fic: i was always set to self-destruct // inheritance // roran&nasuada // pg
i don't really even know what this is, but it takes place in heliocentrism-verse. because i missed writing my one true fandom. even if these are not my favourite characters.
this is set post-cycle, in some nebulous future where peace has been managed and everything turned out okay, except really, really not.
sometimes she misses murtagh. she doesn't mean to; she wasn't sorry when she killed him and she isn't sorry now, but he never deserved any of it. though none of them deserved what they wrought; she thinks murtagh had it worst of any of them, because at least (at the very very least) they won.
sometimes she sits in bed and the ghosts of the past flicker before her eyes, murtagh's is the strongest, is the brightest, hand on her shoulder murmuring i wish and i loved you. he never said either, not to her; she is so so sad for him. his story was never told; it can't be, not if they want this world to live on. it doesn't stop her wishing, sometimes, that she'd held him as he died.
roran is not the man that he was. gone is the ready smile; gone is the laugh and the charm and the wry humour he'd sometimes find, late at night, as they pored over maps and played with toy soldiers and felt like gods and frauds. gone is the spark in his eyes; love.
she knocks on the door, says his name. "roran." her voice sounds strange to her own ears, warped and awkward. it's late; neither of them should be awake; briefly she wonders if she should even be here, if she should leave. they're both reasonably important people, they shouldn't be half-awake for tomorrow. outside it's pitchblack, sky barely shining with stars; she doesn't move.
he lets her in with barely a pause between her knock and his response. "nasuada," he says, calmly, as though he's been expecting her.
"i couldn't sleep," she says, stepping past him, feeling like she has to make some kind of excuse. his rooms are warmly decorated, katrina's hand evident in the tapestries and rugs that line the walls and floor and hearth. she doesn't know where the queen has gone; she doesn't really care.
he looks out of place here, like he does not fit in peacetime; scars peek out of his shirt, his hands are calloused and worn where they've gripped swords and hammers. he's a warrior, now, standing in front of her, all angles; he doesn't know how to move and neither does she. he is wearing a dark blue shirt made of expensive material; it fits him perfectly and not at all. she thinks that he would rather be farming than here, dealing with trade negotiations and keeping surda and alagaesia from war. she thinks that she's never known anything but this. "it's hard," he says. his voice is hoarse. "sleeping."
"yeah," she says. "can i--?" she gestures towards a chair that has a cushion on it; his hands make a startled aborted movement and he says, "of course," and she sits, gracefully, settling her skirts into a fan.
"this is strange," he says, still standing, still at odds with himself. "you and i."
she shrugs. "did you expect anything else?"
the silence settles thickly between them. she examines a tapestry on the wall; it's a green dragon, glorious and shining. (they don't make any of the red dragon, only the ones where he's dying.)
"how are your children?" roran asks. she doesn't know why he asks it, except perhaps to hurt both of them.
"fine," she says, thinking of tor, all dark hair and dark eyes, born eight and a half months after she whispered, i love you to the red dragon's rider, and i'm sorry, and he said, one day everything will be all right. tor looks like his father, but enough like her to pass for her husband's son. she thinks of 'lena, who is still so young, named for that one witch who turned the tide, at the very end of things. all of her children are named for the dead; she wonders what this says, about society as she knows it. "yours?"
he half-smiles. "they're with their mother." garrow is two years older than selena; he calls her your majesty in a grave voice and shies away when she ruffles his hair. palancar is flame-haired and younger than 'lena, saddled with an awkward name and awkward blue eyes that don't come from his parents. "they're all right. they write me letters."
she swallows. "i hate this," she whispers, plaintively. "i can't stand this." her voice cracks; she feels like she's drifting, a boat that's lost its mooring, a feather caught in a hurricane.
"war," he says, slowly, "is so much simpler than peace." he takes two steps, standing in front of her, and then he bends down, and kisses her.
i am not what i was, she thinks, hands coming up to catch him, pull him closer until she can feel something, anything, and then, but neither are you.
this is set post-cycle, in some nebulous future where peace has been managed and everything turned out okay, except really, really not.
sometimes she misses murtagh. she doesn't mean to; she wasn't sorry when she killed him and she isn't sorry now, but he never deserved any of it. though none of them deserved what they wrought; she thinks murtagh had it worst of any of them, because at least (at the very very least) they won.
sometimes she sits in bed and the ghosts of the past flicker before her eyes, murtagh's is the strongest, is the brightest, hand on her shoulder murmuring i wish and i loved you. he never said either, not to her; she is so so sad for him. his story was never told; it can't be, not if they want this world to live on. it doesn't stop her wishing, sometimes, that she'd held him as he died.
roran is not the man that he was. gone is the ready smile; gone is the laugh and the charm and the wry humour he'd sometimes find, late at night, as they pored over maps and played with toy soldiers and felt like gods and frauds. gone is the spark in his eyes; love.
she knocks on the door, says his name. "roran." her voice sounds strange to her own ears, warped and awkward. it's late; neither of them should be awake; briefly she wonders if she should even be here, if she should leave. they're both reasonably important people, they shouldn't be half-awake for tomorrow. outside it's pitchblack, sky barely shining with stars; she doesn't move.
he lets her in with barely a pause between her knock and his response. "nasuada," he says, calmly, as though he's been expecting her.
"i couldn't sleep," she says, stepping past him, feeling like she has to make some kind of excuse. his rooms are warmly decorated, katrina's hand evident in the tapestries and rugs that line the walls and floor and hearth. she doesn't know where the queen has gone; she doesn't really care.
he looks out of place here, like he does not fit in peacetime; scars peek out of his shirt, his hands are calloused and worn where they've gripped swords and hammers. he's a warrior, now, standing in front of her, all angles; he doesn't know how to move and neither does she. he is wearing a dark blue shirt made of expensive material; it fits him perfectly and not at all. she thinks that he would rather be farming than here, dealing with trade negotiations and keeping surda and alagaesia from war. she thinks that she's never known anything but this. "it's hard," he says. his voice is hoarse. "sleeping."
"yeah," she says. "can i--?" she gestures towards a chair that has a cushion on it; his hands make a startled aborted movement and he says, "of course," and she sits, gracefully, settling her skirts into a fan.
"this is strange," he says, still standing, still at odds with himself. "you and i."
she shrugs. "did you expect anything else?"
the silence settles thickly between them. she examines a tapestry on the wall; it's a green dragon, glorious and shining. (they don't make any of the red dragon, only the ones where he's dying.)
"how are your children?" roran asks. she doesn't know why he asks it, except perhaps to hurt both of them.
"fine," she says, thinking of tor, all dark hair and dark eyes, born eight and a half months after she whispered, i love you to the red dragon's rider, and i'm sorry, and he said, one day everything will be all right. tor looks like his father, but enough like her to pass for her husband's son. she thinks of 'lena, who is still so young, named for that one witch who turned the tide, at the very end of things. all of her children are named for the dead; she wonders what this says, about society as she knows it. "yours?"
he half-smiles. "they're with their mother." garrow is two years older than selena; he calls her your majesty in a grave voice and shies away when she ruffles his hair. palancar is flame-haired and younger than 'lena, saddled with an awkward name and awkward blue eyes that don't come from his parents. "they're all right. they write me letters."
she swallows. "i hate this," she whispers, plaintively. "i can't stand this." her voice cracks; she feels like she's drifting, a boat that's lost its mooring, a feather caught in a hurricane.
"war," he says, slowly, "is so much simpler than peace." he takes two steps, standing in front of her, and then he bends down, and kisses her.
i am not what i was, she thinks, hands coming up to catch him, pull him closer until she can feel something, anything, and then, but neither are you.