This is a ficbit about Nasuada and Roran. Because the AU sorta corrupted me. \o/.
Um. I don't really know what to say, so um. I didn't really know whether this belonged in Phases of the Sun, so I stuck it out solo, because it occurs a bit before Phases, when the kids are very young and their parents are getting used to the world they've found themselves in. It is, I suppose, an introduction of sorts. But since I do not want Phases becoming an actual chaptered, plotty sort of fic, this is standing alone.
If you think it would work better in Phases, let me know. Please. I'd appreciate it a lot. Anyway.
Disclaimer: Not mine. CP's. He doesn't get instantaneous feedback, though, so, uh. -nudges-
Ever After:
We had forever and a day in our hands, a promise from the goddess herself, and we let it go, Nasuada thinks, watching the sun rise over the bloody field that's all that remains of their victory. It's red, even in the dark-before-dawn.
After they won they tried to burn it; scour it clean—Eragon and Saphira magicked some rain, to try and wash the blood away—in the end, of course, nothing worked.
It was probably for the best that no one lived there, ever, because the rust-crimson did not fade—has not faded, and as far as they can tell it never will, testament to the thousands who died on that bloody day.
There's dawn, rosy fingertips just poking over the horizon now, banners of purple and red and orange streaming across the new-grey sky.
A wind is rising—she tries not to think of those legends, the ones that tell that the wind is the dead, speaking. It could only be true in this place, this terrible magnificent place where everything happened; where triumph and disaster mingle, running into each other like oil and water and blood. The wind races through the grass. It sounds, oddly, like bells.
It's peace-time, now, and Nasuada's hair falls past her shoulder-blades—the wind picks it up and toys with it; she doesn't mind.
Beside her Roran stares over the cliff-edge at the plains and says, "I can't believe--"
"We're all that's left," she finishes, nodding. She folds her legs, as graceful as she can manage, and sits at the side of the cliff. Her feet dangle over the edge; she knows most people would balk at the hundred-dragon-length drop; she doesn't mind it, particularly.
Roran sits down next to her, red-purple cloak streaming out behind him, threads of gold catching in the dawn light. He doesn't dangle his feet; she's quietly amused. "My god," he says, "It feels so--"
"So wrong," she agrees, "for them to not be here." Their guards are waiting below; Surdan and Alagaesian mingling—Surda found it liked its independence, after all, and there may be land wars fought eventually but they've had their great war and triumph and they will not fight again.
Nasuada's had guards all her life, being her father's daughter, but Alagaesia's new king is starting to chafe at the bonds of office. He'll snap soon, she knows; selfishly she hopes she's not there to see it.
"Goddess," she says, "I still can't believe we won."
Roran laughs. There's an undercurrent of sadness there, but it's in everything both of them do, anyway. "We were such a band of idiots; kids playing at warriors—well, me and Eragon were really just kids. Definitely didn't know what we were in for, when we signed up."
"Goddess knows nothing like this is ever going to happen to Tor or 'Lena," Nasuada says, passionate. This place brings out the fey in you; the magic and the mystery that you hide, defences stripped away by the wildness of the land that they lost.
"Nor Gar or 'Lan," Roran responds, equally ardent. His face is more lined than it was when they first met; there are more shadows in his eyes and they're weary. Ruling may suit Roran, but it's taking its toll on the farmboy from Carvahall.
They sit in silence, for a bit, as the sunrise washes over them, making promises that will never be kept.
Eventually one of them breaks the silence and they chatter, half-aimless, about Katrina's pregnancy and the corn season and the crops and Orrin's latest invention—carefully steering away from the subjects that hurt. They do not talk about the elves, who have hid themselves away with the clutch Saphira laid before she left, over the sea; they do not talk about Eragon, who incited them all to things they did not know they were capable of and then left them to the consequences of their new-found bravery; they do not talk about Murtagh, and sacrifices she never asked him to make.
They do not talk about promises they never meant to keep.