A/N: I know I haven't been on in literally years, but my heart has not let me stop wanting to write fanfics. I still regret never being able to finish my previous works, but admitedly, I wasn't very good at storywriting to begin with. Now, though, I have been hard at work improving my craft, and hopefully, This fanfic I can keep up on. I am not making promises on deadlines, though. I am currently working on a series of original works, the Embersun Cycles, and balancing life and all of my hobbies is difficult enough. I will try my best though, to stick with this one!

Also, this work is less serious, and more for just relaxation. If you want to give kind, honest feedback, though, I am welcome to it.

Also also, I REALLY hate writing intros. I always feel like when I write one, I constantly feel like it is absolute garbage. Hopefully this one isn't, though.

Hope 'yall enjoy it! ;)

Chapter 1: Nothing to Loose

Crimson blood melded with the crimson tunic, as a soldier slumped to the ground, his neck slit and oozing blood. Above, a simply garbed young man, around 19 or so and with wavy mid-length hair, stood, blood dripping from a simple kitchen knife clutched in his right hand. The young man cursed as he dropped to the body, the metal knife clinking on the ground as he reached toward the dead soldier's blade. A thin ring as the blade slid from it's sheath sounded, and the man stood. He wobbled for a bit, and stuck out his left arm for balance. A stump extended instead, and the man placed his right hand onto the soldier's chest to steady himself. The arm was clearly severed at the bicep, simply ending with a smooth flow of skin over where bone and muscle should have been.

The man pulled himself up slowly, and muttering curses at the dead corpse before him, began to walk down the thin stone alley. Before the man walked more that a foot or two, he turned and savagely kicked the corpse in the chest. Bones crunched under his boot, and he uttered a low, moaning growl, more like that of an animal and not a human. Then, he continued down the alley. Only now did he notice the roar of combat around him. It was deafening, clanging of steel and uttering of spells and twanging of bows and roaring of Kull merging to create a cacophany of sound. The man seemed unphased, though, walking with purpose and strength of conviction only a king could rival.

"Finally" he thought, as he turned a corner to see, through the buildings, a line of crimson tunics shimmering with occasional spots of gold lacing. The man slid himself sideways to fit through the tight space, and ignored the dust and other filth that lay before him. Even when a nail sticking from the wooden wall gouged a line in his back, he merely cursed lowly as he continue forward. When he reached the end, light blinded him for a few seconds, but as it cleared, he saw the crimson line, now engaged with not only leather garbed Varden, but a few urgals, elves, and even werecats, the final were mostly in feral form, clawing at the eyes of any soldier foolish enough to engage them.

The soldiers didn't notice him mostly, though the few that did scowled, and a few even smiled and jeered at him. He ignored them. Striding forward confidently, he settled next to, but not entirely in rank with them, near the front of the battle. When he reached there, a hulking urgal, not a Kull, but still a good 6 and a half feet tall, stood waiting, his horns still decorated with the intestines of one of his previous kills. The Urgal bared his teeth and grinned in satisfaction, ready to kill yet another. As his bulbous eyes fell upon the man's stump of a left arm, though, the creature turned sour. Then he spoke, "What this? The Lack-Horned Betrayer sends weak and crippled ones to fight for him?"

The man groaned, lower than the Urgal could hear. He then looked to his right at the crimson soldier beside him. He was engaged deeply with human warrior who looked to be an accomplished and experienced soldier, graying hairs streaking his blonde-brown hair. As he heard the Urgal stomp and begin to charge him while he look away, he suddenly began to step towards the crimson soldier to his left. One, two, three steps, and a wet shlick sounded, as the man's arm and shield clattered to the ground. The Urgal, the blonde-brown Varden, and the crimson soldier, looked at him, stunned. A spurt of crimson blood splashed on the ground. Then, with a single bound, the Varden soldier drove his blade into the crimson garbed soldier's neck. The crimson soldier gurgled, and the Varden soldier twisted the blade, the bones in the soldier's neck cracking.

Before the Varden soldier could even pull his blade from his foe's neck, the man with the stump had run into the line he had just been standing with, his blade whizing through the air at his opponents as if he had gone mad. In a way, he thought, he had, but it had been their fault, and he would try to make them pay, even if it meant his death.

"Come on, kill me, you damn murderers!" he shouted, eyes filled with a strange hollow ghoulishness. The soldiers stumbled back, unsettled by the man's strange behavior. Then, one of the men pushed forward, trying to stab at the raving man. The move was quickly blocked and was followed be a slash towards the soldier's neck. The blade screeched as it slid against the mail of the soldier's armor. White seemed to flash across the man's vision as pain streaked through the area between his chest and shoulders. Blood quickly swelled from the wound, almost immediately staining the simple cloth shirt a bright crimson. Then, the world seemed to spin as the air rushed from his lungs and pain seemed to crush his chest. The soldier had kicked him square in the gut, and he had gone flying toward the Varden. The stones had seemed to cut his back open, and he struggled to breathe again. The soldier was walking forward, sword held ready to stab him in the heart, but he couldn't get any breath. A step, then another, and another, the soldier was almost there, the metal of his blade gleaming like a star. With a gasp, air rushed into his lungs, and he flung his blade to block the stab, the tip only an inch from his chest.

The soldier scowled at the move, drawing his blade up for another strike. Suddenly, a blade sprouted from the side of the crimson soldier's lower abdomen. He looked down shocked, then slowly sagged to the ground, dead. Behind where the soldier had been stood the blonde-brown Varden man, his blade and chest spattered with blood. He leaned down and reached toward the one armed man, offering a hand. The man took it, and rose to his feet, sword being left on the ground.

"Why in all of Alagaesia are you out here, fighting your own? I know the Varden, and you aren't one of 'em" the blonde-brown haired Varden asked roughly. The one-armed man took a few seconds, thinking, then said, "Let's just say they gave me a reason to hate them and want them dead". The emotion locked in the sentence was plain, but the Varden made no effort to pursue. Instead he responded with, "If you go behind the Varden lines, you may be a bit safer, but you could still help us take Uru'baen"

The one- armed man barked with humourless laughter. "No, I'm staying right here. I don't care what you Varden do, I just want them to suffer," he motioned to the crowd of bodies, all a flurry of blade and steel and blood. His eyes glinted with cold anger, and he dove forward to a crimson soldier, sprouting a blade through the soldier's chest. The blonde-brown Varden had moved forward, and after dispatching another of the King's soldiers with a feint followed with a decapitating slice across the neck, said, "Then at least stay by my side!" The one armed man seemed to ignore him for the crimson men, captivated as he was in his reckless attempt to kill or be killed. He was grabbed firmly by the blonde Varden, who stated directly, "Please, stay at my side. I am the captain of the Varden, Jormundr. Tell me your name". The one armed man blinked, clearing the stupor for just a few seconds. "Leu," he said. Leu then charged forward and slashed with pain and hate in every move.

…

The blood was everywhere. Leu's body cracked like a scab itself when he moved. He tried picking his nails on the tip of his worn leather belt to exise the accumulated gore, but had given up in favor of the sword he had now placed and held between his legs. Hours had gone by, hours during which he had expected to die. Yet here he was, alive. "Those who seek death are doomed with life, it seems," he thought with a bit of black humor. The battle had concluded, supposedly by the legendary Roran Stronghammer, when he crushed Lord Barst's chest with his bare hands. Leu had watched as they took the storied and haggard man to the Varden's rear with their healers. Quite a stunning man, Leu had thought, though his success annoyed Leu. He hated it, but he could never help but feel bitter when people's lives ended up more interesting or better off than his own. "At least he has a family to go to," Leu thought with icy bitterness. He sat on a low stone wall hunched over his blade and stewed, his teeth gripped tight as he felt pain throb through his heart.

"You mind if I sit with you?" Someone asked. Leu looked up to see Jormundr, his armor covered in less but still a significant amount of dried blood. Leu grunted and shrugged, continuing to allow his feelings to consume him. Mail clinked against stone as Jormundr sat next to Leu, giving him a few feet of space. The two sat quietly, the sounds of scattered conflict still lowly rolling through the city. Jormundr looked up toward the sky, and the sun just peeking past the dark clouds. After a minute or two, Jormundr shifted himself on the wall, and said plainly, "You fought well."

Leu was too consumed in his thoughts and raging pain to think about the day, no matter how intense it may have been. He said nothing, but continued to pick at his nails. When he was done, he inspected them, and said, "Thanks". The silence then returned, though now Leu looked up with Jormundr at the sky. Jormundr broke the silence again, but with a question this time. "May I ask, Leu, What is your profession?" Jormundr seemed genuinely curious about this crippled man of Uru'baens' life. Leu's face did not smile, but he laughed a harsh iron laugh. "I have none. What professions I sought were dashed from the start. All I ever have done for my life is merely try to survive." Jormundr sat in thought for a minute, then responded gently, "Have you a means to make ends meet for now, at least?" He had turned, his eyes drilling into Leu with an inscrutable expression. Leu looked over, now meeting Jormundr's gaze with his deep ocean blue eyes. "Why are you-"

Suddenly, an explosion boomed through the air, cutting all words and sounds off. Leu snapped his eyes to the source. A wave of liquid roiling flame billowed towards them at a ludicrous speed, spilling down the streets like an ocean wave. He flipped his legs over and pulled himself down behind the wall, and tugged the blonde Varden captain with him. The flame washed over Jormundr's arm just as he pulled himself down with Leu. He groaned in agony and writhed, but held himself down as the fire passed over them. Just as quickly as it had shown up, the fire dissipated, leaving a sickening volcanic smell of charred dirt and rock. Dust choked the air as Leu stood slowly. The city had been half destroyed by whatever explosion that had been, and most buildings close to the Citadel were half destroyed, if not reduced to rubble entirely. The Citadel itself sagged into a pile of rubble sliding down the rocky edifice. Leu heard an agonized groan again, and he quickly helped Jormundr up. His arm had been melted, the muscle fibers clear and the fat sizzling like the fat of cured bacon. Jormundr cursed and stumbled as he tried to get to his feet. He then grabbed Leu's shoulder as Leu clapped his only arm around his back.

Leu asked in a calm yet jagged voice, "You know what in blazes that was?" Jormundr gritted his teeth at the pain in his arm, but said, "Not a damned idea." Carefully, Leu helped Jormundr shuffle through the streets of the city, slowly retreating to the less destroyed parts of the city. They passed many corpses of both sides. Some died from the fighting, others seemed to have been burnt alive by the explosion. Finally, they arrived at the rear lines of the Varden. The soldiers that remained dropped whatever they were doing to help their captain into the healer's tents. Leu dropped out as the soldiers took over. Unsure of what to do, he walked towards the nearest curb and sat simply, watching the massive dust cloud that formed from the explosion.

Leu ran his hand over his face, still covered in dried blood and soot, and breathed a long, ragged sigh. He simply sat, the chatter and sounds of men around him dulling into nothing. Then he heard cheering. Looking up, Leu saw the men looking into the sky above them. Following their gazes, his eyes fell upon the shimmering blue scales of a dragon. He knew it was Eragon and Saphira, heroes of the Varden. Their presence meant the king was dead. However, Leu looked down quietly, and sighed with discontentment.

…

Leu groaned and stretched his body, the vertebrae in his back popping one by one. Sleep had been rough last night. But then again, when was it ever otherwise? He threw the rough fabric blanket over and flung himself from them bed onto his feet. Leu stumbled a bit as blood rushed from his head, and then sighed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with his only hand. He needed to be quick. Turand never tolerated tardiness, but he needed food before he could do any work. Moving to a dresser at the side of the room, he picked up a pile of clothes he prepared from yesterday and donned them. His disability, while certainly making it harder to do, didn't prevent him from doing most basic tasks. Sword fighting, though, or any advanced vocation, was a different story.

The room was a small, stone cube. The floor was thrown with simple and unlaquered wood, and a shut small window, faintly brightening as the rose, split the wall on one side. It was a simple worker's quarters, quickly built after Jormundr insisted to Queen Nasuada he be given the role of a servant. Therefor, the room was bare, save for the bed, a small mahogany larder, and a simple chair and table. An unlit candle sat on the table, the only source of light during the night.

Leu sluggishly opened the door on the larder and grabbed a hard loaf of bread and an old wedge of hard cheese. A simple breakfast, but hadn't the time or crowns to get much better. Servant work, even for the Queen, was only decent; it didn't make enough for a terribly fruitful living. He had a few cuts of meat left, in addition to an assortment of cheeses and other long lasting staples, but he saved most for his suppers, especially since he had time to make those. Sitting down, he began to nibble on the food, trying to settle his stomach and gather strength for the day of what was most likely incessant cleaning. Turand always tried to keep everything he could as pristine and clean as possible in the Citadel. Half the time, he would push the servants to work until the place looked more like a museum than a hall of politics.

After a few minutes, Leu finished the last bite of the hard bread, and combed back his hair with a simple iron comb. Now he was at least presentable, though he was hardly noble. Dropping the comb on the dresser, he quickly proceeded out the heavy oaken door. He started as the door swung open to reveal a man of grey hair and a small trimmed beard.

"'Bout time," the man snorted. It was Turand, the groundskeeper of the Citadel. Leu calmly stepped out, and swung the heavy door closed. Turning, he then asked, "What do I got today, sir?"

Turand's beard parted slightly as the old man licked his dried, crackly lips. "You got lucky today, son," he said, smiling. Leu sighed. Turand chuckled, "Th' Queen wants her storeroom cleaned out. I left it up to those wanted to volunteer, and no one did. Since you were late, seems like it falls on you." Leu hid his annoyance, but responded, "All that alone? It will take me more than a day to do that." Turand waved a hand and wrinkled his nose, "Fine, but it needs be done quick. Have it done by t'morrow evenin'." Leu was still annoyed, two days was barely enough. He'd be working day in, day out for the next couple of days. Despite this though, he held his tongue, and simply nodded. "Good man, y' are," Turand said, shuffling around and walking down the hall to the main foyer.

After waiting for the greying man to disappear from sight, Leu cracked his knuckles and wished vehemently that the groundskeeper would be replaced after some terrible accident. Either way, the work needed to be done, and he needed food and a home, so he proceeded anyway. Taking the same dark stoned hall down to the foyer, he entered into a vast black marble room, at least five stories high. Massive ornate chandeliers hung from the ceiling, brightening the room nicely as the shaped glass drops scattered the magical lights magnificently. The main hall through to the citadel was in front and to the left of him, down a large set of etched marble stairs. Another set was mirrored on the other side. Behind him was the main Citadel, and below was the throne room, though the Queen had always seemed to prefer her balcony, except when dealing with the nobility. Recessed at each side opposite of Leu and at ground level were two set of stone spiral staircases. Both descended into the lower chambers, such as the treasury, storeroom, or dungeons.

Leu descended the stairs, softening his steps to not disturb the conversations below. He then continued down the dimly lit spiral stairs. The stones were new, so mold and other such things didn't discolor the stone or foul the air, but dust still seeped through the cracks, choking the air. At the bottom, a simple hall extended out, a select few heavy wooden doors marking rooms that were distant from one another. Quickly, Leu made a left turn at the first door, and pulled it slowly open.

Within was a massive room filled entirely with vessels, urns, chests, display cases, and shelves, all full of innumerable objects. Gold coinage overflowed the urns, various artifacts were placed on the shelves that Leu had no idea what were, and wealth seemed to emanate from everything. It was impressive, and that Leu had been the one to clean it was honorable, for it meant he was trusted, but he still groaned. It would take forever to clean everything here! At least at the side of the door, Turand had dropped his supplies off for him.

Over the next 6 hours, Leu worked to clean the storeroom, beginning with dusting every single strange device or artifact tediously. As he did, he found many strange items, many most likely magical. Strange spheres that shimmered like the night sky, iron rods that appeared to shape themselves slowly, and other strange things. He knew already to not touch anything here he did not understand, resorting to brushing the rag over the items, rather than actively touching them through the rag.

Coming to the end of a large series of shelves, Leu stopped slowly in interest. A gemstone, larger and more perfect than any he had ever seen before, lie on it, wrapped lightly in a soft rag. It appeared to be an amethyst, though the gem was webbed with white. It had been smoothed to a soft finish in an oval shape. He had never seen anything like it, not when the king was still alive, or in his service to the Queen. Whatever it was worth must've been incredibly high. For a few seconds, Leu simply looked at it, captivated by the violet light it reflected. He then lightly dusted it with the rag, careful to not scuff it's shine.

He continued, trying to effectively but quickly clean the storeroom. He dusted the urns, made sure everything was properly secured and placed, and organized what he could. Over the course of around 5 more hours, to where the sun was close to setting, he finally dusted the last artifact. He wasn't done, not by a long stretch, but tomorrow would be relegated to cleaning the floor, which wouldn't take long. That was all he could hope for. He groaned and stretched, and proceeded to pile his equipment up near the door. After, he strode through and closed the massive door behind him. Reaching his small, plain room, he prepared a simple stew, using some of his dwindling supply of meat for the month, ate, and simply went to sleep. His dreams were, as usual, rough and difficult. He forced himself to continue sleeping though. It wouldn't do any good to be tired.