s girl hadn’t bothered her quite so much in the past. It had disturbed her a little, understanding the gist of what happened between man and woman, and having some theoretical idea of a whore’s reality. It had made her uncomfortable knowing that as she read and scribbled notes on incantations and their properties, Durza coupled with her. 

She hadn’t desired him, then. She hadn’t felt the fondness for him she did now, nor the warmth and the need that glowed within her breast. But much time had passed, and much had transpired between Shade and prisonerpupil.

It hurt to see him go. And Belle knew when he was answering her call and not the king’s. When it was Galbatorix who expected him, it was a resigned look of duty that settled upon his pale face. When it was she who awaited him, the stormy look of dread and resentment flashed across his features like lightning before it replaced itself with practiced indifference. The day before last she’d seen that thundercloud pass over his red eyes, darkening them; a guard had arrived at the entrance to the study with a message, and Belle didn’t need to tap into any telepathic skills to understand. 

But he was here, now. He was here, and she could be by his side -- studying with him, parrying back and forth with their gentle banter, talking. Instead her jealousy ruled her. 

‘Where are you?’ his voice suddenly demanded through the storm clouds roiling in her head. She detected frustration and impatience, with a hint of worry. Belle exhaled heavily, looked up at the moon. Her heartbeat had picked up at his call. ‘Belle!’

‘Outside,’ she replied reluctantly. And following that reluctance, a lovely little surge of nerves. Her weary eyes kept fixed to the ringed moon, her knuckles pointed as her hands curled around the edge of her perch. She could only wait for him, and it wasn’t long before she felt that pinch of electricity in the air and inky black smoke spasmed beside her, manifesting into none other than the Shade she so pined after. She didn’t look at him. She felt him there. She felt the pull of their bond, alerting her to his proximity. She heard the soft flap of his cloak in the breath of wind that blew. 

She also felt the uncomfortable stretch of silence between them.

It hung for a couple of minutes in which Belle wished she could disappear as easily as he could.

“You should be inside. You need your rest,” he spoke at long last, his voice breaking the quiet with a faint echo, reverberating from the fortress walls and the snow. When she didn’t respond so much as to look at him, he continued: “It is too cold for you out here.” 

Belle was well aware of the low temperature, the puffs of fog from her nose saw to that. So it surprised her when her entire body shivered at his statement, as though becoming attuned to the cold anew. She finally broke her stare at the moon, eyes falling away as she bundled herself in her cloak. 

“I couldn’t stay in there. I needed more light, and air.” It was a lame response, but she wasn’t going to give him the truth.

“You are as capable as I of remedying that,” he said with a chuckle, stepping to bar her view of the snowy earth. So she cast her gaze to the side, swinging her head leftward to look at the fractured stone beneath her. 

It shamed her to behave so childishly, but the jealous beast in her blood would allow for nothing else. “You’re right. Silly of me.” She stood and edged past him miraculously without brushing him, moving with half-hearted steps towards the shaft of golden light spilling across the snow ahead. 

“Tell me what troubles you.” 

His words slowed her, and she stopped, turned halfway, looked out into the snowy emptiness. “It’s nothing.” Lie. “I feel...restless when I’m inside. I need to get out. See something other than mortar.” A smidgen of a lie. 

The whisper of cloth accompanied the crunching of snow as the Shade moved towards her, and she sighed, wishing he would stay where he was and just let her be. Let her return alone, to retire to her chambers and sort this all out in whatever peace she could muster. “You’re a terrible liar, dearest. You should not try to hide from me.” He came up beside her, and his cold fingers grasped her chin with that gentle firmness he only used with her, raising her face so that she had to look at him. When she looked into his strange maroon eyes she saw slight annoyance; she knew it to be the sentiment he harbored when she was being difficult. She also saw reserved concern.

For a moment seeing his care for her quieted her inner turmoil. She wanted to let it go, lean closer to him, maybe return with a playful quip that would earn her a smirk. Maybe sneak a touch to his arm or his shoulder. But any joy she stole for herself would be short-lived; he would be summoned to Urû’baen at any moment to tend to Galbatorix’s concubine. 

She couldn’t return to being carefree when that image hung in the forefront of her mind.

“I told you, it’s nothing,” Belle insisted, her voice taking on a frustrated edge, as she pulled away from his grasp and moved away with more purpose in her steps. Just get away from him, it was what she needed. 

But he wouldn’t allow that. “Do not walk away from me!” The command blared across the snowy ground, stark and insistent. A heartbeat later he appeared before her, and when her eyes found him again his pale flesh was illuminated under the light of the moon and hot embers flashed in his eyes. ‘Never forget that I own you. Never forget that you belong to me.’ His arms splayed out at his sides with a feral, feline prowess and Belle knew this to be a defensive stance. He seemed to remember that she wasn’t someone he ever should need to fight, because he wiggled the stiffness from his fingers and dropped his arms to his sides, and stepped closer. But there was still a rigidity in him that told of his wariness. “Belle, you know there is nothing you cannot tell me. Speak!” He moved closer, and a flash of frenzied desperation showed in his eyes before he concealed it. “When I have told you so much, why can you not tell me this?”

“Because I can’t!” She shifted on her feet, moving away from him, feeling cornered despite the open space around them. Electricity snapped in the air, and in the carved rune in her wrist, the alerting of their bond that he felt an extreme sense, and Belle gulped. “I can’t!” She shook her head, then looked away, at anything but him. “I can’t tell you that I don’t want you to see her again!” A hurried step backward, a rough rustle of fabric as she pulled her cloak around herself. “I can’t tell you that I know where you go when you’re called, and it p--” Her voice cracked and she swallowed, dipped her chin to her collarbone, then looked back up but squeezed her eyes shut. “...Pains me. Every time you go to her, and you don’t come back...” She felt that tell-tale constriction in her throat, and that warmth building behind it. She didn’t actually expect to become so emotional. 

Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes to see Durza staring back at her in quiet surprise -- head tilted, lips in a thin line, the tips of his eyebrows touching and red eyes fixed on her like glass as he seemed to calculate what was being revealed to him. “What is it you want, Belle?” It was an innocent question; surprisingly innocent coming from him. But so too was it an honest question. She could see that he wanted to fully understand, and wanted to find some resolution. Though it seemed, from the softening of the edges in his body, that he understood at least a little. 

Belle gasped a breath, releasing a large puff of fog into the cold air. She blinked, a few times, her eyes drifted from his face down his front, aimlessly, before moving back to his face. Her mouth opened and for a long moment her lips hung parted while she tried to decide how to articulate herself. But she didn’t know how. “I want you,” she said at last, pressing her lips together as soon as it was said. She breathed shakily, trying to steady herself in spite of her unexpected emotional riptide. 

The Shade stared at her a few moments longer until his gaze fell away, landing on her shoulder. She understood why when he reached a hand outward, his long, thin fingers grasping a hank of hair there. He was always so taken with her hair. He threaded his nails and fingertips through it for a moment before speaking. “Then I will not see her again,” he said deeply, an air of finality in the words. 

“You must. You must obey the king. You must obey his will, and hers,” she said, shaking her head and feeling like the world wanted to see her crumble. Was it his willingness to please her that made her feel so much weaker? 

Her words rang true to both of them, because he said nothing to that. He merely continued to soothe himself with her soft, loosely-curled strands. 

“Let us go away. We can leave this place.” She reached out and took one of his hands, holding it in both of hers. Her eyes sought out his, wide and hopeful, even if she knew it was a long shot that he would agree. “We can leave Gil’ead and Alegaësia! We can go to a land where no one can find us, and no one will care. It will be just us,” she implored him, her heart beating with a new, hopeful pace. 

She knew in the slowness of his response that it was a no. The subtle upward curve of his mouth, the way his eyes flit up to hers and held them. “One day we will, but there is still much that we must do. We cannot leave until our task is complete.” He almost sounded remorseful. It was of course something she imagined. And as she dropped her chin to hide her disappointment, he moved ever closer, his hand leaving her hair to cup her neck, his thumb extending to angle her chin up. His eyes were on her mouth, another part of her he often watched with rapt interest. And then the tip of his nose was brushing hers, and his breath was ghosting over her lips. Her own lips parted in anticipation. His thumb moved, and he stroked her jaw where he held her. The two of them held each other’s gazes, and Belle stopped resisting the need to reach out to him, bringing her arms to wrap around his shoulders. Some of the rigidity fell out of his frame as she did. “She is nothing, Belle. She will never be what you are.” The words were soft, a breathed whisper. His nose touched her cheek, and trailed downward as he dropped his head a little. “She is a command that I must obey. You are a treasure that I have searched for, for a very long time, that I will never be worthy of.”

Belle felt breathless with his admission, and turned her face in, nuzzling his cheek with her nose, and that was what they did for several heartbeats -- nuzzling one another, sharing breaths and warmth. And then the Shade woke to reality, feeling her shiver in his arms. “But I will try,” he breathed against her chilled cheek, and pulled her flush against him, before inky black smoke furled about them, and the magic in the air seemed to press in on them from all sides, before transporting them both back inside the fortress.