fic: the only angel // inheritance // elva, galbatorix
title: the only angel
fandom: inheritance
rating: pg
words: 830.
pairing/characters: elva, galbatorix [murtagh]
warnings: brisingr spoilers, galbatorix/morzan
notes: idk, i am iffy on this one; i will probably at some point want to rewrite it but right now i just wanted to get the words out.
disclaimer: christopher, if you are reading this, I DO NOT PROCLAIM OWNERSHIP. I DO NOT WANT YOUR BOOKS. i just like playing in this universe. :) title from hospital bed crawl by the hush sound.
summary: elva grows up, and decides on one last good deed. [linked to kindred, kind of.]
she wants to change her name. it doesn't seem right to keep that name-- the old one, the name of that girl who used to help people. she doesn't, not anymore; doesn't want to, even. she's no kind of hero, even if maybe she once was. she wants to change her name, she thinks, but she can't think of another, so she figures the right one will come, in time.
while she's waiting, she thinks, why not, one last good deed, and she thinks of dark-eyed, sad murtagh--shadeslayer's brother, like the reflected light from a star. his dragon (bloodredbrokenheartthorn) pulls on her sense, screaming; she does not need to help him, but somehow she wants to.
the walk takes a while; her feet get bruised and bloody, her hair grows too fast, long and unruly and she has to keep out of sight, ducking into bushes so much her arms get scored with long red lines; she's neither varden nor empire, not good or bad but something in the uncomfortable middle-groud, which is the place most of the arrows go. but she's no stranger to pain and the star on her brow burns brightly, and somewhere between feinster and uru'baen she finds that the magic inside her can be shaped, can be held, bright and glowing in her hands.
so she grows, throws off this useless body that is the six-year-old child, throws it away without a second thought and becomes a woman, unremarkable and unmemorable. now no one will remember her. (but she is beautiful; she makes herself beautiful. she knows how this world works.)
she wakes up the morning of the last day (she has lost count, thrown her calendar-tally away from the front of her mind but she knows this day will be the last) and the black spires are within sight; she gets a dress from a nice shop just inside city gates, smiles sweetly and reminds the dressmaker of the daughter who married the wrong man, just before; she lets the magic flood through the cloth until it shines just a little, until it fits like a second skin, clinging to the curves she did not earn.
she walks into the castle with a quick, sly smile and a murmur about the guard's wife (he feels guilty; she doesn't, and it's kind of nice). she gets into the throne room with veiled purple eyes, half-lowered and eyelashes-fluttering, with an insinuation of last year, you stole his wife, (it's all sex, you see, sex and promises, whole and broken; she wishes they were not so human but they are) and she walks like she knows what she's doing, like she's lived a hundred lives.
her hair falls, long and black, over her shoulder as she says, "it's fucking freezing in here," and she smiles at the king (who is screaming in her head, so much pain but she doesn't have to care).
he says, "who are you," but his blue eyes know her, know the pain that echoes back and forth between them.
she says, slow, calm, deliberate, "i want him back."
the words are almost unnecessary, now; this duel will be fought in eyes, in minds, in hearts; her words are just the visible extension of her blade. he says, "i know."
she says, "give him to me."
he says, "i can't," and he half-shrugs, almost delicate; she sorts through the pain, searching for the sorest hurt and she finds jarnunvosk, that first dragon, silver-grey with eyes like the wind and i am sorry, i could not save you and she finds shruikan, who was never meant to be black but who cried out all the silver in his veins and i did not mean to hurt you but i have and there is nothing left for me to do, no way i can change it and she finds the forsworn, lined in their mismatched row, beauty and ugliness combining like death in their tiny ever-fragile forms.
she says, "would you let morzan's son follow in his father's footsteps?" and watches the words fall, watches galbatorix's eyes harden.
"don't," he says, and, "at least murtagh had a father."
she does not let it hurt. nothing has to hurt, not anymore. "just let him go," she says, "please." she is not sure if honesty has a part to play in this game; she would like it to.
"i can't," he says, again. there is honesty in him, too; she is an echo of him, he, a distorted ripple of her. it is strange, the way he hurts; it is the way she hurt, once upon a time. "join me."
"what," she says, her turn to belie the truth of things with her words. "are you serious."
he tilts his head. "do you think i'd lie?"
"i came for murtagh," she says, "one last oath."
"so make new ones," he says, voice honey-sweet. "what do you think?"
she says, softly, "i want to change my name."
fandom: inheritance
rating: pg
words: 830.
pairing/characters: elva, galbatorix [murtagh]
warnings: brisingr spoilers, galbatorix/morzan
notes: idk, i am iffy on this one; i will probably at some point want to rewrite it but right now i just wanted to get the words out.
disclaimer: christopher, if you are reading this, I DO NOT PROCLAIM OWNERSHIP. I DO NOT WANT YOUR BOOKS. i just like playing in this universe. :) title from hospital bed crawl by the hush sound.
summary: elva grows up, and decides on one last good deed. [linked to kindred, kind of.]
she wants to change her name. it doesn't seem right to keep that name-- the old one, the name of that girl who used to help people. she doesn't, not anymore; doesn't want to, even. she's no kind of hero, even if maybe she once was. she wants to change her name, she thinks, but she can't think of another, so she figures the right one will come, in time.
while she's waiting, she thinks, why not, one last good deed, and she thinks of dark-eyed, sad murtagh--shadeslayer's brother, like the reflected light from a star. his dragon (bloodredbrokenheartthorn) pulls on her sense, screaming; she does not need to help him, but somehow she wants to.
the walk takes a while; her feet get bruised and bloody, her hair grows too fast, long and unruly and she has to keep out of sight, ducking into bushes so much her arms get scored with long red lines; she's neither varden nor empire, not good or bad but something in the uncomfortable middle-groud, which is the place most of the arrows go. but she's no stranger to pain and the star on her brow burns brightly, and somewhere between feinster and uru'baen she finds that the magic inside her can be shaped, can be held, bright and glowing in her hands.
so she grows, throws off this useless body that is the six-year-old child, throws it away without a second thought and becomes a woman, unremarkable and unmemorable. now no one will remember her. (but she is beautiful; she makes herself beautiful. she knows how this world works.)
she wakes up the morning of the last day (she has lost count, thrown her calendar-tally away from the front of her mind but she knows this day will be the last) and the black spires are within sight; she gets a dress from a nice shop just inside city gates, smiles sweetly and reminds the dressmaker of the daughter who married the wrong man, just before; she lets the magic flood through the cloth until it shines just a little, until it fits like a second skin, clinging to the curves she did not earn.
she walks into the castle with a quick, sly smile and a murmur about the guard's wife (he feels guilty; she doesn't, and it's kind of nice). she gets into the throne room with veiled purple eyes, half-lowered and eyelashes-fluttering, with an insinuation of last year, you stole his wife, (it's all sex, you see, sex and promises, whole and broken; she wishes they were not so human but they are) and she walks like she knows what she's doing, like she's lived a hundred lives.
her hair falls, long and black, over her shoulder as she says, "it's fucking freezing in here," and she smiles at the king (who is screaming in her head, so much pain but she doesn't have to care).
he says, "who are you," but his blue eyes know her, know the pain that echoes back and forth between them.
she says, slow, calm, deliberate, "i want him back."
the words are almost unnecessary, now; this duel will be fought in eyes, in minds, in hearts; her words are just the visible extension of her blade. he says, "i know."
she says, "give him to me."
he says, "i can't," and he half-shrugs, almost delicate; she sorts through the pain, searching for the sorest hurt and she finds jarnunvosk, that first dragon, silver-grey with eyes like the wind and i am sorry, i could not save you and she finds shruikan, who was never meant to be black but who cried out all the silver in his veins and i did not mean to hurt you but i have and there is nothing left for me to do, no way i can change it and she finds the forsworn, lined in their mismatched row, beauty and ugliness combining like death in their tiny ever-fragile forms.
she says, "would you let morzan's son follow in his father's footsteps?" and watches the words fall, watches galbatorix's eyes harden.
"don't," he says, and, "at least murtagh had a father."
she does not let it hurt. nothing has to hurt, not anymore. "just let him go," she says, "please." she is not sure if honesty has a part to play in this game; she would like it to.
"i can't," he says, again. there is honesty in him, too; she is an echo of him, he, a distorted ripple of her. it is strange, the way he hurts; it is the way she hurt, once upon a time. "join me."
"what," she says, her turn to belie the truth of things with her words. "are you serious."
he tilts his head. "do you think i'd lie?"
"i came for murtagh," she says, "one last oath."
"so make new ones," he says, voice honey-sweet. "what do you think?"
she says, softly, "i want to change my name."