Disclaimer: All of the characters, world, etc. belong to Christopher Paolini. Not me. Thanks for reading.
Sunset
The canvas above gleamed a watercolour red, with a splattering of bloodied streaks hacked into the surface. To the west, lay a thin slit of amber radiating out against the plain. In the other direction, however, the impeding blackness smoothed across the sky, its reach clawing into the ceiling above, unavoidable, inevitable. It was as if the wretched earth had wailed upwards, in a desperate attempt to escape. The sky never lied. Or at least rarely.
A crooked smile reached the lips of the soldier. You needed to smile in war. However bitter and sour and however much the bile slathered down your throat. You needed to cling onto some scarce scrap of sanity, some insignificant point of humanity...otherwise...
The soldier's expression retreated to the original neutral blank. He felt the soft wind dance playfully in the silence, twirling endlessly and upwards. It swirled across the expanse of plain that covered the ground. Once upon a time, before everything happened, enchanted forests and flourishing rivers probably covered this plain. Where the man-eating fairies went pilgrimage to burn out their tongues to make them into magic wands and conjure mortals as sacrificial lambs for fate. Or something like that.
The howl of the wind shook against him again, his snort lost in what seemed to be thousands of tinkling, chattering sing-song voices, sifting gently through his fingers as he remained stapled to cast iron ground. The soldier swore underneath his breath. Taking in a deep sigh, his gaze swivelled across the expanse.
In the distance the, two twinkling fires shone against the horizon, as rough chortles of the fresh batch of new recruits circled around. The soldier eyed hazy shadows of men, sat around the flames, sharing the typical male banter to soak up the cool evening. They won't be laughing after a few months in this hellhole.
He couldn't make out the exact colour of their tunics they wore, not that it particularly mattered. Their cheers would fade away – slowly at first, but eventually they'd go. It was a matter of time.
A matter of time, after their spears slashed through the thousands of spellbound slaves, after their axes hacked through mound upon mound of men, watching those die with the distorted lies of false hope and mistruths unmoving in their minds. After all, war spared no-one.
Shaking his head, he turned away, his heels of his well-worn boots scuffing against trodden dust as he walked. So naïve, so young and naïve...
... the bright-eyed youth darted swerved round his swing, slashing his sword forwards in a sudden thrust. Parrying the youth's blow, the soldier, not soldier then, twisted his blade upwards in response before swinging forward again.
His feet sidestepped the next blow, as the hiss of blades clashed spontaneously into the air. Every slash, every swipe, the sweat on the other youth's brow built heavier, the grin on his face grew stronger. The soldier twisted forward, swirling his blade, blocked immediately. He span outwards, fingers raw, ducking the incoming blade, slicing his sword forwards, duck, parry, sidestep. Clash, twist, swipe. As he darted towards an opening, a sparkle sprang in the other youth's eyes, as he charged towards the soldier with relentless pace, slinging his sword through the air...
...and the soldier's sword flew from his grip, sailing behind him.
A small gasp came from the youth's mouth. They were still for a moment. Then a laugh escaped the youth, and the soldier quickly followed.
"Well."
"You still beat me on win count though."
"Yes..." a puzzled expression appeared on the soldier's face. "Still, where did that come from?"
"No idea."
"Oh yes. Of course."
And they grinned as if they had been practising since eternity, as they had known each other forever...
The soldier's eyes snapped open.
The fantasy exploded.
Flashes – flashes and pictures flooded his brain, his pulse throbbing in his forehead. Blood, watered by tears and sweat, as blistering steel met helpless flesh, as the frigid sensation blazed through his body. Block it out.
Thousands upon thousands of flashes of pain, on shoulders, knees, legs and arms, the sneering hate that stung from eyes and lips, the constant watching gaze, screaming through his mind vile words harder than stone, harder than steel, and in a lost and forlorn corner he watched a little boy drown in a sea of tears – Stop this. This is not logical –And as boy became man – Stop this – ignorant bliss and lies were ripped at the seams, torn into tatters that were trodden on by bloodied feet. They were right to hate. They were right to fear. They were right to destroy. And as the young soldier felt the last attempt at a glimpse of hope slowly draining away...
Stop.
Cold ebony hung above him.
Expanse stood below his feet.
The soldier was still.
Then – a noise, a distraction, burned his ears. His head snapped to the east. The muted sniggering of men, their piteous howls and drunken groans; it tore the silence to shreds. The recruits' camp was still up. A sudden twinge gripped the soldier's heart, and a melancholy smile spread underneath the shadow of night.
He turned suddenly towards the camp, his walk brisk and quick. As he placed his hand on the pommel of his sword, he felt the familiar emotion rocket through his blood, the same utmost loathing twirling at his core, wanting to escape, to be vented, to be released.
He eyed the camp with a scalding glare, as it grew more defined on the horizon. Do they know the truth? Do they realise what awaits them? A short laugh escaped him, his pace quickening, as it suddenly burst into a run, a sprint, soaring across the plain. He was running now, his feet sped at relentless speed, the world blurring past. He was on fire, and they would burn, burn in the blaze and smoulder to ashes and nothing.
The camp was still rowdy, still raucous, their laughs smearing into a flat drunken groan, their mocking sing-song voices twisting through his ears. And all the time the soldier was running, the hot, thirsty anger scorching in his eyes, and he was getting closer, so closer. It was then he unsheathed his sword, and let loose a horrendous cry.
A recruit stood up.
His finger was stabbing the sky. He was screaming. Screaming like a banshee. The soldier saw, the finger was stabbing at him.
Fear gripped them. The soldier was coming. Horses rushed around the camp in trembling frenzies, the clatter of armour and steel rattled in as panicking recruits attempted to prepare in some pathetic half-hearted stab at hope. And the soldier was within inches, adrenaline streaming through him as him, heart bounding in playful excitement. The hunt has begun.
The soldier's blade ripped through the first recruit, searing the fibres of their body instantly.
Dead.
Spinning outwards to the left, a spear knifed the air where he had been, as the soldier smashed it into the second recruit's skull.
Dead.
A menacing glee spread through the soldier, as he darted across the edge of the camp. He swung his blade, in three slices, hopping from recruit to recruit, as they fell to the earth, ducking a row of graceful arrows that shot in unison behind him. Dead. Dead. Dead.
He lost track of time, lost track of deads, as it as smoothed into one blood-lust. His sword swung, his feet kicked, and his blade thirsted on their blood, their dirty, splattered blood. Each time, each dead, the fear glossed their eyes, each time that heart-wrenching shudder gripped them. It was disgusting. And the soldier laughed, letting loose another cry as one by one, he twisted round their blows, their ignorant stabs, their shaky slices and dices. His feet danced across the floor of mangled bodies, as the recruits lost all sense of organisation, hurling themselves at them, anger peeling away. And he could hear their cries now, their petrified screeching, as fire blazed against the ground, and they asked: how can a man smile when his sword stabs them? And the fire blazed on, the screams and cries and shouts deafened above, and the soldier was laughing still, his heart flipping inside of him, the sensation, the pure elation...
And then the chaos stopped.
It was silent again. He looked around, his gaze clicking left to right in practised pattern. Bodies of all kinds adorned the ground in dilapidated heaps of body. The clunk of his heartbeat did not settle. It was beating. Something was wrong.
With a rushing wind, the soldier's blade sliced through the empty body of a horse.
A whimpering boy.
"I–"
The soldier's blade crushed through his heart, killing the youth , they would all understand. And so, the soldier mused, would he.
The soldier left the camp, where the repulsive stench began to waft and stalk the mountain of gore he had left. With a spin of his sword, he sheathed his blade, before he could feel bound to do more damage. He looked up to the starless sky above. The sky did not lie. And yet again, he could hear the silence laughing, spluttering in hysterics...
The soldier blinked. On the horizon, a flash of red soared against the nothingness. The dragon, fresh from its hunt, was coming. It landed beside him. The soldier gave a quick nod.
Neither Thorn nor Murtagh said anything as they flew across the night.
A/N: Alright. Thanks for reading. So, what are your thoughts? Please R & R, I'm counting on you!
If you can, answer some quick questions (yep, it's a comprehensive exercise :D):
1. When did you notice that the soldier was Murtagh? Did you notice?
2. Was the writing overly descriptive (or 'purple')?
3. Was Murtagh reasonably in character?
Thanks for reading.