Okay, Elva-fic. Because she is fucked up. And uh, because Murtagh is fun to write :D.
Title: Kindred
Author: Flufflybunny
Rating: T, for themes
Warnings: Themes of ickiness
Disclaimer: Paolini's, though really it belongs to assorted others.
Summary: Elva hears voices, and the curse may be a blessing.
Eldest Missing Scene: Kindred
Elva hears voices.
They scream in her mind, heart—they're keening in her blood.
A man was tortured in Uru'baen today. He almost died. Wanted to, she knows, because she wanted death too. She felt all of it--the rape of his mind, the pain in his body, the violation of his spirit.
She's too young to be what she is, she knows—a prostitute, an exiled Dragon Rider, an abused wife—the list goes on and on. And on. And on, until she just wants to die—but the curse/blessing won't let her.
The man is screaming, beating his fists bloody against the grimy walls of his cell. The blessing/curse pushes at her—oh. She's gone out of her body again.
The man stops railing at the the wall and looks at her, eyes piercing-dark and bloodshot.
He says, "Who the," he coughs—understandable; he hasn't had any water for days, "hell are you?"
She blinks, and it hits her like an epiphany. She knows who he is. Murtagh, ally of the Rider Eragon (the one who cursed her, and she can't wait for revenge), missing, presumed dead. She should get information from him, she thinks, but the curse-blessing hasn't realized that yet, and, well, she's nothing if not petty.
The Varden and the spell (lying heavy on her heart) are forcing her to work for them, which naturally means she'll run as soon as she gets the chance. Maybe not to the Empire, but certainly out of here.
She smiles beatifically. "I'm here to help," she tells him, and rests her incorporeal fingertips on his forehead, taking his pain, for now. He's in a lot of pain, but she's practiced at this, and she doesn't collapse.
He looks at her again, free of the pain at last, and his eyes are filled with sorrow. "You are no angel," he says, softly. "Who broke you?"
There is something in his gaze that speaks of symmetry, and she knows he understands.
She stares at him, and leaves as fast as the curse will allow, spooked by that glimpse of someone who knows.
---
Back in her body she sifts through her thoughts and drinks some red-bark tea; stronger than most can take it, and it'll kill her, given a few years and no adjustment in the doses she takes, but it's better than the alternative.
In her memories, she starts; Murtagh knows so much. She should take this to Nasuada—or Eragon. She starts to get up, and another voice hits her, screaming. It makes her spill the scalding tea, but that's a minor discomfort, and one she's all too used to.
She drowns in the voices, suffocated by the pain. When she's sane (or close enough to it), she finds she couldn't tell them even if she wanted to; her throat's bleeding and she won't be able to speak for a week, at least. And by then she'll have forgotten everything, to another line of agony and misfortune.
The voices keep screaming.
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