A wilted rose clenched in his hand, eyes downcast to the coruscating, overlapping tiles of mosaic that decorated the floor of his chamber, sat the Nightmare King. His head climbed painstakingly slowly, lifting the most miniscule degrees to face the belligerent youth that stood near the bloodied carcasses of the Nightmare King's infamous guards. The stem of the flower ran slick with blood as each scarlet bead blossomed in the King's ashy, parchment-like fist.
"Galbatorix," said the belligerent youth, his sword fashioned of an impressive gem (a diamond, perhaps? Or, more likely, a sapphire imbued with augmentations ensuring it would be just as durable. How the King's eyes deceived him so.) pointed at him accusingly. Each drop, each meteor of tainted blood, slapped against the mosaic tiles and pooled with its congealed brethren at the worn boots of the Nightmare King.
"Shurtugal," responded the Nightmare King, snapping his fingers habitually; each snap birthed a shower of ethereal sparks that rained down and blinked out of existence. A giant slab of ebony was inlaid into the wall behind his throne, suffused with the power he had distributed into its impressive form daily.
The Shurtugal --- Eragon was the name he had accepted --- planted his feet firmly on the glittering tiles and leaned forward expectantly. How easy it would be to destroy a section of the floor, as strong as it was; there were no supports under it, only the lengthy abyss leading into a behemoth of a volcano's bubbling caldera. Galbatorix sensed a swift drawing of power, of a magic meant to instantly destroy the opponent; he also felt the surging mass of energy slip between the anxious Rider's fingers.
Wards protected any destructive magic taking place, and cancelled the usefulness of dragons: what could a dragon, a creature that emerged from the sober depths of a primordial sea without explanation, do when its very essence was negated from the enemy's stronghold?
Eragon swore and brandished his weapon threateningly, no doubt 'subtly' signaling a group of reinforcements that he was going on the offensive, and for them to be ready to catch the Nightmare King unawares. The sleek jet sword slid out of its leather sheath hungrily as Galbatorix raised; anger flashed in the eyes of the King, shadowed by an unexpected tidal wave of pity.
"You have chosen," intoned the Nightmare King, licking his parched lips with an equally dry tongue. He positioned himself into an unorthodox pose. His body was pivoted, and his arm flexed to resemble the sinuous claw of a praying mantis. The sword hung limply, its blade quivering and the rose still clenched in his fist, merged with the sword's handle in an unnatural sanctimony.
Eragon wound his way through the chamber with an impressive grace, a grace he did not deserve or work for. Black and blue clashed, and the latter ran up the length of the former. Eragon smartly raised his empty arm to capture The Nightmare King's wrist and render the weapon-toting hand useless. The sapphire blade lashed out vigorously, with an intent to puncture the violet aegis that protected Galbatorix's chest.
The young Rider found himself surprised by the lithe King as he pushed off the ground, turning his body into a barrel roll that twisted his hand from Eragon's grasp. The sword failed to connect and Eragon stumbled, with Galbatorix now flipped over to the blunt side of the sword. The young Rider reversed the blade to face the King and he cut an arch through the air.
Galbatorix showed the extent of his power by meeting the oncoming strike by deflecting it with the armored back of his gauntlet; pushing off the ground into the air, the air that felt so free with the wind passing through the thin wisps of hair along his unprotected scalp, Galbatorix's legs snaked outward as he spun, connected with the side of Eragon's head and sending him stumbling.
A nimble handspring brought the Nightmare King out of harm's way, and his calm collectedness was a deep contrast to the lust of revenge contorting the slightly elfin features the unworthy Rider had obtained through dishonorable means. Eragon charged and leapt over a sweep that would've knocked his legs out from under him easily, flipping and cutting downward with his sword.
Galbatorix's weapon met his with a resounding clang; they hung tacitly in an unfortunately small period in which they could view the histories of each other in the struggling contours of their sweat-beaded faces. Then, powerfully swinging his sword with a two-handed grip, the Nightmare King disengaged the lock and sent Eragon tumbling through the air. The belligerent young Rider landed on all fours, crouching, with the characteristic feline prowess of a cat, swearing profusely. Ready to pounce.
The Nightmare King faced Eragon in the musty, mothball-smelling chamber, offering him only a mournful frown.
Deception, thought Eragon irritably. His intentions are cruel.
Inescapable, man's greed, thought Galbatorix sadly. His close-mindedness blinds him.
Evil. Eragon.
So hostile, so misunderstanding. Galbatorix.
He paints the canvas black and scarlet. Eragon.
He paints the canvas with his fingers. Galbatorix.
Galbatorix chuckled at the musing, which only served to make the Rider's neck to redden noticeably even in the dimness of the chamber, where the arrows of light that peeked through the latticework of the windows cast light only on the particles of dust drifting in the air.