The Alagaësian Mosaic
By Rey

Rating: PG
Warnings: implied brutality in battle, implied future character death
Genres: Action, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort
Timeline: The Fall of the Riders: the Battle of Dorú Araeba
Location: outside Dorú Araeba
Characters: Glaerun, Glaerun's dragon
Point of View: First-Person Limited: Glaerun
Prompt: Tan

References:
1. {{Was it the blast that killed Glaerun? Eragon asked, referring to the one member of the Forsworn who he knew had died on Vroengard.}} – Eragon to Glaedr, in Inheritance
2. {{Some (of the Forsworn Riders) wanted revenge for old hurts; others believed that, by virtue of our power, dragons and Riders deserved to rule over the whole of Alagaësia; and others, I am afraid to say, simply enjoyed the chance to tear down what was and indulge themselves however they wanted.}} – Glaedr, in Inheritance

Author's Notes: Dedicated to A Ghost Who Walks, who loves the Forsworn very much. (And I like minor and forgotten characters very much, too, whoever they are.) Everything is taken from the only mention of Glaerun in all the series, which is in inheritance, so it is by all means an 'original' story of my own, put together by the aid of some scraps of information from canon. AU, again, or gapfiller, take it as you wish; and there will be much of either in this collection anyway.

3. Fearsome Dirt

They always mocked my dragon, my beloved, said that she looks just like a plot of unappealing land, a cur of the dragon race, a shame. But she is beautiful to me: like a sandy beach finely and thoroughly strewn with diamond dust of high quality. She is of tan hue, glittering like ice-covered sandy soil, clean and earthy and majestic in her own way. Just perfect, really, to me, and that is all that matters in the end.

And now they all fear her, fear us. Those peacock-like shams who call themselves Dragon Riders cannot fight, cannot even survive properly without their comfortable amenities. They fall down before her, before us, one by one – giving up on the face of a flying, fire-breathing, clawed-and-spiked sand-dune.

They do not dare mock her tan colouring, mock me in turn through her. She is awesome, fearsome, if nameless now, and they admit it by action; and after all, action speaks much louder than words, does it not?

They called her dull and lifeless, lack-lustre. They called me "Dirt Rider," a "Forsworn," and a "filthy human" to boot.

I call her my earthy beauty. And I call myself Glaerun the real Dragon Rider.

Because after all, even a dragon cannot just fly forever.