So this is the sequel to Sunrise. It's Eragon PoV, second-person, and um... I hope you like it? I hope it does the original justice (cos I really like the original) and um don't kill me.
Written to Something Corporate's album, North, and it works damn well as a soundtrack.
Disclaimer: Chris Paolini's, not mine.
Sunset:
The summer is in his eyes, at the end. The white (grey) knight fallen, and you brush your fingers over his eyes and close them, a whispered goodbye burning on your tongue, unsaid.
You register, numbly, that you're kneeling; that the ground is hard under your knees and that you're bleeding from a multitude of wounds (a plethora of scrapes and scratches and rents in your skin; a choir of angels singing pain); that your hands are dirty and there's blood on them, and not all of it's yours.
You squeeze your own eyes closed, and try desperately not to remember.
Murtagh, screaming-- 'Give my love to Nasuada; goodbye--'
Galbatorix staring at you, black eyes piercing like the dead. 'You are a worthy successor, King-slayer.'
Arya, whirling, emerald fire in her eyes and burning down her blade; 'This is for Faolin.'
And pouring through all of it, saturating every memory you've ever had, every thought you'll ever think—the redness of blood, soaking everything clean through.
You lift your hands and stare at them; you almost don't recognize them as your own—these pale slim elven-fingers don't look like they should belong to the farmboy from Carvahall who hatched a dragon—there's so much blood and it won't come off. You stare blankly at the red, flaking under your fingernails (life and death and all the shadows in between) and wonder how you manage to always make others pay your ferryman.
His body is so limp, like a doll, so broken, and you did this—you and your stupid vendetta and you can't help but wonder why it hurts so much to have all your wishes come true.
You stare at your brother's body and let the sounds of war ending wash over you, screams and whispers and last-breaths, and you try to counter the blank numbness that's suffocating you but you can't.
Your dragon rests her head on your shoulder in silent commiseration and you run your hand along her cheek. It comes away with scarlet streaming off in sticky ribbons and you want to scream, to add your voice to the cacophony of sins building on this cursed day and you want to throw up, to let every poison that's been building since you touched a blue stone in a forest out in one fell swoop.
She says, We won.
The sky is flooding now, crimson from the west.
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