Chapters: 2/7
Fandom: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini, Eragon (2006)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Galbatorix/Morzan (Inheritance Cycle), Morzan/Selena (Inheritance Cycle)
Characters: Murtagh Morzansson, Galbatorix (Inheritance Cycle), Morzan (Inheritance Cycle), Selena (Inheritance Cycle), Brom (Inheritance Cycle)
Additional Tags: Rewriting of old fic, named An Eye for an Eye, implied Yaoi, side characters death
Summary:
“It all began with a little boy and an extra hour at Galbatorix' library'
Yes, basically same plot, just longer and generally written better. If you liked that fic, read this ;>
Blödhgarm’s soft voice called out to her. “Drottningu,” he beckoned, not moving his eyes from the hollow.
Squatting beside him to gaze into the depths of the tree, she was surprised to find a pair of eyes already staring back at her. Two large, very familiar brown eyes.
Within the oak stood a baby boy, at most a little over a year old. He had small ears that grew to points, and softly slanting eyes that conveyed clear terror within. Small sticks and detritus had accumulated in the child’s curly brown hair, and he wore nothing but an overly large tunic, so long that it reached past his feet.
Spotting the latest arrival, the boy let out a frightened cry and shuffled further into the hollow, his back pressing hard against the internal wood of the tree.
“Hello sweetheart,” she breathed, moving down to his level and doing her best to seem non-threatening.
At the sound of her voice, the soft brown eyes materialized once more, his head now cocked to the side with reluctant curiosity.
Extending a tendril of thought, Arya whispered quietly within the recesses of the mind before her. Eragon? She asked. The responding brush of his consciousness confirmed what she already suspected.
Also known as the fluff-packed piece where Eragon gets turned into a toddler temporarily, and adorable chaos ensues.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Things were finally looking up again, for real this time, even if the progress was so painfully slow that he might as well be doing stick n pokes out of his apartment again– His brain circled the problem quickly, evenly beating the new information into the well–worn trail. Shouta came to look for him and not the other way around, which meant things aren't as one sided as Hizashi had feared, which meant it's all fixable if he could quit being terrified of fucking everything and just figure out how to be a normal person for twenty seconds or maybe just get into the club.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 9/?
Fandom: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini, Eragon (2006)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Galbatorix/Morzan (Inheritance Cycle), Morzan/Selena (Inheritance Cycle)
Characters: Murtagh Morzansson, Galbatorix (Inheritance Cycle), Morzan (Inheritance Cycle), Selena (Inheritance Cycle), Brom (Inheritance Cycle)
Additional Tags: Rewriting of old fic, named An Eye for an Eye, side characters death, Yaoi, Selena being Selena, Morzan is just stressed forgive him, Murtagh is the doom of everyone himself included, I write better here just check it out, Murtagh is basically the main character even though he's a kid, plot twists along the way, Eragon is on his way but hé might lose it while he walks
Summary:
“It all began with a little boy and an extra hour at Galbatorix' library.”
NEW NEW NEW chapter! Stuff is happening finally (sigh). Enjoy this colorful chapter before the angst.
Trigger warnings for canon-typical graphic violence and torture.
Following the Siege of Dras-Leona, Murtagh and Thorn launch a successful attack against the Varden. During the fight, Eragon falls from Saphira’s back, and Thorn uses the momentary distraction to both wound Saphira and knock Arya unconscious. Murtagh, who originally planned to capture Nasuada, decides to take advantage of this rare opportunity, and during the chaos, Thorn and Murtagh manage to seize Eragon and spirit him away to Urû'baen. Canon non-compliant fic detailing Eragon’s capture, trials, and eventual rescue.
First chapter based heavily on Nasuada’s capture.
Part 1 || AO3 (parts 2-6)
Eragon opens his eyes.
The first thing he notices is the pounding in his head; an almost percussive agony that brings him more fully to awareness. His thoughts, however, feel thick and slow, as if he were drunk with exhaustion. Turning his head makes the pain worse, so instead he stares with detached interest at the roof above him.
Tiles cover the dark, vaulted ceiling, and upon the tiles are painted angular patterns of red, blue, and gold: a complex matrix of lines that trap his gaze for a mindless while.
The soft crackle of a smoldering fire draws his attention, and at last he musters the will and energy to look away from the intricate designs. A simmering glow emanates from a source somewhere behind him, and he senses more than sees that the illumination is due to a brazier nearby. The glow is just strong enough to reveal the shape of the octagonal room, but not so bold as to dispel the shadows clinging to its corners.
Finally, he looks down, and notices the surface upon which he’s been restrained. It’s cold, smooth, and uncomfortably hard; the rough stone chafes irritably against his exposed hands and legs. A chill creeps into his bones, and he finds himself wishing for something warmer than the tattered tunic and loose trousers he had been wearing whilst drinking with Arya. Eyeing his lower half, he also realizes that he is weaponless, a fact that is unsurprising but disappointing all the same. Chances are, both his bow and Brisingr still lay on the grassy knoll near Dras-Leona where he fell.
But where am I now?
With immense caution, he pushes his mind out- or tries to- but to his alarm, he only feels a soft, indistinct pressure surrounding him. It’s as if bales of wool are packed around his mind, and he finds that he can neither extend his consciousness outward, nor access the part of himself that houses his magic.
He’s unsure if he’s been drugged, but if this were done by magic, it was a magic that was completely unknown to him.
Eragon shudders, then tries to sit upright, but the padded manacles that he now sees encircle his limbs prevent him from moving more than a fraction of an inch in any direction. He furrows his brow and realizes that a thick leather belt holds his head firmly against the slab as well, preventing him from turning it more than a few degrees.
Even though he knows it’s futile, he strains against the bonds with all his strength, but they are too secure for even him to break. It’s this realization that causes him to truly panic.
Eragon allows himself a few moments of chest-heaving, muscle-trembling terror before he forces himself to calm, one carefully-controlled breath at a time. The only power he has in this situation is self-control, and he is not about to relinquish it willingly.
The pace of his breaths slow further. The regular, smooth flow through his throat and nostrils begins to crowd out all else. Then, once he’s reasonably certain he is not going to come undone, he allows his gaze to wander once more.
Turning his head what little it can, he glances out the window beside him, neck muscles straining with the effort. To his shock, he actually recognizes the landscape from a fairth he had studied while in Ellesmera.
He’s in Urû'baen.
His heart rate spikes once more, and he quickly loses what little hard-won composure he had gained.
Eragon is still working to calm his erratic breaths when he hears the footsteps in the hallway. His sensitive hearing picks them up easily: a group, some marching in rhythm, some not. The cacophony is so great that he’s unable to determine their exact number, nor their exact distance from him.
The second query is soon answered when the procession approaches, stopping directly outside the doorway to his chamber. There’s quiet murmuring, followed by two sets of clacking footsteps- the product of hard-soled riding boots, he guesses- then a single man enters the room.
The door closes with a hollow thud, and Eragon flinches.
Down the stairs the footsteps come, steady and deliberate. In his arms, the man carries a chair and places it somewhat near the brazier, his body only visible in Eragon’s periphery.
Silence reigns as he fills the copper brazier with charcoal, but then he moves it closer to the slab, closer to Eragon, and the motion produces a painful screech that drives into his ears like nails. Being well-restrained, all Eragon can do is cringe inwardly and watch, transfixed. The man takes flint and steel from the pouch on his belt and lights a nest of shredded tinder in the center of the brazier. The sparks smolder and spread, and the tinder glows like a ball of red-hot wires. Then, he bends, blowing on the incipient fire, and the sparks spring into lambent flames.
The man is not large: not fat, but broad-shouldered. A long black cape hangs draped around his well-built frame. Light from the coals cast his form in shadow, his features too dark to make out, even with Eragon’s advanced senses. Still, the shadows do nothing to obscure the outline of the sharp, pointed crown resting upon his brow, and they similarly fail to conceal the three long irons now resting in the heating coals.
Finally, the man drops into the chair with a near-silent exhale.
One by one, he tugs on the fingers of his gauntlets, then pulls off his gloves. Tossing them carelessly aside, they land with a soft thump of hide on stone. Underneath the gloves, Eragon notices, the man’s hands are the color of tarnished bronze.
Then, the man speaks. His voice is low, rich and commanding, and Eragon shivers again. His skin prickles uncomfortably and he finds himself thinking of Elva, of all people, and her authority over people’s minds. He has no doubt that he is now in the presence of the king.
“Welcome to Urû’baen, Eragon, son of Morzan,” Galbatorix intones. “Welcome to this, my home, ‘neath these ancient piled rocks. Long has it been since a guest as distinguished as yourself has graced us with their presence. My energies have been occupied elsewhere, but I assure you, from now on, I shall not neglect my duties as host.”
The fire crackles menacingly as if to underscore the hard steel underlying the king’s tone, his words. Galbatorix leans forward, and Eragon can feel the weight of his gaze: boring into him, assessing, scrutinizing.
“You are younger than I expected. I knew you had recently come of age, but still, you are no more than a child.” He pauses for a moment, as if in thought. “Most seem as children to me these days. Foolhardy children who know not what is best for them- children who need the guidance of those who are older and wiser.”
Eragon sets his chin, not wanting to show fear or vulnerability in front of the king.
“Such as yourself?” He asks in a scornful tone.
Galbatorix chuckles. “Would you rather the elves ruled over us? I am the only one of our race who can hold them at bay. By their reckoning, even our oldest graybeards would be considered untested youths, unfit for the responsibilities of adulthood.”
“And by their reckoning, so would you.” With each word, his fear melts away, replaced by pure defiance and bubbling fury.
The amusement in the king’s eyes angers Eragon, but he stays otherwise silent.
“Ah, but I contain more than my share of years. The memories of hundreds are mine, whispering their wisdom in my ears,” replies Galbatorix, smirking conspiratorially. “You especially should understand of what I speak.”
Eragon purses his lips and refuses to confirm what they both know is true.
Galbatorix allows the silence to settle for a moment, then gestures at the room with his gauntlets, continuing unperturbed. “This is a place for truths to be told… and heard. I will tolerate no lies within these walls, not even the simplest of falsehoods.”
The legs of the chair scrape over the floor, and Galbatorix’s breath suddenly wafts, warm against his ear. “I know this will be painful for you, Eragon Shadeslayer, painful beyond belief. You will have to unmake yourself before pride will allow you to submit. In all the world, nothing is harder than changing one’s own self. I understand this, for I have reshaped myself on more than one occasion. However, I will be here to hold your hand and help you through this transition. Although we do not have much time, you need not take this journey alone. And you may console yourself with the knowledge that I will never lie to you. Not within this room. Doubt me if you wish, but in time you will come to believe me. You may ask whatever you want, and I promise you, that I shall answer truthfully. As the king of these lands, I give you my sworn word.”
Eragon’s jaw clenches painfully, and from between clenched teeth, he spits, “I’ll never tell you what you want to know!”
A slow deep chuckle fills the room. “You misunderstand; You were not brought here because I seek information. There’s nothing you could say that I don’t already know. You have no secrets from me, none whatsoever; it is pointless to insist upon holding your tongue, for it will only cause you pain and suffering.”
“Why then?” he growls.
Galbatorix moves to better meet Eragon’s gaze with his own.
“Why did I have you brought here? Because, my son, you have gifts far deadlier than anything magic or man could create. You are here because you have proven yourself worthy of my attention. I wish to have you by my side. A new order is about to descend upon Alagaësia, and I would have you be part of it. Voluntarily, if I can.”
Eragon squints, not trusting the king’s words. “Are you not going to use your mind against me?”
He shakes his head. “I have other ways to break you, my son. I could easily seize control of your mind and force you to swear fealty to me, but instead, I would have you make this decision of your own free will, and while still in possession of your faculties. For now, I am satisfied to discover just how brave you really are, Eragon, son of the Forsworn.”
Eragon clenches his muscles to prevent the growing tremors in his arms and legs from becoming visible.
“The Varden are fast approaching, desperate to rescue their Rider, so I will have to do this efficiently, and in a much shorter time frame than I would prefer.” A wickedly devious smile stretches Galbatorix’ cheeks. “Take this, then, as a sign of my regard for you, Eragon, that I must inflict such suffering to assure victory.” His voice drops to a whisper as he leans in even closer. “I would not, however, wish to exchange places with you.”
This is my final duty: resisting my interrogation. I will not break.
“Now, before we begin,” croons Galbatorix. “I’ll ask you one last time: will you submit?”
Eragon thinks of Saphira, and his resolve hardens. “Never.”
I took a short break, but have some angst from the next chapter of Iced Cappuccino
Shouta just wanted everything to stop. He kept getting hit with one thing after another without a single chance to breathe. If he took even a moment’s rest after one blow, the next would destroy him, and he refused, point blank. The alternative was fighting each battle as they came in hopes of just being around for the next one. He functioned well enough, considering how suddenly everything started falling down around him- Vlad let him do laundry in his flat and he managed to bathe enough, but catching his reflection in anything made it obvious that he wasn’t doing as well as he wanted to think.
It was almost impressive. Shouta had thought the bags under his eyes couldn’t get deeper, but they did, and his already-knotted hair gradually knotted again. No matter how hard he tried to smooth it down or comb it out with his fingers, it wouldn’t lay flat. He’d given up and started pulling it into disastrous attempt at a ponytail, but that barely helped his attempt to look alive, much less actually put together.
