A/N; -snort- I have to stop sidetracking from stories I'm working on… but I just don't have a big enough attention span. xD;
So, uh, yippee. This is a random Murtagh/Arya thing, because I think that their pairing just doesn't quite get enough love (although, there is one really good story out there called Black on White—check it out, much?). Or, if I really try for magic… This could be a prologue/first chapter for something (yep—me and my wishful thinking xP). (:
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…Uh, shoot. I don't know how to start. xD Hey wait! This'll be in present tense, eh?---
Flames dance, licking the oxygen from the air as its source of growth. Heat radiates, covering the total area and causing most in its radius to break in to a sweat. There are a handful, however, who remain unperturbed by the sight of fire.
He stands as a solid and inert figure, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. Despite all the chaos and cacophony surrounding him, he remains still, the scene reflecting in his dark eyes. Flashes of metal spring up everywhere as sword slashes against sword. Sharp, metallic sounds race through the air, accompanied by labored breathing and cries of anger and contempt. Overheard, birds fly, crying out a cry that can only mean one thing.
Death.
Everywhere he looks, death is evident. Corpses lie strewn about carelessly, and he notices a soldier of the Empire's body lying dead, his arm sprawled out across the rigid body of one of the Varden. He notes with a bitter smile that should they have been alive, both men would have found it despicable to be lying as so.
Ironic, he thinks wryly. Perhaps death brings men closer together.
"You."
It is a female's voice, sharp and raised. As he turns around, he finds himself thinking in addition to his former thought, What about women?
His eyes rake over the female figure, trailing down through every aspect of her. A sudden impulse of wishful thinking strikes him, as the need to explore the contours of her—both physical and mental—washes over him.
"You," he responds in turn, staring straight back at her. The bluntness of her gaze nearly causes him to flinch, but he manages to keep his composure smooth.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Her voice is melodic sounding—almost soothing. He relaxes, studying her face for a moment. When she draws her sword, however, his fingers dance quickly to his side and he unsheathes his own blade.
Without even knowing it, the two begin to move in a circular figure, gazes locked. They appear to be sizing each other up, though what is really passing between them is hard to fathom. In the depths of her eyes, he cannot exactly comprehend what he sees. All the signs of certain emotions are surprisingly there, contrary to what he has heard about her, yet he has difficulty interpreting them—and perhaps that is the biggest battle someone has yet to win against her.
"The pleasure is mine," he says sardonically, watching her warily. All around them, cries are ringing out—but neither of them makes any movement to defend others. They are swept up in this slowly moving dance, a dance made up of fighting off impulse and intuition.
She is beautiful—there is no getting around that. He cannot keep his eyes off of her, and he feels entranced by her ethereal exquisiteness.
This makes him angry.
He charges forward, his attack powered mostly by cunning and brute strength. Light glints off of his blade, reflecting off of its crimson red surface. His face is twisted in a mask of aggravation and resentment, though resentment for what, he cannot truly tell.
She raises her own sword and fends off his attack. The two begin a waltz of the most lethal kind; a waltz in which whoever makes one mistake—one false step, one false turn—is at the mercy of the other.
"Where's Eragon?" he asks, his voice slightly taunting. He senses her stiffen at the mention of the Rider, and he uses this slip of attention as a window to advance another attack. Despite her slight fault of concentration, their dance does not slow down. In contrast, it seems to speed in its rhythm, the clanging of metal relentlessly ringing.
"What do you fight for?" she asks all of a sudden, her lilting voice carrying out the words delicately, each syllable pronounced carefully.
This question catches him off-hand, and he nearly drops his blade in surprise. Still, his master has taught him well, and he quickly vanishes the surprise from within him. "I fight because I have to," he says roughly through gritted teeth.
"There must be a reason why you fight, therefore there must be something that you fight for. I repeat again: what do you, Rider, fight for?"
He knows that she is mostly likely just trying to distract him, but this reasoning does not stop him from immediately jumping to his side of the story. "I fight because I have no other choice," he retorts, his response similar to his previous one. He has heard this question many times over, and each time, he has always had an answer prepared. This time, however, he doesn't. Maybe it's just because the scenery of battle is all around him and he feels pressured to say something else. Maybe he has finally just had enough of only telling the partial truth.
Or maybe it's because she is asking him.
"You had a choice. You have always had a choice," she says, and he registers a note of haughtiness.
"I swore oaths, elf," he snaps. He knows that she is getting straight at his sore spot with words, yet he cannot help himself as the words tumble out in his defense. "I swore oaths in the Ancient Language, the damn language that just doesn't know when to lay off. How about you try and swear some oaths, and see how much you like it?"
"That was not the choice I was referring to. You can let me kill you."
The absurdity of this is too much. He howls with laughter as he continues his swordsmanship against the elf. "Eragon has said the same thing to me before," he says, grim mirth flickering in his eyes.
He is afraid, though. When Eragon had suggested this alternative, he had scorned the blue rider and had eventually been able to brush off the request, no problem. Now, however, he feels compelled to listen to the elf and to submit. What kind of trickery is this? He does not know much about the elf; therefore he should not feel much for the elf.
What are you doing? Finish her! Or do I have to come and do it for you?
A bleak smile tugs at his lips as he hears his dragon's voice. He lifts his gaze from the elf momentarily and spots his dragon nearby, fighting fiercely yet still training a blood-red eye on him. Some find the color of his dragon unnerving; he himself finds the rich color quite beautiful.
"What do you see in Galbatorix? What has he done for you?" she asks, and he can nearly hear the incredulousness in her voice as she does so.
He licks his chapped lips in order to buy him a little more time before he must answer the elf. "Power, elf. Power so great, it can make the whole of Alagaesia tremble beneath its might." He is aware of how ragged and wild his voice sounds as he says this, but he does not care.
As he meets the elf's gaze, questions present themselves one by one, each more unanswerable than the one preceding it. Does he believe in what he says? Is it possible to break his oaths? Is it possible that he can somehow escape Galbatorix's rule over him?
"Are you not capable of compassion, Rider? Thousands have died at your hand, and thousands more will soon follow suit if you do not stop. This battle right here is not the battle you want to be fighting, for yours still lies ahead, waiting for you to rightfully claim it."
Perhaps she… is right.
He bites his lip as his dragon's voice enters his mind once again. He is worried to find that his dragon is uncertain. Never before have they both been uncertain about an issue; there has always been at least one of them who is certain what the correct path is. This time, however, they do not know what to do.
Thinking over what she has just said, he comes to a sudden realization. Her words are hypocritical, for she, too, has killed many, and he knows she will kill many more—just for the sake of her people. Her own battle, he realizes, is split in to numerous battles, battles he knows he cannot even begin to understand. Still, he finds a way to empathize deep in his mind, though he knows that he can very well be playing in to a trap.
A roar sounds out from overhead somewhere, and both he and the elf pause for a moment to glance skyward. A distant figurine soon comes closer and closer, eventually taking the full form of an azure dragon. He lets out a sigh, and seeing the elf distracted, mutters a quick "slytha," and pulls back his blade. She slumps to the ground, eyelids fluttering over the expanse of her jade eyes.
As his dragon approaches, ready to take to the skies, he sweeps a lingering gaze over the elf. Kneeling down by her, he makes a point to say something.
"You and I, elf, are not so different."
With that, he turns and walks toward the heart of the battle.