[inheritance] Fic: Twilight [murtagh&elva] (pg-13, maybe?)
'Kay. Still doing itsproductivity , still not telling them. :/
This is the direct sequel to Sunrise and Sunset. And it follows off of the first part of Sol Invictus, which I will at some point post on lj, but 'till then have the SFF version cos it's prettier than the version on ff.net.
Um, yeah. Disclaimer: Chris Paolini's, blah blah blah, not mine, yadda yadda yadda, confusing liek whoa.
Twilight:
Murtagh's sitting on the edge of the pier, feet dangling in the lake, tiny ripples spreading out from where his bare toes touch the surface of the water. Elva's beside him, feet wavering in the air; she's not tall enough, yet, for her feet to reach the lake-water. He realizes, sharp pain piercing his heart, she never will be.
There are tear-marks written on his face and his throat is sore from the sobbing wrenched out of him. He leans down and trails a finger in the water, watching it part by his hand. He says, “So I'm dead, then.” Slow and steady, tracing circles on the lake.
Elva watches him, violet eyes following the movement of hand on water. “A bit, yeah.” Words they don't actually need but it's not like they lack the time, and it's nice to hear her voice. “Me too, if that helps?”
“Not really, no,” Murtagh says, leaning back and putting his free arm around her; her sweater's still soft. She rests her head on his shoulder and drapes her hand over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart.
“You're bleeding,” she tells him, lifting her hand and licking it, catlike. There are a hundred different things she means by that; he chooses to see the obvious.
“Oh, right,” he says. “Galbatorix must've got me.” He stares down at his belly, at the deep thick line of red mingled with green (Thorn, he supposes) and bites his lip. “I don't--”
“You never hurt, once you're here,” Elva says, sweeping the curtain of hair away from her neck to reveal a sliver-thin scar, but deep. Murtagh sucks in a breath, kisses the top of her head. He doesn't ask where they are; he knows.
They sit in silence for a bit, entire conversations in the way she nestles against his arm and he strokes her hair-they are complete, the two of them equally broken, the two pieces of a puzzle finally finding home, and they understand.
He says, finally, “Thorn--”
She closes her eyes, softly, and that's all he needs.
“Oh,” he says, slowly, remembering.
This is the sound of heartbreak, she thinks, and all my years, all of Shadeslayer's curse didn't prepare me for this, did they?
“Oh,” he says again, and his voice breaks.
She says, mildly, “The water's warm, you know.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding.
She waits for it to sink in, a message under layers of code but one he knows intrinsically, instinctively, like he knows her, and it does. He shakes his head and disentangles himself; strips his bloody shirt and sword off and slides down from the pier and makes waves.
She smiles at him, rakes a hand through her hair and touches a mark that's no longer burned into her skin but her heart; it looks like a salute. Her sweater lands in a heap on the pier-planks when she tosses it. She slips down too, slower and more careful, easing herself into the water; it's warm like a hug.
The water is around his waist; he falls back and floats. “Murtagh,” she says, the first time she's used his name in a long, long time. “You shouldn't be here.” The water ripples around her, the curves of liquid forming the same shape as her dragon-mark.
He lifts his head and meets her eyes. “No,” he says, calmly, “No, Elva, I shouldn't.”
There's a chill up her spine. “The curse didn't fade, not like it was supposed to,” she says, wondering why it's so hard to force the words out. It feels wrong to have to explain this to him; he should know and maybe he does? “I haven't-I haven't moved on, not the way I should-not the way Thorn has, and Trianna; whatever goddess cursed me when I was born won't let me rest in peace.” Her hands are moving, drawing restless anxious patterns in the water.
He stands, catches her wrists and pulls her close to him. “I swear I won't leave you alone,” he tells her, sincerely. The 'i'm so so sorry' is implicit, as is the 'oh if i could get my hands on Shadeslayer--'
A smile creeps onto her lips, and she leans up to kiss him on the cheek. “You're sweet,” she says, forlornly, and then, “so how'd you die?”
He shakes his head slowly. “We won, in the end, and the price wasn't so high.”
She realizes, all of a sudden, and loops her arms around his neck gently. “You're the highest price I can think of,” she says, and closes her eyes. “Nasuada doesn't deserve to pay it, not for Shadeslayer's war.”
“It's not his,” Murtagh starts, “well, not only his--”
She quirks her lips into a wry grin and puts a finger over his lips; hush. “It's not all bad news, anyway. I'm sending you home.”
He blinks at her. What?
“I love you,” she says, and she backs away, trailing water from her hands as she gets into the shallows. “The curse is keeping me here,” she calls to his bewilderment, “because I haven't helped, enough-I think a trade should do it.”
There's realization dawning in his eyes now, and he starts running but water's never easy to run in and this place is hers; her whim, her thought, and this land makes it truth. Maybe that makes it hell more than the lonely emptiness, she thinks.
She smiles at him, sadly, and reaches the sand. Kneels, and her skirt has knee-marks in it, now, and that is the last of her worries. Elva traces the first line in the sand, and he's shouting, now.
The second; third; fourth. Fifth and it's a pentagram. A sea-bird calls overhead, the wordless cry mingling with her name flying from Murtagh's lips.
She stands up, brushing the sand from her skirt, and clambers up the pier again. Murtagh's sword is heavy in her hands, and she knows what this feels like--
Murtagh says, “Don't do this.” He's reached her now, and she feels guilty; she can't break him again and expect a little love to put him back together, but-- His eyes are desperate; he swallows, slowly. “Give me the sword, Elva.”
“My soul for your life, Murtagh,” she says, “I'm happy to give it.”
He snaps. “Well, I'm not happy to take it!” he shouts, and lunges for her.
Reality warps. He's floating, now, caught in the air by invisible restraints. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I can't pass on until I fulfill the curse, and both of us know that's not going to happen; my only other option is to--”
“To give up your soul.” He says it flatly; she knows to him it's just another betrayal, even if this one cuts a little deeper than the others.
“I've lived enough,” she says, “a hundred thousand lifetimes, thanks to that blessing--”
“But none of them were yours!” His voice is low and angry and passionate. “I swear to the goddess--”
Her mouth quirks into a wry smile, involuntarily almost. “I doubt She has much to do with me, Murtagh. Please. Let this mean something, my fading into dust. I'm tired, anyway.”
His eyelids fall shut, tears pricking at the back of his eyes. “I love you, Elva. Please-I'll take you with me, and we'll Pass--”
She shakes her head, and he knew it was in vain anyway but his heart is breaking all over again as she kneels and finishes the sigil, draws a blood-line on her wrist and a single red drop oozes out of her pale skin and falls to the ground.
She says, “Do me a favour?” Energy crackling around her, and silver-violet magic.
He nods, mouth dry.
“Live.”
--
Her name is on his lips when he wakes up to a starburst of pain on his stomach, and air in his lungs and a missing hole in his heart but oh. It worked, whatever Elva did; he half-expected it not to, but he's alive and it's-not what he wants.
He pulls himself up, blood on his hands matted with grass, and he takes a step, and he thinks, There's a dead woman's soul making me move.
He throws up.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks around; ah. Whatever deity Elva made her deal with (and take that, elves; his continued presence is evidence enough for the Gods' existence) was kind enough to put him back where he came from; the Burning Plains in all their muddy, bloody glory. Now with added vomit, he thinks, dryly.
He staggers to his feet, again, and starts the trek to civilisation. He wonders what he'll tell them, when (if) he finds them; he's probably been dead for quite a while now, and he doesn't know if they'll believe him if he tells them about the brilliant girl a hero cursed, she who gave him life and gave up herself in exchange; he wonders where Thorn is, now and if he's happy; he wonders if Nasuada's all right-after all, he gave his life for her; the least she could do is survive.
He thinks he'll need to find Roran, remembering a fleeting promise-Eragon, half-drunk before the final battle, saying, If I-you know-I want you to take care of him. Like you did me. Neither of us were ready for this, and he'll need you when he's King.
He's inclined to disregard it, after Elva, but she told him to live, and that's always best when you have a purpose. And he knows Eragon meant it, with all his heart and soul.
He runs a hand through his hair and blinks; there's a sigil carved on his palm and when he traces it, the pentagram twinges violet. Poor price for a dragon, and a woman who knew him better than anything, but he thinks it might be enough.
Murtagh smiles, and starts running.
The moon shines on, impassive.
This is the direct sequel to Sunrise and Sunset. And it follows off of the first part of Sol Invictus, which I will at some point post on lj, but 'till then have the SFF version cos it's prettier than the version on ff.net.
Um, yeah. Disclaimer: Chris Paolini's, blah blah blah, not mine, yadda yadda yadda, confusing liek whoa.
Twilight:
Murtagh's sitting on the edge of the pier, feet dangling in the lake, tiny ripples spreading out from where his bare toes touch the surface of the water. Elva's beside him, feet wavering in the air; she's not tall enough, yet, for her feet to reach the lake-water. He realizes, sharp pain piercing his heart, she never will be.
There are tear-marks written on his face and his throat is sore from the sobbing wrenched out of him. He leans down and trails a finger in the water, watching it part by his hand. He says, “So I'm dead, then.” Slow and steady, tracing circles on the lake.
Elva watches him, violet eyes following the movement of hand on water. “A bit, yeah.” Words they don't actually need but it's not like they lack the time, and it's nice to hear her voice. “Me too, if that helps?”
“Not really, no,” Murtagh says, leaning back and putting his free arm around her; her sweater's still soft. She rests her head on his shoulder and drapes her hand over his chest, feeling the beat of his heart.
“You're bleeding,” she tells him, lifting her hand and licking it, catlike. There are a hundred different things she means by that; he chooses to see the obvious.
“Oh, right,” he says. “Galbatorix must've got me.” He stares down at his belly, at the deep thick line of red mingled with green (Thorn, he supposes) and bites his lip. “I don't--”
“You never hurt, once you're here,” Elva says, sweeping the curtain of hair away from her neck to reveal a sliver-thin scar, but deep. Murtagh sucks in a breath, kisses the top of her head. He doesn't ask where they are; he knows.
They sit in silence for a bit, entire conversations in the way she nestles against his arm and he strokes her hair-they are complete, the two of them equally broken, the two pieces of a puzzle finally finding home, and they understand.
He says, finally, “Thorn--”
She closes her eyes, softly, and that's all he needs.
“Oh,” he says, slowly, remembering.
This is the sound of heartbreak, she thinks, and all my years, all of Shadeslayer's curse didn't prepare me for this, did they?
“Oh,” he says again, and his voice breaks.
She says, mildly, “The water's warm, you know.”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding.
She waits for it to sink in, a message under layers of code but one he knows intrinsically, instinctively, like he knows her, and it does. He shakes his head and disentangles himself; strips his bloody shirt and sword off and slides down from the pier and makes waves.
She smiles at him, rakes a hand through her hair and touches a mark that's no longer burned into her skin but her heart; it looks like a salute. Her sweater lands in a heap on the pier-planks when she tosses it. She slips down too, slower and more careful, easing herself into the water; it's warm like a hug.
The water is around his waist; he falls back and floats. “Murtagh,” she says, the first time she's used his name in a long, long time. “You shouldn't be here.” The water ripples around her, the curves of liquid forming the same shape as her dragon-mark.
He lifts his head and meets her eyes. “No,” he says, calmly, “No, Elva, I shouldn't.”
There's a chill up her spine. “The curse didn't fade, not like it was supposed to,” she says, wondering why it's so hard to force the words out. It feels wrong to have to explain this to him; he should know and maybe he does? “I haven't-I haven't moved on, not the way I should-not the way Thorn has, and Trianna; whatever goddess cursed me when I was born won't let me rest in peace.” Her hands are moving, drawing restless anxious patterns in the water.
He stands, catches her wrists and pulls her close to him. “I swear I won't leave you alone,” he tells her, sincerely. The 'i'm so so sorry' is implicit, as is the 'oh if i could get my hands on Shadeslayer--'
A smile creeps onto her lips, and she leans up to kiss him on the cheek. “You're sweet,” she says, forlornly, and then, “so how'd you die?”
He shakes his head slowly. “We won, in the end, and the price wasn't so high.”
She realizes, all of a sudden, and loops her arms around his neck gently. “You're the highest price I can think of,” she says, and closes her eyes. “Nasuada doesn't deserve to pay it, not for Shadeslayer's war.”
“It's not his,” Murtagh starts, “well, not only his--”
She quirks her lips into a wry grin and puts a finger over his lips; hush. “It's not all bad news, anyway. I'm sending you home.”
He blinks at her. What?
“I love you,” she says, and she backs away, trailing water from her hands as she gets into the shallows. “The curse is keeping me here,” she calls to his bewilderment, “because I haven't helped, enough-I think a trade should do it.”
There's realization dawning in his eyes now, and he starts running but water's never easy to run in and this place is hers; her whim, her thought, and this land makes it truth. Maybe that makes it hell more than the lonely emptiness, she thinks.
She smiles at him, sadly, and reaches the sand. Kneels, and her skirt has knee-marks in it, now, and that is the last of her worries. Elva traces the first line in the sand, and he's shouting, now.
The second; third; fourth. Fifth and it's a pentagram. A sea-bird calls overhead, the wordless cry mingling with her name flying from Murtagh's lips.
She stands up, brushing the sand from her skirt, and clambers up the pier again. Murtagh's sword is heavy in her hands, and she knows what this feels like--
Murtagh says, “Don't do this.” He's reached her now, and she feels guilty; she can't break him again and expect a little love to put him back together, but-- His eyes are desperate; he swallows, slowly. “Give me the sword, Elva.”
“My soul for your life, Murtagh,” she says, “I'm happy to give it.”
He snaps. “Well, I'm not happy to take it!” he shouts, and lunges for her.
Reality warps. He's floating, now, caught in the air by invisible restraints. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “I can't pass on until I fulfill the curse, and both of us know that's not going to happen; my only other option is to--”
“To give up your soul.” He says it flatly; she knows to him it's just another betrayal, even if this one cuts a little deeper than the others.
“I've lived enough,” she says, “a hundred thousand lifetimes, thanks to that blessing--”
“But none of them were yours!” His voice is low and angry and passionate. “I swear to the goddess--”
Her mouth quirks into a wry smile, involuntarily almost. “I doubt She has much to do with me, Murtagh. Please. Let this mean something, my fading into dust. I'm tired, anyway.”
His eyelids fall shut, tears pricking at the back of his eyes. “I love you, Elva. Please-I'll take you with me, and we'll Pass--”
She shakes her head, and he knew it was in vain anyway but his heart is breaking all over again as she kneels and finishes the sigil, draws a blood-line on her wrist and a single red drop oozes out of her pale skin and falls to the ground.
She says, “Do me a favour?” Energy crackling around her, and silver-violet magic.
He nods, mouth dry.
“Live.”
--
Her name is on his lips when he wakes up to a starburst of pain on his stomach, and air in his lungs and a missing hole in his heart but oh. It worked, whatever Elva did; he half-expected it not to, but he's alive and it's-not what he wants.
He pulls himself up, blood on his hands matted with grass, and he takes a step, and he thinks, There's a dead woman's soul making me move.
He throws up.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looks around; ah. Whatever deity Elva made her deal with (and take that, elves; his continued presence is evidence enough for the Gods' existence) was kind enough to put him back where he came from; the Burning Plains in all their muddy, bloody glory. Now with added vomit, he thinks, dryly.
He staggers to his feet, again, and starts the trek to civilisation. He wonders what he'll tell them, when (if) he finds them; he's probably been dead for quite a while now, and he doesn't know if they'll believe him if he tells them about the brilliant girl a hero cursed, she who gave him life and gave up herself in exchange; he wonders where Thorn is, now and if he's happy; he wonders if Nasuada's all right-after all, he gave his life for her; the least she could do is survive.
He thinks he'll need to find Roran, remembering a fleeting promise-Eragon, half-drunk before the final battle, saying, If I-you know-I want you to take care of him. Like you did me. Neither of us were ready for this, and he'll need you when he's King.
He's inclined to disregard it, after Elva, but she told him to live, and that's always best when you have a purpose. And he knows Eragon meant it, with all his heart and soul.
He runs a hand through his hair and blinks; there's a sigil carved on his palm and when he traces it, the pentagram twinges violet. Poor price for a dragon, and a woman who knew him better than anything, but he thinks it might be enough.
Murtagh smiles, and starts running.
The moon shines on, impassive.