Dragons were supposedly rare, majestic creatures. They were ancient, otherworldly beings that strode into legend astride their Riders, from myth and back into esteem on the heels of Eragon, Kingslayer.
They weren't supposed to be puking up slug entrails on the rug.
Blodhgarm felt his claws itch, eyes barely containing the pent up rage that was bubbling up from his guts. He was a spellweaver. He was a fucking elven spellweaver. A war veteran, in the team that made the last surge towards the king. Every time he pointed that out to the boy, the little shit laughed and said, "Well, everyone knows the promotion you get after that is Nanny."
The rage nearly burnt away everything else by the time Yaela wandered into the nursery, a tiny silver lump in her arms. The nestling groaned, threw its head up and burped something –blue? Where did it find something blue to eat here?- across her chest. And in the moments of cooing and sweet nothings that followed, Blodhgarm knew without a doubt that women were insane to volunteer for this shit. The other elf wiped the dragon's maw and settled the little monster down in the main play pen, something they set up soon after the first hatchlings. The ones too small to get out and cause havoc, at least. The bigger ones, Blodhgarm agonised, were big enough to run rampant across the little strip of jungle and coast they had set up on.
Divines, forgive us the dragons we unleashed upon your world, the elf growled.
"Why are you clasping your hands like you're praying to Aiedail for forgiveness?"
Blodhgarm rounded on the boy, eyes alight. "These little beasts are your fault! They have been terrorising me since they hatched! Saphira won't help, Yaela just laughs at me! They ate one of the species of snails here into extinction, and they ate all of my special soap, and oh my gods don't start me on the…"
A hand pressed to his hip, the evil little sprite rocking onto his toes to press a kiss to the edge of the elf's mouth. "I'll make you more soap. The special lavender one you like, yeah? And besides, we knew when we came out here that it would be hard going. Baby dragons are worse than baby humans."
Blodhgarm snarled, crushing Eragon's head to his chest with both hands. "Elven babies slide out and sing when they are born. By three months they can walk, and by a year they can already create wisps of light with their magic."
A green eye peered up at the cat-man. "Bollocks. Elf kids throw up on themselves and shit their pants just like any other kids."
The elf grumbled and petted at the boys hair. "And besides, Yaela is sailing back to the mainland tomorrow to drop off some more eggs. So that is five less dragon-young to disturb you."
"If you disciplined them like I told you, they wouldn't be so… mental."
Eragon laughed at that, "They pick on you because you're funny when you're mad."
"Like somebody else I know," Blodhgarm drawled, poking a claw into a tender belly. Eragon jerked, before poking back with his bony fingers. It took three minutes, but soon it was an all-out warfare. "Are you ever going to heed the Queen's summons and go back?"
The fight stopped, leaving just a pair of panting men with several nestling dragons staring up at them. Eragon's eyes were wide, expression torn. "I…. I don't want to."
Blodhgarm started. Didn't want to? Finally. The bottom of that sheer drop. They had been dancing around that stupid note and its orders for weeks now, and finally, Eragon had relented. The elf shook his mane free with a clawed paw. "Why not? They would love to see you."
The Rider didn't budge for a good few moments, eyes flickering between the three dragons –snuggled up in a pile of hay together- and his bedmate, hands on blue hips and brow high in expectation. Blodhgarm was used to this by now. He had watched Arya try and draw out answers from the boy, and even with her fluttering eyelashes it was like drawing blood from a stone. But Blodhgarm? Well He had a lot more practice than her. She might be queen of the elves, but titles rarely ever had an effect on the boy anymore. If it was four years ago, he would have bent knee. As things stood, he didn't care if it was a Queen or a madman who asked; they'd both get the same treatment. It was insanely funny to watch, but less so to deal with the political fallout.
"Because you know it will end in tears. Nasuada wants to shackle the mages to a law, and Arya will become a golem when she realises I let you tattoo my back. It's just… Guntera Almighty. The only one I could see without someone getting angry is Orik." The boy motioned with a hand, "Or Jeod. Maybe Angela."
"You're still in pain."
Silence filled the tent. "What"
"You're still hurting over everything, aren't you?" Blodhgarm whispered, eyes downcast. "I mean, after seeing everything with the Eldunari, and then having to fight the king, and overpower his mad subjects. Dealing with all the people afterwards, feeling yourself shatter after being exposed to all of those old minds? You… you've barely retuned to yourself."
Eragon couldn't even come up with a retort.
The elf closed the gap that their poking war made between them, the pads of his hands pressing into the lad's pale throat. "Ignore the summons. You have enough to do with the new rider showing up when the boat returns. I'll send a letter with Yaela. Explain a few things. If someone unwanted shows up on that boat, I will drown them in the shallows myself," Blodhgarm kissed one of the sprite's bushy eyebrows, before turning the lad around in his hands and walking him out of the tent. "Until then, we have a bright new day filled with clearing up dragon dung!"
Saphira's voice shuddered through the grove, Oh joy, oh joy.
"See? Even Grandma is happy enough!"
Grandma will grind your bones, elf.
"Make sure you make me into cookies. The little ones love grandmas cookies."
Xxx
Arya was tired. More so than usual, since the new arrival to Du Weldenvarden.
Even after everything, she had found it in herself to forgive. She had spent enough time with Durza and his nasty, clustered mind pushing against her own, voices murmuring quietly enough to be unfathomable but loud enough to draw attention. That only being one piece of the torture she endured during her time being incarcerated. She understood better than most where the Rider had been, and what he had to be in order to get through such an ordeal. She didn't want to think about what else the mad king had pushed Murtagh into; just the notion made her sick.
Her subjects were less understanding.
In a way, she understood that, as well.
He had been the face of the enemy for a long time; not as long as Galbatorix, but during the war, he was the one that most of them saw. If it wasn't for the Ra'zac making him look better in comparison, then she was sure he would have either been dead or she would have been called to deal with an intruder.
As it stood, he had the guest quarters.
Thorn, well he was another basket of eggs entirely. The dragon was mostly solitary and only talked to Firnen if anyone at all. The other elves ignored him, at best. IT was considered in bad taste to insult a live dragon.
Still. It had taken a lot to help Murtagh integrate at least this much into everyday life. It was publicised several days after he first entered the city about Oromis' true death, and Galbatorix's intervention. It had helped, but then the lad had been bombarded with remarks about being weak.
Arya had pointed out that this was Galbatorix, and nobody had stood up to him alone. It had taken the Eldunari's help to even stand a chance, and even then it was only Eragon's innovative use of the ancient language that allowed them to win.
It was met with grumbles, but eventually dropped.
And now everything was finally silent on that front, and was somehow better that way. Murtagh was like a ghost in the city; nobody really talked to him or even acknowledged his existence except for a few of the more friendly elves. The older ones, or the stubborn ones, or even just the less social ones gave him a wide berth.
Arya herself, well she didn't know where she stood on that front. On the one hand, he looked faintly like Eragon. On the other, he was Murtagh. Broken, angry little Murtagh.
Even worse, Eragon still hadn't replied to the summons from herself or Nasuada.
Through Yaela's weekly messages, well. It had only been a month since they had managed to stop the lad from breaking into wild hallucinations. Maybe it was too soon; but shit. She scrunched up another half-written letter and threw it onto the floor to join the rest. A hand ran through her hair, roughly tugging at the roots, before she let out a deep breath to calm her nerves. It didn't help.
It was going to be a long, long year.
xxx
AN: Oh my God.
Finding elf names for the six that didn't get named… oh my Guntera. It was so hard. I was sat there on Google thinking to myself, what is a Sindarin? Well now I need to know…And did I ever find out. And feel ashamed that I didn't know. And don't even start me on the rest. Jesus. In the end I was sat there looking at Elf Baby names. Elf baby. You don't even want to know how close it got to naming one of the boys "Bear." Fuck me it was a close run. Oh my god, and Solusdag as a last name. Almost died thinking up an elf with Sunday as a last name who just sunbathed all day and left the others to work. Shit. Even found this really damn funny;
What are thenamesof theelvesthat helpEragon?
.com ›… ›The Inheritance Cycle (Eragon)
What were thenamesof the twoelveswho help Mrs Claus in the year without a santa Claus? Thenameswere Jingle and Jangle. What is Eragon's realname?
I need more sleep. Happy Reading!
~Frog