Twilight

Summary: And the sky is filled with light, can you see it? Katrina, heliocentrism.

Disclaimer: Christopher Paolini's.

Feedback: Loved.


The ground is red beneath her feet, red like rust and blood. She swallows down bile; burns her throat. The falcon on her shoulder shifts from foot to foot, nervous; she doesn't disagree but she strokes his crest anyway, as soothing as she can be.

Her hands are thin and pale in the starlight; she reaches in her pocket and feeds the falcon a piece of meat. He makes a happy noise, brushing his head against her fingers.

She looks out at the darkness, searching for life. Nasuada told her earlier that they still haven't found all the bodies, and Roran nodded solemnly.

He'd wanted to come with her; she'd said no. This is something she has to do alone—she has to see it, unblinkered; the aftermath of the battle that had been fought for her and her people, without Roran's soft whispering in her ear, telling her it's all right. It's not, and it can't be like it was again. Maybe better, but that will take time, which is something she's lost patience with.

The wind whistles in her ears, too loud. Her hair whips into her mouth, sharp and cutting. She thinks Nasuada might've had the right idea, cutting all her hair off. It fits better under a helmet, too.

She comes across a body as she walks; trips over it, actually, and rights herself quickly. The falcon (Ismir, for the great eagle from the stories her mother used to tell her, the one where the maiden rode the giant bird away from the wyvern's hall) wings off her shoulder, seeing if there's anything good to eat.

Her voice echoes in the darkness. She says, "No."

He pauses over the bloated corpse, magic-blackened and soaked, and makes a piercing, annoyed cry, but he circles back. She gives him a piece of meat from the pouch at her waist and kneels to look at the soldier. He was wearing a helm when he died; she can't see him for the metal fused to his face.

Gingerly she pokes at the man (or woman; she can't tell), trying to peel off the helm; finally with a sickening slurping sound it gives. She takes a breath, staring at the ash-black face, burnt beyond recognition and falling into dust now she's taken away what gave it shape. She sucks in a breath and refuses to cry.

There is an insignia on his chest, one she knows far too well; he had been Empire. She whispers, "I'm sorry," to the twilight, biting her lip and Ismir cries again, mournful this time, sensing her mood.

Katrina closes her eyes, and wishes the rain would come.