who: @bookedrevenge
where: Port Leiry County Morgue
Something isn't on the up and up, that much is clear. Painfully so, too.
If everything were on the up and up, she wouldn't be hiding in a broom closet in her workplace. Her thoughts go back months and months, to a body ripped apart on the grounds of Westriver Gardens. A runner, shredded to bits. Was it a werewolf who had done the deed, or was it a Vampire?
Or, maybe, was it this guy, all sixty feet tall of him, making short work of somebody else who knew too much?
She already knows she's seen and heard too much. Her boss is aging out, eyes are drawing on him, he wants out of Port Leiry, and he wants hunters to find somebody else to take over his post here - its the kind of confirmation that would have made that Tomas guy cream his pants, and really, frankly, the complete opposite amount of 'everything' she would have like to hear.
But hey, she can make it through this; she just has to stay quiet until they leave, grab what she came here to grab before being so rudely interrupted by midnight intrigue, and then she can, what, drop it off to Cordelia and maybe just wash her hands of this whole spy game monster cold war. Turn in her resignation. Join a nunnery or get a job at a Seven Eleven. Die Peacefully like everyone else - with a deep sense of regret and an inability to afford her own funeral.
It's a sound, if miserable, plan. Which makes it really unfortunate when the dust of the utility closet settles in her nose and makes her sneeze loudly.
Dealing with others’ will and my own specifications and capitalism is exhausting so I’m binding my own commonplace books now. Here’s the alpha test. (It’s not done, but it’s usable. This is good, because I had filled the predecessor down to the endpapers.)
Finished Reading: Aubrey/Maturin Book 01 – Master and Commander, by Patrick O’Brian Master and Commander by Patrick O'Brian My rating: 4 of 5 stars View all my reviews
Se hoje adormecer para sempre a certeza de mim sinto em todos os poros
Os olhos dela tinham uma espuma de quem acaba de nascer. Um tom cinzento de quem nunca antes vira luz e era ela, no entanto a definição de luz.
Sem saber nada, era tanto, sem tocar em nada, sentia tudo e nesse parto as únicas dores não ficaram no corpo de mais ninguém.
Na febre quente de verão, a melancolia da novidade e a pálida condição, até a pálida condição; tudo feito e desenhado para que cada músculo a fazer fosse em si mesmo a descoberta da matéria carnal. Esse vento escuro que nunca rondou tanto até explodir numa força incrível, num magnetismo de profusão e incêndio; o novo recém nascido, o sangue e todo o vapor de nojo que tanto se venera - nascimento, vísceral de âmago eterno e fluorescente - um brilho que cega e mata e forma de novo, tudo de novo.
A pele dela tinha a imaturidade da segurança, e a flacidez do descuido e a incerteza de uma vida. Era isso tudo e sem consciência de nada, cresceu raízes que furaram tudo; os olhos e as mãos, o peito e o músculo e na erótica invasão de êxtase, mais de novo as fundações chamaram. Nessa altura de encontro, nada mais que nevoeiro, a pele que cai e repõe camadas que esfolaram até à carne mais viva e mais cruel, real.
Se hoje sentir o ar que voa entre os dedos, lembra o mindinho e a força de ser ave; fecha os olhos nesse instante de consciência sagrada, a mais fiel de todas, a que sente o vento enrolar.
Os pés e as mãos, os seios e a barriga, o cabelo e os lábios eram tara perdida, eram de nada, de ninguém, nem mesmo de alguém. Tudo eram partes da estrada em pé calçado até ao dia em que a roupa se foi, o chão passou a saber a terra e todo o corpo era nu para o mundo, para a floresta marcante de uma voz de leão. Ah os bichos, essa força destemida, audaz e implacável da sobrevivência sem consciência de mal. Não há. Mal. Um leão que dorme é aquele que encontra o que possa caçar - leoa brava.
A tarde de sol ia alta e a fome não ia a lado nenhum, instalada a perda, a mudança, a excessiva despreocupação de doença. Os dias iam longe e os olhos de todos tinham uma espuma de quem acaba de morrer. Um tom claro de quem nunca mais verá luz - um enterro de si mesma, uma fonte de terra e pó, um fim de início e uma febre cegante.
Nem aqui estava, perto do normal; na distância da descoberta que ouvia, vezes sem fim música de ouvidos só para si. E aí o trovão caiu, aí ouviu um som que nunca antes, um encontro do desconhecido e nesse mesmo momento, o flash de infinitas horas, ribombou como pedras de saraiva e, a primeira luz entrou, e a primeira luz refletiu.
Se hoje adormecer para sempre a certeza de mim sinto em todos os poros
Paolini gets major points for managing something that few fantasy authors do: Remembering that black people exist.
He immediately loses half of those points for the phrase “skin the color of oiled ebony.”
Ajihad tells the party to sit, and like good awkward teenagers in front of an obviously powerful authority figure, they sit. We also finally find out that the Twins are Twins, and that they apparently have no names??? I’m still slightly confused by that, Paolini. Also, lots of people in the Varden are bald, apparently. It must be the in look.
Apparently Murtagh not only looks freakishly like his father, but he SOUNDS freakishly like his father. I question this, because apparently Morzan was from the far north and Murtagh, obviously, is from the middle part of the empire. Wouldn’t they realistically have somewhat different accents, even ignoring the fact that Murtagh wasn’t raised around his father’s voice and presumably wouldn’t have mimicked his speaking pattern?
Whatever, Paolini’s not here for my linguistics. Ajihad apparently knows about the scar somehow?? (Yet another Backstory Thing that goes unexplained. The secret lives of Ajihad and Murtagh) He makes Murtagh strip as proof of identity. Murtagh continues to be stubborn and not let anyone into his head, which honestly I can’t blame him. He needs hugs, though, my poor son.
So anyway, Murtagh continues to justifiably defend his privacy rights, so Ajihad has him led out and then kicks everyone else out of the room to talk to Eragon and Saphira privately. Eragon immediately asks about Arya, because he’s hormonal and has a one track mind. (She’ll be fine, she’s just still recovering.)
Eragon tells Ajihad the Full Story. Ajihad immediately latches on, with concern to the alliance Galby has with the Urgals -
“That a Rider, even one as evil as Galbatorix, would consider a pact with such monsters is indeed proof of madness. “
[glances at the later books] we’re all mad here
It’s actually kind of nice to see that Ajihad isn’t perfect - he’s got his racism against the Urgals, too, like pretty much every other human in the series. Anyway, they then talk about Durza, though how Eragon managed to notice the scratch on his sword is a question for another time. If a monster like that was coming at me that’s the least of things I would be worried about.
Ajihad tells us that shooting Durza in the head did exactly jack shit, and that he needs to get stabbed in the heart in order for it to count. Imagine if Murtagh had shot him there to take him out instead of in the skull. That would have been a hell of a thing.
Ajihad tells our protagonist then that he’s going to have to deal wiht POLITICS, and also some basic backstory on what happened after Brom Got Egg. (TLDR; Arya carried it back and forth between the Varden and the Elves for a bunch of years.)
Also it was thought more likely that the dragon would choose an elf, which makes no sense to me? There’s way more human children even in just the Varden than there are among the elves, given that the largest elven city apparently only has TWO children in it. I know the elves are supposedly in decline in parallel with the dragons, but still. Arya’s years among the other elves must have been practically a vacation.
Arya’s ability to use magic is supposedly one of the reasons she was chosen to guard the egg, but??? all elves can use magic??? Their entire society is based around it?? Does Ajihad mean the specific ability to teleport the egg, or.
Anyway, the elves are apparently pissed the fuck off about Arya disappearing and cut off contact with the Varden over it (not the smartest move on their parts) so they still have no idea that Saphira has hatched. Ajihad them gives us a brief overview of POLITICS INVOLVING DWARVES, then pulls out a parchment grabbed from the Urgals that indicates, on the whole, that Galby is building an army of them somewhere nearby.
That’s the kind of thing that’s important enough to be talked about first, you know.
Eragon asks why Brom wasn’t informed, and Ajihad admits that their messenger was probably intercepted and that’s why the Ra’zac found Carvahall in the first place. Thanks, Ajihad. Evidence points to a traitor in the ranks. HMMMMM.
Anyway, it’s time for Eragon to get a snoot up his butt about being independent -
“I mean, what is expected of me in Tronjheim? You and the elves have plans for me, but what if I don’t like them?” A hard note crept into his voice. “I’ll fight when needed, revel when there’s occasion, mourn when there is grief, and die if my time comes . . . but I won’t let anyone use me against my will.” He paused to let the words sink in. “The Riders of old were arbiters of justice above and beyond the leaders of their time. I don’t claim that position—I doubt people would accept such oversight when they’ve been free of it all their lives, especially from one as young as me. But I do have power, and I will wield it as I see fit. What I want to know is how you plan to use me. Then I will decide whether to agree to it.”
Kid you’re not generally in a position to be bargaining too much. You’re just kind of lucky that Ajihad finds this an endearing trait rather than one to be snuffed out. Ajihad babbles about the burdens of leadership for a bit, then gives Eragon back his weapons. Eragon asks about Murtagh (GOOD CHILD!!! BE CONCERNED!!!)
“Innocent or not, he’s potentially as dangerous to us as his father was.”
Not yet he isn’t, jfc Ajihad, the boy does not have a century old dragon.
The returning of equipment resumes.
“That reminds me, I have Brom’s ring, which he sent as confirmation of his identity. I was keeping it for when he returned to Tronjheim. Now that he’s dead, I suppose it belongs to you, and I think he would have wanted you to have it.”
Did Ajihad know? Who knows, he’s dead by the time it’s relevant!
Anyway, Ajihad and Saphira have an exchange with Eragon as proxy, and there’s a brief discussion about how the Twins would get their asses kicked if they ever went up against a rider and dragon.
Ajihad calls Orik in, and says in general that the dwarf did the right thing by disobeying orders, even if he formally needs to be punished. He’s given the sentence of guiding Eragon around the city and not being allowed to fight.
Eragon, One Track Hormones, asks again to see Arya. Ajihad’s like “she’ll come to you when she’s better.” Thanks, Ajihad. Keep those teenagers under control.
(This chapter was so bloody long it took me two days to get through. Dies.)
I know it’s supposed to be “the helmet of trolls” or something similar, but I always parse it as “the helmet of Tron” because Kingdom Hearts is my main fandom.
In the morning, the boys greet each other while Saphira does the “dog growls in its sleep at dreams” thing. Eragon muses on inheritance until Saphira wakes up hungry and interrupts him. Eragon gets bored and looks at a lantern until people actually arrive.
They have been summoned to Ajihad! And are going to walk through extremely public tunnels to make a good impression. So they get lead to their horses and ride down the tunnel with Armed Accompaniment. Just before they’re actually in sight of people, Eragon is told to get up on Saphira instead.
The doors open into the inside of a volcano, with typical Paolini descriptive prose. As someone who actually does live in the shadow of a volcano, volcanic craters do not work in this way. I’m willing to allow it, though, because it’s cool.
Rule of cool justifies a lot of this novel, honestly. The scenry is so impressive that it takes Eragon five paragraphs to notice the crowd. He eventually waves awkwardly (CHEERING GET) and then they go down the path. Saphira blows smoke and generally behaves precisely as a pride-filled dragon ought to, while the humans remain awkward, the crowd remains cheering, and the guards remain guarding.
Eventually they arrive at the city itself, and here I have to laugh at Paolini’s mismatched scales for a bit. The crater is supposedly ten miles across. I realize this is fantasyland and so the population is much lower, but ten miles really isn’t all that large for a city. I don’t know, maybe I’m just spoiled by having lived in metropolitan areas all my life, but ten miles is “not even calling it a commute” distance around here. But then there’s a four story tall gate and that’s??? actually pretty impressive to have carved into solid rock without it shattering and falling on your head?
Anyway. They go in, and eventually arrive at a massive room that goes all the way up to the top “a mile up” (Paolini. Paolini no.). At the top there’s a massive star sapphire of “dawn-red” color, carved into a rose. I am not sure how Eragon can see it in that much detail if it is a mile away. Apparently at this point in the series no one had informed Paolini that red sapphires are usually called “rubies.”
Which is a pity, because it makes for interesting meta regarding Saphira and Thorn being made of the same stuff in a metaphorical sense.
Anyway, they finally get to Ajihad’s door after the horses are taken away, and everyone goes inside.
[goes rifling through Eragon’s brain] Oh, look, I found the porn folder! It’s full of elves! (My pre-cut commentary goes increasingly silly as the hour grows early.)
So, inside the mountain, our heroes get lead off into a big chamber, where they aren’t even allowed to speak until someone’s done brain-rifling. The Twin demands their weapons (which is kind of pointless? they’re either going to be killed or get their stuff back... then again pointless displays of power over someone are a Thing).
Eragon is justified in saying “why?” becauser dude can you PLEASE get his hot elf crush to a healer so she doesn’t die? Thankfully Orik steps in again because “that is an ELF you nincompoop.”
Arya is recognized and taken off to get fixed, thank goodness. Then there’s a creepy bald man telling Eragon to prepare himself. I really am not trying to make this suggestive.
The brain probing HURTS LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER because the twins are bastards, is why. With help from Saphira, Eragon hides a few things, including Murtagh’s secrets and his full knowledge of magic.
His entire body was rigid, jaw locked tightly. Heat radiated from his skin, and a line of sweat rolled down his neck. He was acutely aware of each second as the long minutes crept by.
i really am not trying to make this suggestive
after a longass time, it is done. The Twin takes particular note of Eragon’s mother (haaaaaaa) and information on the Ra’zac and Durza. Eragon kind of slumps over, justifiably given that it’s apparently a quite straining process. Baldy McAsshole demands that Murtagh go next after grudgingly proclaiming Eragon to be okay.
Murtagh is like “lol, fuck this.” and refuses to go along with it. Though he does admit that it would have been possible to threaten Eragon’s life into making him do it... child. important, precious child.
The Twin tries to break through his barriers anyway until Orik calls that shit off. This is not a torture session, not for allies of the free Rider that just showed up at their gates.
“Can he use magic?
“That is—”
“Can he use magic?” roared Orik, his deep voice echoing in the room. The bald man’s face suddenly grew expressionless. He clasped his hands behind his back.
“No.”
how can he tell that without getting mentally nosy? I don’t remember that ever being mentioned as a thing that’s easy to tell.
Anyway, because Murtagh refused to let a horribly painful brainprobing happen, the party gets left in the hall for the night. At least they’re alone and they can talk to each other and get their issues sorted out, right?
...Well, that might be too much to hope.
“How were you able to keep him out? He’s so strong.”
“I’ve . . . I’ve been well trained.” There was a bitter note to his voice.
my son... I really want the rest of your backstory...
.Murtagh thanks Eragon for not betraying his secret, and Eragon heals Saphira’s arrow wounds. Finally, they settle in to actually talk, because Eragon wants to know how and also why and basically just what the fuck, Murtagh. So Murtagh starts talking.
“He used her to carry his secret messages, and he taught her rudimentary magic, [...]”
More than rudimentary, if later accounts are anything to go by. Murtagh goes on to talk about how his mother eventually got pregnant and how she was separated from him after his birth.
“At the time of my birth, only five of the Thirteen were still alive. By the time Morzan left, that number had been reduced to three; when he finally faced Brom in Gil’ead, he was the only one remaining. The Forsworn died through various means: suicide, ambush, overuse of magic . . . but it was mostly the work of the Varden. I’m told that the king was in a terrible rage because of those losses.
Brom must have been really damn active those four or so years. Another story that would be interesting if we ever fucking heard it.
“However, before word of Morzan’s and the others’ deaths reached us, my mother returned. Many months had passed since she had disappeared. Her health was poor, as if she had suffered a great illness, and she grew steadily worse. Within a fortnight, she died.”
A great illness... oradifficultsecondpregnancycough.
Murtagh goes on to talk about how he was raised at the palace, but chose to generally keep away from the court and the king, and on his eighteenth birthday, Galbatorix summoned him personally and was very persuasive about his cause.
“ When he stopped, I eagerly asked how the Riders would be reinstated, for everyone knew there were no dragon eggs left. Galbatorix grew still then and stared at me thoughtfully. “
Galbatorix: What? Yes. The Riders can definitely not be reinstated without more dragons, and I possess absolutely none of those. Of course.
Anyway Murtagh stays in the castle a few more months, and the next time he’s summoned before the king, the man is in a blind rage. Murtagh makes his decision to escape then, with his swordmanship mentor, and as soon as he can he jams the fuck out. Tornac-the-mentor-not-the-horse is killed in the escape.
After the end of the story, Eragon asks Murtagh why he didn’t just come to the Varden, because even with his parentage he would have won trust eventually. Murtagh basically says that he thinks trying to overthrow the whole system is wrong and that it’s just the king who needs to be outed, and so disagrees with the Varden’s rebellion. He apparently does not realize that the whole current system hinges on Galbatorix, and is going to collapse when he’s gone.
(He’s still better at politics than Eragon.)
They are interrupted by the arrival of food, which Murtagh takes as an opportunity to end the conversation. They eat and go to sleep.
Awkwardly suggestive stripping in high tension situations: Paolini’s homoerotic overtones return. (Also, Urgals.)
So after last chapter’s Big Parentage Surprise, Eragon is in disbelief. Can’t really blame him for that, though it’s kind of a crazier thing to claim if it isn’t true, y’know?
“I didn’t choose this!” cried Murtagh, anguish twisting his face. He ripped at his clothes with a desperate air, tearing off his tunic and shirt to bare his torso.
suggestive Paolini prose returns. take it all off, Murtagh (except please don’t, you’ll have to put it back on before you resume running for your life.)
anyway, Murtagh reveals The Big Back Scar, which should logically not cover his whole back, because of How Scars Work. I’m starting to reach the point where I just assume Eragon is an unreliable narrator who exaggerates literally Every Fucking Thing He Sees.
Anyway, there’s some talking about it, Murtagh doesn’t actually explain the big dramatic scar, but Eragon eventually removes his head from his ass and goes “i might as well trust him, I’m running for my life with him” so that’s helpful and mature of him.
They run like hell and get to the lake just as the Urgals catch up. Saphira distracts them so the boys can run up to the stone wall behind the lake, where Eragon bangs with a rock and gets nothing in response. Saphira realizes that they’re on the wrong side of the waterfall, so under arrow fire from the urgals they attempt to cross.
Through the waterfall. These boys aren’t smart. Eragon gets blown down by the water pressure and nearly drowns, before being hauled up by an unknown hand. Thankfully, it does not belong to an Urgal!
It instead belongs to a dwarf. Eragon is sligghtly confused by this, but the Varden’s people are finally shooting the Urgals, so you know. He’s not going to complain.
He looks around for his buddies and finds them at the entrance to a passage, where a tall bald guy has a knife to Murtagh’s throat to ensure ~cooperation~. Everyone goes into the mountain and the door slams closed behind them.
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