hell is for heroes (the generations mix)
(galbatorix/morzan, murtagh/nasuada, tor/lan) (heliocentrism)
(pg-13) (title from some random icon, subtitles from rob thomas' something to be, yellowcard's light up the sky, snow patrol's signal fire)
Summary: So I writ this fic, and then I posted it on eljay, and then I edited/gutted it, and it doesn't really look that different but meh.
This is about generations, and things that echo and things that despite the passing of time do not change, and about people who love, in increasingly (and decreasingly) fucked-up ways. It is about cycles and circumstances and me being pretentious, and it is about this one family, who are incapable of being emotionally and physically healthy.
I, um, hope you like it.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Srsly. I promise. ('Cept for Tor and Lan, who actually are mine, but they're pretty much stereotypes so y'know.)
(Also, reviews are love. Even if they are just telling me that my characterization is distressingly off.)
--
i. hey man, play another one of those heartbreak songs
The sky is black. Smoke curls up from the ruins of houses, heartbreak chiaroscuro against the night. Galbatorix puts his face in his hands and tries to keep from crying, the name he doesn't want to say burning in his mouth like tears.
There's warmth against his back, suddenly, and a sharp pang of loss because it's not who he wants it to be.
"Hey," says Durza, cool breath tickling his ear. The Shade is draped over him, staring out at the rubble of the cityscape, strange crimson eyes impassive, a strand of his blood-red hair curling on the back of Galbatorix's neck. "He'll come back." His voice is as gentle as he is able, and that in itself is enough to tell Galbatorix that he looks like hell.
"Yeah, I don't think so." His voice is sharp, harsh. Strange to his own ears. "Not this time."
The silence hangs between them, broken only by Galbatorix's ragged heartbeat and Durza's steady breaths.
"No." Durza's voice is steady, calm. Confident, because he's not lying, and that sound? That's Galbatorix's heart shattering. "I'm sorry."
Shruikan's screaming in the back of Galbatorix's mind. For once, he wants to join his dragon.
--
ii. tell another story how things go wrong
The sky is gold, brushed with pink and orange, banners of light streaming through the dawn. Nasuada cleans her sword and watches green and blue twine in the sky. Murtagh, she thinks, Murtagh--
But he's gone. Smoke on the wind, a promise faded away. It shouldn't mean what it does, not considering where she is--standing on the ground that's soaked up so much life-blood--somehow it does. She misses him.
There's a hand on her shoulder, then, light and slim-fingered. She turns and meets Arya's even emerald gaze. The elf-princess is streaked with blood, and her battle-leathers are torn. Nasuada says, wryly, "You know, I never understood how you vegetarians could wear leather."
Arya rolls her eyes and sits down. "Secret of elven-kind. Once you go through the Blood-Oath Celebration we'll tell you." Her face goes serious. "He'll come back, Nasuada. He loves you."
"Sometimes I wonder," Nasuada says, staring at the steel in her suddenly-numb hands.
Arya just looks at her, eyes piercing. "Take my word for it, Nasuada. He'd die for you."
Nasuada swallows, throat dry. "That's what I'm afraid of."
"Oh, dearheart," Arya whispers, and kisses her forehead.
--
iii. and they never get them back
Lan looks at the big red dragon on the roof, and swallows. "You're Thorn, aren't you?" he asks, slowly, climbing out his window.
The dragon mantles its wings, half-preening. I am, it says, voice definite and masculine in Lan's head. And you are?
Lan does an awkward sort of bow, half-in and half-out of his room, bent over the window-sill. "Palancar Roranson," he says, "but most people call me Lan."
Most people call you Prince, the dragon observes, dryly, but I believe I understand your meaning.
Lan quirks the corner of his mouth up and leans against the gable. "Well," he says, "Now that we have preliminaries over, how are you still alive?"
That's easy, says Thorn, completely unoffended, I'm not.
Lan blinks. "Er--"
Thorn flicks his tail in the air, a bit like 'Lena's cat does. Don't worry; you're not insane. Well, not completely. Well, not because of this.
"Oh," says Lan, sitting down heavily on the tile of the roof, "All right, then."
Thorn stretches out, sprawling like a leopard (a winged leopard, with claws and scales—perhaps that's taking the metaphor a little far). The wind blows hard against him; he's unmoved. You know, your lover is my rider's son.
Lan thinks, neat change of subject, but he just says, "He's not my lover. Not anymore." He hopes the hurt doesn't bleed into his voice.
The dragon snorts. A little lick of flame scorches the tile. Yes, and you can't make fire do what you want it to.
"Shut up," Lan snaps; it's none of Thorn's business. And goddess, when did his life get so weird that he started snapping at a dead dragon—oh, and one who saved the world? He looks down, absently, and realizes that his pant-leg is on fire.
Draconic laughter, in his mind, and Lan shoots his best death-glare at Murtagh's dragon. The fire snuffs out.
Lan clenches his fist so hard his fingernails dig into his palms and bleed. "Why are you here?"
Because you're all that's left, of us. Palancar Roranson, I am sorry. There's pity in Thorn's ruby eyes and Lan swallows.
Tor, he thinks, you were right. Goddess, I wish you weren't.
--
iv. let me tell you why/ i would die for you
Morzan kisses Galbatorix, their innate silver-gold magic crackling between them, racing over them, saying all the things they can't. "I love you," Galbatorix whispers into Morzan's mouth. He tastes like magic, sharp and tangy.
Morzan realizes he's crying, and also, that he doesn't care. It hits him like an epiphany and he reels back, for a moment. Galbatorix's eyes have gone silver, but he waits. Morzan grins and plunges forward, deep and desperate; hopes that says what he means it to.
The sky is on fire, red and gold challenging blue and purple; banners racing, rippling through the clouds. Morzan leans into Galbatorix's arms, lets passion settle in his bones and watches the colours.
Galbatorix smiles and the power swirling around them builds, sparks shivering under Morzan's skin.
"You're as beautiful as they are," Galbatorix murmurs, and there's something in his eyes, something that's more than magic, more than lust. "I would give you the stars."
Morzan rests his head on Galbatorix's shoulder. "I'd rather have you."
"Bad trade," Galbatorix says, and Morzan wishes he didn't actually mean it. He leans up and pulls Galbatorix so close it feels like they're one person, one heartbeat, and the magic sings.
--
v. let me make this mine/ i'll ignite for you
"Hello, Nasuada." Murtagh's voice is even, steady. It should be; he's practiced this enough times. He melts out of the shadows and stands beside her; she turns to look at him, startled, and his heart skips a beat.
She's as beautiful as he remembered and more; steel and fire contained in every movement. Her hair's shorter than it was; she fights now, he remembers, and she's no elf. Gone are the dresses she used to wear, traded for a leather tunic over a linen shirt and leather pants. Her sword, hanging on her back, isn't there for decoration. She's the most alive Murtagh's ever seen her, and he wants nothing more than to kiss her.
Nasuada's eyes go dark, and she swallows. "Guards," she says, loudly, and draws her sword.
Murtagh grimaces. Thorn says, Told you so.
He puts his hands in the air. "Nasuada, I'm not here to hurt you, I swear."
"Obviously that's good but I'm sure you won't mind that I don't believe you." The tip of her sword is at his throat. It's not trembling. "Please hold still. I'd hate to... hurt you."
Thorn's chuckling in the back of his mind.
Murtagh says, Oh, shut up.
Three men burst into the room; Nasuada says, "Bind him." She doesn't say his name, and Murtagh doesn't know whether that's a blessing or a curse. Her sword doesn't waver.
His arms are tied behind his back with something, probably braided strips of animal hide. Good to see they're not relying on magic anymore. He says, hurriedly, "I came back for you, you know. We broke his hold on us, and we came here. If you'll let me, I'll swear allegiance--"
Nasuada blinks. "Your dragon's here?"
"Yeah," he says, and catches himself too late. This isn't the Nasuada he fell in love with. Thorn, get out of here.
Thorn doesn't debate with him. I'll come back for you, I swear.
--
vi. let me help you fly/ 'cause you won't have time
'Lena's not the only one who's read the stories, the old histories. She's also not the only one who can read between the lines. Tor's done the research and he knows what Lan is; well, he knows enough about what Lan is to love him, regardless.
Fire's Heir, that's what the prophecy says about Lan, and the dragons are gone. Lan is all that's left. Tor takes a deep breath, and looks at Lan. The mage-sight settles over his eyes, sharpening his vision and sparking everything with aurae and ethereal colours, and Lan--
He's on fire. Literally. Sparks twining around his fingers and his wrists, dancing up his elbows; his hair is made of flame and his eyes are bright embers. He looks like a god, or a dragon made human.
Tor takes a breath, reigns himself in. Banks the lust that's burning in him, tells the voice that says, kiss him now, to shut up and reaches out a tentative hand. "Lan?"
Lan blinks at him. "Tor." The Fire ripples into Tor's hand, and now he's looking for it, he can feel it; a gentle pulse of--
"Would you--" Tor starts, fighting to keep his voice level, "Would you mind terribly if I kissed you now?"
Lan grins. "I thought you'd never ask."
--
vii. in the confusion and the aftermath
"I have to go," Morzan says, abruptly. He sits up.
Galbatorix yawns sleepily. "S'long as you bring back food."
It's a fair response; they're curled into each other on Galbatorix's massive bed, and Galbatorix, like most people generally do, is still basking in afterglow. He can be forgiven if he's not interpreting things with the clearest mind right now; he likes to think it was mind-blowing sex, and even if it wasn't it'd be nice if Morzan pretended.
"No, 'Tor," Morzan says, patiently. "I have to go. As in, out of this castle. As in, by dragonback."
"I thought we agreed on that thing where you didn't go outside of the castle without a thick layer of guards?" Galbatorix yawns and stretches, butting against Morzan like an overgrown cat.
Morzan rolls his eyes and pets Galbatorix on the head. "You suggested it once. I overruled you. Now, listen. I have to be somewhere, urgently. I love you."
"I love you, too," Galbatorix says, kissing Morzan's neck.
"Stop that," Morzan says, batting at him. He slides down, kisses Galbatorix once, and leaves. He tastes like tears.
Galbatorix sighs and dresses with a word, reaching for his lover's dragon's mind. Hello, Alyzarin.
Galbatorix. Her voice is civil, if laced with hatred.
What's he doing? He may be afterglow-clouded but he's not stupid.
Nice to see you, too.
No, really. What's he up to now? Look, Alyzarin. You hate me. I hate you. We have one person in common, and I am afraid he's going to hurt himself.
There's a quick pang of worry and sorrow. I'm sorry.
He's out the door before she has time to realize, racing down the stairs to the courtyard. Alyzarin's already in the air.
Morzan's mind touches his, then, as gently as it always does, and Morzan says, Don't stop me.
Just tell me why--
Hesitation, hurt, love and bone-deep sorrow. Galbatorix, I--
I understand, Galbatorix says, and then, finally, goodbye.
He wonders if Morzan knows what he's doing.
--
viii. you are my signal fire
"I think I love you," Murtagh says, and sinks back against his wall. It comes out harsh and stuttering and hesitant, but he means it and he hopes that counts in his favour. His legs are weak in a way they never were—not even when Galbatorix was torturing him. He hopes he doesn't fall down.
Nasuada blinks. "That was—not what I was expecting." The fireworks in the sky rain light down on them, glinting off Nasuada's hair, reflecting in her eyes. She looks harried and tired.
Eragon's standing on a platform, high above them, talking. Gesturing with his sword, trying to stir some modicum of emotion from the crowd; it's working despite Eragon's remarkable lack of skill in that matter. They're all high on tension, emotions running high. Tomorrow is death-day, after all.
Murtagh says, "I just thought you should know. Y'know, before we go off and get ourselves killed tomorrow."
She says, "I almost killed you!"
"You didn't exactly have a choice," he tells her. "And you did apologize after."
She exhales. "For what it's worth, I used to have a crush on you."
"Used to?" He quirks an eyebrow, pulls a cloak over the gaping wound.
"Shut up," she whispers, and leans forward.
She tastes like cinnamon, he thinks, and then he stops thinking.
--
ix. the only resolution and the only joy
Lan says, "I think I can fly." The Fire ripples behind him, shaping crimson dragon-wings. They flare and Tor tries to ignore just how right it looks.
Tor says, "Dear goddess, don't try it here!" The wind catches his hair, tossing and tangling it. He makes a face.
Lan grins and looks down at the courtyard. "Why not?" And he jumps.
Too late Tor lunges forward, grabs for Lan's wrist and his sleeve slips through Tor's fingers. He swears.
Lan's falling like a stone, eyes closed, arms spread out. He looks peaceful, almost like he's sleeping, or praying. Or dead, Tor can't help but think—but in Tor's mage-sight, the Fire's stronger than it's ever been; Lan's an inferno and Tor's heart is in his throat and none of the words will come. Suddenly, miraculously, Lan slows. Hovers in the air, too close to the ground, and then his eyes snap open.
They're all the shades of fire, cat-pupilled and blazing. Lan grins, feral and brilliant, and his wings snap open, into the real plane, and he's flying. His shirt is also going to fall off him soon. Tor lets out a breath, weak with relief.
Lan does a loop in the air, rises like a phoenix. "Hey, Tor," he says, the most beautiful thing Tor's ever seen. "I told you I could fly."
--
x. is the faint spark of forgiveness in your eyes
"Tor." Lan's voice is soft and hesitant, like his eyes. The sunlight gleams off his hair, making it shimmer like copper thread. The Fire's banked in him, a wavering halo around his head.
"I'm sorry," Tor says, voice catching, half-choking on the words. "Oh, goddess, Lan I'm so sorry. I love you—so much--"
"Nasuada, I can't stay, I'm sorry--"
"Galbatorix, I--"
Tor puts his ghosts to rest, and draws Lan close.