So I wrote this fic at school during Social Studies (because my teacher? Is so boring); it's a little spinoff-au-thingy from my oneshot Sunrise (of which I am inordinately proud). Chances are it's quite confusing. Hopefully there will be more to compliment this, but yeah.
These are a lot like Sunrise (and Aaron Sorkin)--scattered bits of information, where the story isn't spelled out for you and a lot of the background you have to extrapolate (also, not in chronological order. At all). So I guess you could say they're intentionally confusing. (Not to mention pretentious.) It is even more confusing than intended if you have not read Sunrise. You can go do that now, the story'll wait--and you'll be a lot better off.
That said, I'd love to hear different interpretations and if you'd like to hear my version of how things got here, lemme know in a review or PM and I'll babble away happily.
Disclaimer: Not mine. CP's.
Sol Invictus (or, Five Conversations Murtagh (doesn't really) have)
Part One: Elva & Murtagh
There's a violet-eyed girl standing at the end of the pier, white fluffy sweater damp and clingy from the sea air. Her dark hair is tangled and messy, whipped by the salt-sea wind, and she's smiling into eternity.
She looks very young, and sort of vulnerable.
"Hey," he says, half-hesitant, and takes a step forward, cautious still.
She looks at him; the smile fades, a little, and she bites her lip; wraps her arms tight about herself. A sea-bird cries, wheeling in the sky.
He doesn't look away—catches her gaze and holds it, instead. He's spent far too long, searching (for her) to have her vanish on him now.
She says, "Yeah." It's a whole conversation, in two syllables--'hello' and 'i missed you' and 'i love you' and 'i'm sorry' and a thousand other words and nuances of conversation; they've always understood each other better than anything else.
He says, quietly, "We thought--" The words pierce the silver silence, and hang there poised like Damocles' sword.
"I know." She looks so young and he's suddenly, piercingly, glad that the curse is gone, that the silver's faded on her brow, and he thinks that he could kill Eragon, for her. "I didn't--"
And he's taking the next two steps to their logical, inexorable, conclusion, and she's in his arms, the warm soft smell of her lingering on his skin and in his mouth and he's crying, soft wet tears on the scratchiness of her sweater.
She says his name; drops a gentle kiss on his forehead and lets him fall.