Lady Nasuada of the Varden (Christofer Paolini's Inheritance cycle)

meeting

Tseng of the Turks (Square's Final Fantasy VII Compilation)

Set after the capture of Feinster, and during Before Crisis

Earthquake

Her eyes snap open in the darkness and she has a moment of frightening disorientation before realizing that no, she's not trapped in a nightmare: the earth is quaking.

She cannot see anything, even the usually comforting deeper shadows of her familiar living space are distorted and unrecognisable in the deep darkness, but she can hear familiar trinkets rattling, the furniture trembling, and she can feel it, reverberating into her very bones.

The night seems terrifyingly empty, as if the world has been emptied of all life and she is the only creature left in Alagaësia.

She feels small and fights down a pitiful whimper that is chocking her throat as she cannot help curling up on herself in a foetal ball, making herself as small as possible.

Waiting for it to end.

A part of her, the forceful, brave and controlling Commander of the Allied Army, tries to stomp down on her panicked reaction, telling herself with more calm than her frantically beating heart should allow that it is just an earthquake – a natural occurrence – nothing to warrant such fear, she's in a tent after all, the worst that can happen is that she'll have to fight her way out of the cloth if it crashes down...

It's useless.

The irrational fear gripping her is too atavistic to combat. Her terror might not be justified, but then, that's why she acknowledges that it's irrational. The earth is quaking and she is just a small, frightened child.

She remains still and tense for all of the long, long seconds the earthquake lasts.

An eternity, waiting for it to end.

Every second is as long as a minute. Minutes, if it lasted that long, would stretch into hours. A part of her is convinced that the night encasing her will never stop trembling.

Deep down, where her inner child still lives, she cries out silently for her father, wishing desperately to feel his strong hand carding through her hair gently, reassuringly, the way he used to do when she was small and had trouble falling asleep.

But Ajihad is dead and she has taken his place, proudly and, she hopes, worthily, but being a leader means that she cannot afford to show any weaknesses, that she cannot look for comfort in anyone anymore.

Not even when the world is quaking around her and the unnervingly silent night feels like it's crumbling upon her.

She's never felt so alone.

The trembling tapers off and doesn't still, but only because her body is jittery with the muscle memory of the lurching, unsettling feeling of the earthquake. It is over, though it doesn't feel so.

She draws a shaky breath, forcing her cramped muscle to distend, ignoring the slight ache panic has left in them. A grimace twists her mouth in displeasure. The great Nasuada, revered Warlord, Lady Nightstalker... cowering on her cot like a toddler scared of the dark. What would her people say, if they saw her now?

The thought drags her out of the last vestiges of her terror and onto her feet with at least a shadow of her usual steel-like determination.

Walking is a chore because her balance is wobbly still and her ears are only slowly stopping ringing with the rattles the earthquake provoked.

She refuses to show it, and it takes only one stumble and a hissed curse to gain control of herself, with a firmness that is almost brutal, and stalk out of the tent straight and proud.

There is less chaos than she feared to find and she feels a wave of satisfaction at seeing her people – Varden and Surdans alike, Urgals side by side with Dwarves, Carvahall Villagers and members of the Wandering Tribes and even the Werecats, all together – work quickly and efficiently to put out the few fires, restore what fell or crumbled, assist those who've been injured, thankfully lightly.

Such cooperation is a mark that she's doing a good job as a leader greater than any success in battle could ever be.

Seeing that neither damages nor injuries are truly serious and that the few instances of panic are quickly calmed by her mere presence, Nasuada feels free to turn her attention to Trianna, who – as is irritatingly typical for the Head of the Du Vrangr Gata – is not doing anything to help, but seems determined to catch Nasuada's attention anyway.

This time, however, it turns out that the diplomatic decision of stifling the familiar irritation against the magician is a good one, because instead of weaving yet another attempt at gaining more power within the Alliance, Trianna succinctly states: "It wasn't natural, the earthquake. Magic originated it."

Nasuada almost feels her heart fail at the implications: a magical attack of this magnitude... They are used, somewhat, to Eragon and Saphira's devastating power and they know, intellectually, that Murtagh can do the same and that Galbatorix has even vaster abilities, but still! If a magician on their level was nearby, they should have felt it, should have been warned... if their enemy has found a way to effect the earth itself like that at a distance...

She bites her lower lip viciously to stem the rising desperation. It's just this lengthy war fraying her nerves. She must not give in to her dark thoughts, her people need her to be strong.

Trianna takes her to what she calls the epicentre, an area of barren wastelands and broken items under crumbled tents. Dust is everywhere, puffing and twirling almost like smoke. The few bystanders are slightly coughing and keeping at some distance. Nasuada recognizes three members of the Du Vrangr Gata casting what she is reasonably convinced are detection spells. Probably trying to figure out for sure what happened.

"It is not a form of magic we're familiar with," is saying Trianna, an edge of nervousness in her voice. "It almost seems as if the energy powering it comes from the earth itself, rather than any living creature..."

Nasuada's blood turns cold.

Dear Gods, no! Don't let Galbatorix have found a way to turn Alagaësia itself against us!

She slows to a stop, unsure. There is less devastation than she feared, but the ground looks like a giant plough has turned it over. A few corpses are scattered among the chunks of upturned earth, all human, all clad in garments foreign for cloth and shape – Nasuada breathes in silent relief that none of hers have been involved in the disaster.

Then her eye is caught by movement: a lone man is laboriously standing amidst the clouds of dust, clearly in pain and disoriented.

He is wearing a dark blue set of garments consisting of a light, long-sleeved jacket and trousers made from the same cloth, with a collared white shirt underneath; Nasuada vaguely decides that, though unusual, the attire is elegant, even though now it is dirty and torn. His shoulder-length black hair is falling in disarray all around his back but leave his forehead bare and the dot-shaped mark in the middle of it in sharp evidence. Nasuada wonders if it is a religious symbol or just a matter of fashion. His clothes are odd enough that she would not venture to guess his or his people's taste in ornamentation.

He has a tanned complexion with yellowish undertones: a colour that she's never before seen and she feels a brief spike of kinship, because she knows what it's like to be different.

The feeling disappears instantly when she catches the gaze of his peculiar, almond-shaped black eyes: cold, expressionless, calculating, dangerous.

Neither she nor any other of the present say a word as the stranger climbs to his feet and recovers his composure more quickly than she expects. No-one offers him any help. He doesn't need any.

His self-possession is astounding. Nasuada watches him like a hawk, tense and waiting to see what he will do: that is, she suspects, the only reason she catches the brief moment of shock and sorrow he inadvertently displays when he catches sight of the corpses, before hiding everything that he thinks and feels, everything that he is, behind a mask of neutral blankness so perfect it makes her shiver.

He checks the pulse of one of the bodies, the only one dressed like him, Nasuada notices, and bows his head in grief when he finds him dead; just for a moment. The other corpses, he shows absolutely no concern over.

Unhurriedly, he looks around, scanning the people and the area, taking in and cataloguing everything.

Just as Nasuada is thinking that it is up to her to do something – anything – to react to the situation, his dark, cold eyes land upon her and there is more knowledge there than should reasonably be. He is, Nasuada uneasily admits, assessing the situation much better than she is or ever could. She feels outclassed and she doesn't like it one bit. She clenches her jaw, her mind sharpening with the kind of determination that has let her win the Trial of the Long Knives and establish her dominance over the Urgali.

He makes his way leisurely but surely to her, walking with catlike grace, danger in his every move. She's seen assassins move like that. And spies.

Uneasy, she scrutinizes him with narrow eyes.

"Lady," he bows his head a fraction, politely. "Am I right in assuming you are the leader of these people?"

She narrows her eyes even more, wondering what gave her away. Furtive looks from the others? Her own countenance? A combination of factors? It doesn't matter, but it is unnerving that a stranger could pinpoint her so unerringly.

"I am," she replies curtly.

He nods, unsurprised. "I am Tseng of the Turks," he says, and his eyes are sharp watching for her reaction. Nasuada has never heard of such a tribe though, so she doesn't give anything away. After a moment, he nods again, looking satisfied.

Nasuada takes a steadying breath, aware that the following exchange would be of essential importance, and starts off the line of questioning that will, hopefully, clarify the whats and whys of the unnatural earthquake.

What follows amounts to a veritable interrogation – but to Nasuada's irritation, it feels like she is the subject rather than him.

The man must be an expert interrogator, because he gets more from her than she wanted to give, despite her resistance training, and more still from others who blurt out answers to his level, unhurried questions, even with Nasuada glaring at them to silence them.

She, on the other hand, gets almost nothing from him and even if the absolute indifference to the name Galbatorix is somewhat reassuring, she is frustrated beyond belief.

At last he looks in the distance.

"So... I guess the experimental Exit-Earth materia fusion wasn't as ready as the Science Department claimed..." he murmurs quietly.

He looks at her again: "I don't suppose you know how to send me back?" he asks.

Nasuada's frown has been getting darker by the minute and it doesn't ease in the least, but at the question, she glances at Trianna, who takes an involuntary step back, looking alarmed.

"I have no idea of what magic could even bring him here..." the magician admits nervously, her eyes darting convulsively to the unnerving stranger.

He nods again, as if he expected nothing different: "Then I will have to make a life for myself among you, I suppose."

Nasuada is irked by the assumption. "What makes you even think we have any use for you?" she snaps.

His blank expression is tinged with amusement, like an adult silently laughing at a capricious child. Nasuada is grateful to her dark skin when she feels heat in her cheeks.

"You are in a war," he points out with utter neutrality, but she hears the unspoken message loud and clear: they are a rebel group fighting an overpowered enemy, they need all the help they can get. And someone with his training – because it is obvious that he is trained – would be more than just 'of use'.

Despite this, she isn't very willing to consider the option.

Tseng's arrival has unsettled her equilibrium badly: he has the effect of an inner earthquake to match the physical one that has accompanied his appearance. If he stays, his presence will change the balance of power in ways she is unable to predict and likely provoke inner fights they can simply not afford. Not to mention the fact that she knows next to nothing about him and is not about to trust a stranger, even if he wasn't such a dangerous one.

He is still watching her steadily however and a worse thought than accepting his offer strikes her. Someone with his training could be of use to Galbadorix, too.

She thins her lips, unhappily.

She fears that she's making a mistake, but how goes the old saying? Keep your friends close...

"Follow me. We'll get you situated and assess your skills," she says rather brusquely.

He bows a little and it feels nothing like respect or submissiveness; then follows her quietly, frighteningly alert. Nasuada does a good job at pretending he isn't unnerving her. She thinks.

Even in the future, after accepting his oath of service, she will never fully trust him.

But her eyes return to him a thousand times that first night.

And not less often in the days to come.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognize – be it character, location, idea or line – belongs to others; I may be playing with them but I make no profit from this.