lords-of-the-empire

[lords-of-the-empire]

Modern Inheritance: Spit-take (supershort)

Arya felt her eyebrow twitch involuntarily as her mother reached for her mug of tea, for all intents and purposes looking oblivious to the slight she had dealt. They both knew, though, that the comment was the gentlest the queen could have given, out of line though it was, and completely and utterly intentional.

The younger elf suppressed a sigh. Islanzadí was…trying. She’d give her that much.

…That didn’t mean she had to pull her own punches, though.

“Speaking of family….” Arya picked up her own mug as Islanzadí began to drink, a quiet hum of acknowledgement the only sign that the woman was listening. “It’s a bit late, but Uncle Ki-Ki told me to tell you he said hi.”

Arya didn’t even blink as the queen of the elves, monarch to her entire race, promptly spewed tea a good six feet in what was honestly one of the most impressive spit takes the young elf had seen in her century on this earth.

“He also said some other things, but I don’t think I should repeat them in polite company.” Arya muttered into the rim of her mug. Beside her Islanzadí sputtered and coughed, eyes so wide her daughter half wondered if they would fall out of her damn head. “Did you really believe Brom killed him, alone, in single combat? Please.” 

[lords-of-the-empire]

Checks out to me, I always got the feeling that dragon-names were concepts translated to bipedal languages more than anything else. Didn't Glaedr say that the dragon who did the pact after the war with the elves had a name who couldn't be translated?

You know what? I think we should add another layer of name-shenanigans to the Inheritance Cycle, specifically through the psychic medium (ha). One thing I’ve always found interesting about the writing of the Cycle is the dragons’ language, specifically when they string multiple words together to add depth and meaning to an otherwise singular idea. The wind is not just the wind, it’s “wind-of-morning-heat-above-flat-land,” which is different from “wind-of-morning-heat-above-hills.”

Now, are Saphira and the other dragons thinking in terms of this many words? Are they even speaking those words? The Cycle is, for now, a book series, not a psychic experience beamed straight into our consciousness—it has to make do with words. What I suggest is that they are not in fact using words, at least not in their own heads: they’re using feelings, images, ideas, the way wild dragons are said to communicate. In essence, if spoken or written language that relies only on words can be said to be two-dimensional, dragon language is actually three- or four-dimensional: a word is not just a word to be heard or thought, it is also felt.

So! Dragon names. Similar to true names, these are an element beyond cognates or given names; but instead of being an intrinsic Foundation Of Self characterized by your experience and Who You Are As A Person, a dragon name is the feeling that you inspire in, well, a dragon. Every dragon will have a different name for you; it may change, as your relationship with that dragon changes; but whether they call you by your first name or by a title, the feeling is likely the same, or has the same core.

…basically I’m just reinventing the wheel on, like, emotional associations your head makes with people, but I feel like for Cycle dragons, who communicate almost entirely through mental contact, the feelings associated with people as well as words would be a fairly significant cultural thing.

So. Dragon names. :)

[lords-of-the-empire]

"Dark Magic"

*Rubbing temples*

Paolini never really defines dark magic in Inheritance Cycle. It's most frequently associated with Shades and Galbatorix. Durza taught Galbatorix 'dark magics' before he went on his traitorous rampage. Durza uses 'dark magics' to give Eragon his curse (??? look I'm still not fully clear on wtf Eragon's seizures were, we could go into a full side tangent rant on this but I digress) and used it in a variety of other ways. There's scattered mentions of 'dark magic' throughout the books beyond these.

But we are never told, as far as I am aware, about what exactly it is. What we know of magic is that it is typically shaped through use of the Ancient Language, some creatures, like dragons, can effect the world through the use of instinctive magic, and that magic in other cases and places just appears in the world (floating rocks, etc, though come to think of it no wait stop sciencing).

In this TED Talk I wi– I'm kidding. We're here to talk about MIC adaptations again.

MIC has always been a bit of a science experiment. In the later books we can see Paolini really using science to explain what happens when Eragon or others craft certain spells. Hell, he even uses coding in Murtagh, which made me grin a bit. I'm awful at it but If/Then statements are coding 101 kinda things. But a lot of the time we are left in the dark (pun somewhat intended) on how certain things work.

I (have I??) explain some things via science/biology/etc in MIC. Elves bones have to be stronger to resist their innate strength or else they'd shatter their skeletons every time then did something with force, so I adapted the Spartan-III augmentations of Titanium Carbide replacing the typical materials of calcium and whatnot. There's a weird bit of their diet that changes because of that. I have a few others but that's the main one I think I spent ages going over in my head.

So what is 'dark magic?' How do we explain it scientifically, or in context of the mix of language and science that the IC magic system is based off of?

WELL!

I just realized I don't remember what I was LANGUAGE!

RIGHT! WHY DID I TALK ABOUT SCIENCE?!

I am currently writing a story about Eragon's seizures and what people are doing to see about finding a cure. This requires me to look at dark magic. And since we have no canon idea of if dark magic would draw from the same language as 'regular' magic, making it just...regular magic with inherently dark motives, which is boring, I decided to change it up a bit.

The Ancient Language is, well, ancient. One day I will spell Language properly without autocorrect but here we are. Although AL (it is not today) is considered locked in, I wouldn't be surprised if there were other languages and/or dialects of AL. The dwarves and the dragons are the 'true' inhabitants of Alagäesia (were-creatures?? more like where did they come from but again, I digress)–

and you know what I just read the Ancient Language and Grey Folk pages on the wiki and now I'm kinda mad bUT I'M DOING WHAT I'M DOING ANYWAY.

Long story short: there are several different dialects of AL, influenced by a lot of different factors. The dark magic Ancient Language dialect was created by shades and other malevolent creatures w/ sentience and magic usage, and is purposefully absolutely fucking convoluted, varied and jumbled with lots of uuuuh what's the word influence fuck I just had it

the caster can choose and mix and match their syntax and structure at will. to prevent their curses from being undone unless you were present during the casting and know almost word for word what was said and used for the curse/spell. The dragon's magic that undid Eragon's curse was basically like a cleanse and used dragon's instinctive world weave magic to rewrite Eragon enough that he sorta DNA mixed (sorry Paolini, in MIC we do get some fun DNA rewriting because Ket wants the science....mmm....science......) with elf code and a little bit of dragon code (possibly, I'm a little on unsure on this, elves are already a mix of their original base with dragon code due to the orignal bond and I'M GETTING OFF TOPIC AGAIN) and he became different enough that the curse no longer worked and because he was uh...well, he was kinda factory reset. It wiped any and all spells attached to his body.

uh

okay. I...think I made my point. I'm...I'm sorry I just completely lost my train of thought after 'attached to his body.'

um.

Have a good day, I guess.

[lords-of-the-empire]

Chomp Chomp Motherf*cker

TW: uh...implied(?) torture and Arya being the feral elf we know her to be and possibly enjoying some finger food (spat it out eventually).

“You have caused me trouble, little elf.” His sharp teeth flashed as he spat the words. She wanted to reply, wanted to laugh in his face and tell him ‘Good!’ but even a single word could open the floodgates. She kept her mouth shut. Taunting him at another point would be best. Not when she was this…bad. Half awake. Not all there. “Two guards, dead. I’ve been too soft on you if you still have the strength left.” The shackles made a definitive click as he lifted them up and onto one of the bars that lined the wall, held her arms up so her hands hung limply just above her head.

He paused then. His thin lips began to curl up at the edges, venom dripping from his words with just as much dark amusement. “Though…” he mused. He dragged a cold finger down the woman’s jawline, lifted her chin to better study her face and the glassy haze to her usually fiery eyes. “Your attempts at combat are…very amusing to me. I would hate to waste such fight over a few humans.” 

The fire was back a split second before she sank her teeth into his damn finger. Felt bone splinter and flesh tear and blood that tasted like rot and bile fill her mouth. His other hand came up just as she yanked her head to the side as hard as she could, reveled in the burst of strength and the howl and snarl that followed. 

The snarling continued and one of his nails gouged a path up from her jaw towards her mouth as he latched onto her again. Squeezed the bone of her lower mandible hard and wordlessly roared at her. 

She spat his finger in his face in response. ‘I’m vegan anyway.’ The thought and moment of triumph had her smiling, her own sharp teeth black with shade blood. The vile liquid burned where it trickled from the corners of her lips and into the fresh gouge he had carved, but right then she couldn’t care less. Sweet victory tased like rotten blood and acid and him screaming.

[lords-of-the-empire]

Putting this here instead on my largely defunct main blog.

Palaeontologist for sure.

Like, it's not even close. From as early back as I can remember until I was 13-15 sometime and all I wanted to do was related to dinosaurs. I wanted to travel and dig them up, make important finds and have a huge Allosaurus-style theropod I could name. At times I was tempted to be a writer or historian or somesuch, but brief affairs aside dinosaurs were my one true love.

if we lived in a world where u had to do the career u were first interested in as a child what would u be doing, id be a firefighter

[lords-of-the-empire]

The oldest living tree ever found was a pine named “Prometheus.” It had been alive since before the Egyptian pyramids were built. Some guy cut it down in 1964. Source

#he's ducking elf assassins

[lords-of-the-empire]

There's something inherently ugly about how you ship Murtagh with Orrin. It's one thing to not like the main ship for a beloved character as set up by the author - valid - but it's another to push half of said ship away to force in your fave pasty white boy. You can write meta after meta after meta all you want about how poor Orrin is done dirty, or how that meanie Nasuada hurt him, or how the books don't put your fave background character on a pedestal, but all your writing amounts to is the fact that you've imprinted on Orrin and are now using him as a vessel for your original character. In your writing, he's not a character from the series anymore - he's your OC wearing Orrin's face and bearing Orrin's name. Which, it isn't bad to expand upon a sidelines character. But it's the way you turn around and spew how fandom fave Murtagh is in love with your OC that really shows the truth and the rot festering in you. You can cry and bemoan the romantic love Paolini has written between Murtagh and Nasuada, but your essay won't amount to jack shit if you're just going to turn around and replace Nasuada with your OC and suddenly sing it's praise.

Before you start decrying all of this, ask yourself: why are you so desperate to discredit canon's romance? It's one thing to think they should both remain single after the trauma they experienced throughout the series - fair take. But then why are you so eager to prop up your own ship? Is "Orrin" inherently more worthy of of Murtagh's love? Or is Nasuada simply not worthy, but instead in the way, in your eyes? You can wish all you want for people to love your writing, but that doesn't hide the rotten foundation of your ship: sidelining Nasuada to uplift your white fave and wanting him to have all that she does. No amount of rambling meta about how they're a "good ship" and they would work will ever cover up your inherent biases and -ism's that your poor sad white boy's ship is built upon.

For the love of god.

Anon, let me just say this to you directly- block me. It's that easy. Sending something like this instead is an embarrassment. But since you've already said your piece, I'll go ahead and say mine.

Let me first bring up what you oddly wouldn't directly accuse me of (maybe even you knew what a blatant straw man it is), that being racism. I'm not going to make light of this. Racism in fandom is a real issue, and separating a ship with a character of color to ship white characters can be a symptom of that. I have never turned a blind eye to this and I make a continual effort to remain conscious of it because it's incredibly important to me that I'm not contributing to this kind of prejudice in fandom.

This pairing started years ago when I thought of a crack ship polycule with all three of them. Over time as I considered that, the idea of shipping Murtagh and Orrin developed into a distinct concept which I found more intriguing than shipping Murtagh and Nasuada. At that point, I made an active decision to examine my interest and determine if it was grounded in the way canon presents the individual qualities and dynamics of these specific characters, independent of the broad groups any of them fall into, or if it lacked any such basis in canon and only stemmed from an unconscious bias of mine. And if I didn't find any substantial elements of canon that supported the idea, I intended to put it away and work through my bias.

So I looked, and I found I could fully explain the reasons the ship appealed to me through the details in the books. I never made some public announcement about taking this issue into full consideration because it shouldn't be performative. Holding myself accountable is a basic personal responsibility which I take seriously, not something to make me look better. But it’s always felt meaningful to simply convey that I care about putting thought and reason into my ideas and my preference for my ship isn’t baseless. I’ve done that, but it seems I should be more direct here.

So let me lay out my thought process. Why am I not interested in shipping Murtagh and Nasuada? The things that deter me personally are both emotional and logistical issues. The major emotional issue to me is how disparate their priorities are. Murtagh prioritizes protecting loved ones, which causes issues when he accepts and complies with awful acts while trying to defend them. Nasuada prioritizes the good of her cause, which causes issues when she dismisses another person’s wellbeing when it’s in the way of her goals. Murtagh’s character arc is about learning the best thing he can do for his loved ones might be accepting their willingness to make sacrifices, suggesting he becomes aware of his issue and would try to correct that going forward. However, Nasuada still doesn’t seem aware of her issue after the war, given her policy about magicians and her minimal concern for Roran, so that still presents an underlying problem that would badly exacerbate their serious trauma until it’s addressed.

None of that is a moral judgment on anything. Both of them could cause any number of other issues; it’s just stating where they stand. And I still think they could be written in a way that stays true to their characters while working through those issues so that they stay together. I think it’d be exceptionally challenging, and it still might not be to my own taste, but it has that potential. But there are also logistical issues. Nasuada is queen in Uru’baen. I genuinely feel like this is so meaningful to her character, a very fitting culmination of her aspirations, and if she were to take substantial spans away from her throne, it would be a disservice to how she was written. That said, with the way I characterize Murtagh, I really don’t feel that he would want to openly settle in a place defined by politics and power struggles. I feel like it would be very unfulfilling for him and Thorn, especially in the city of his tumultuous childhood and their tortuous enslavement. So given the dissatisfaction if Nasuada left the rule she wants and deserves and the discontent of Murtagh living in Uru’baen, I struggle to imagine them as more than a distant, intermittent relation.

So that’s why I personally don’t enjoy shipping them. Of course, it’s subjective, but I feel like it’s also fair, and you seem to suggest that you do too. So let’s move on. So now the question is if a potential relationship with Orrin would present the same or equivalent issues that I overlook just because he's a white man.

Naturally, this is subjective too, but I say no. Of course there are still possible emotional issues between them (if there were none it’d be boring), but they’re different. Given the way specific way Orrin grieves for his friends and struggles to have faith in their cause when he sees the risk of his people being killed, I believe he is also more focused on looking after individuals than pursuing a cause. I feel like that lays a smoother groundwork with Murtagh, who has been hurt by people who dismissed his wellbeing, and that reduces a lot of underlying pain between them. Orrin’s other struggles, like defeatism, fear, and hopelessness, as well as yearning for recognition and autonomy, align with Murtagh’s experience more in a way that makes their emotional issues more interesting to engage with.

With logistical issues, obviously Orrin is also a king. But I don’t find that presents the same issues either. I interpret that Orrin didn’t want to be king and isn’t content in that role. When the matter of Murtagh’s desire to avoid being openly tied to Surda’s seat of power arises, I find a much more interesting and balanced potential story where Orrin also hopes to leave his crown and they support each other in their search for a home that they can both make their own. The discrepancies I personally find so bothersome between Murtagh and Nasuada don’t come up with Murtagh and Orrin, so I enjoy their ship more. It’s just about my interpretation of compatibility. That is the crux of my thought process. No one has to agree with it, but I believe it stands as a fair assessment.

You insist that I ask myself why I prefer one ship over another. I've done that. I've already been doing that the entire time and will continue to do so. You keep whining that I make a lot of meta analysis about aspects of the characters and how I feel like they would or wouldn't mesh together, and yeah. That's the whole fucking point. In the same way I just did, those posts explore and articulate the concrete reasons one ship appeals to me and one doesn't. For years I've diligently asked myself why I'm drawn to Murtagh/Orrin more than Murtagh/Nasuada and I'm fully secure and confident in my answer that it's the emotional and narrative possibilities they have that appeal to me more. If I was given all the details of these characters, stripped of any names, descriptions, genders, ect. I know I would still really love this ship.

And that's not even to say that it's somehow "better" (it's just different in a way that suits my taste), or that Murtagh and Nasuada's relationship must be meaningless or non-existent if it's not romantic. In my story where I ship him and Orrin, he and Nasuada go through struggles, but as they grow, they're able to reconcile and learn to better support each other and their relationship ends in a much better place.

(Also, if you're talking about my “essay” that Murtagh's true name doesn't change because he fell for Nasuada, that's irrelevant to shipping them. The series could end with them getting married and they could be my all time otp, and it'd still be true that falling in love didn't change his true name. It's just a separate part of his character arc.)

For another thing, Murtagh and Nasuada are NOT a canon ship, and that does matter. For example, it has very different implications to change an interracial ship that is happily married in canon. In the IC, it is canon that they're attracted to each other, but nothing beyond that. (And I've never even discredited that! In fact, I've said their attraction is well written and in character. It's included in my story; I didn't overwrite it.) They're never in a relationship and there's no set up that implies romance is inevitable for their stories. You yourself acknowledge that there are very valid reasons to interpret that a romantic relationship wouldn't work between them!!! So if it's fine to not ship Murtagh and Nasuada as a couple, why is it suddenly heinous to imagine Murtagh with someone else?

It’s not. Your claims are far more baseless and distasteful. Why do you act like Nasuada couldn’t possibly be respected or worthy without Murtagh’s affection? Why do you act like pointing out her mistakes condemns her entirely, as if she’s not allowed to have any flaws? Why do you think a relationship with Murtagh is equivalent to all that Nasuada has? I won’t make your kind of moral accusations about a stranger, but I will simply say that I find that very objectionable. I love Nasuada for being such a unique, flawed, and fascinating character who is so much more than all that. And if you made such a volatile, deplorable, inappropriate response simply to the idea that Murtagh- a fictional character- could love someone else, you might need to take a step back. You’re being cruel.

(Also, I don’t feel like going through the whole “u just made orrin into an oc” shit tbh. This is long enough. I take care to draw my characterization from canon, but y’all can read my stuff and decide for yourself if you’d like. Although, saying I imprinted on him is the funniest part of this ludicrous message. You know what, yeah. I’ve tricked you all. You thought this blog was being run by a human being? WRONG. Baby duckling.)

#orrinxmurtagh is OK #but it isn't on the same powerlevel as formoraxeragon (one word: timetravel)

[lords-of-the-empire]

9,5/10 fanart of Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen for ASoIaF fame, by artigas on deviantart.

This is pretty much exactly how I picture human Riders a couple of centuries in - inhumanly beautiful and decked out like royalty in fine clothing, masterwork armour and plenty of details tying in to their bonded dragons.

I also tend to interpret northern Alagaesia as being kind of viking-ish or early-medieval in general aesthetic, with all the references to Norse mythology in the elves, isolated villages/homesteads and such, so the clothing fits really well with that, especially since it isn't trying to be a 100% accurate replica of historical clothing but mixes in other influences and fantasy bits.

#only reason it isn't a 10/10 is that Visenya's breasts must be truly backbreaking to bulge out like that beneath thick clothes and chainmail #she's wearing armour on top of at least a couple of layers of clothes #and obviously GRRM's dragons don't look much like IC dragons #still absolutely love it though

[lords-of-the-empire]

i care so much about fictional morality and ethics but not in a lame ass "is this character/ship problematic" way. i'm cringe for other reasons.

[lords-of-the-empire]

It's incredibly amusing to consider the things that Murtagh technically would not know about because he fucked off at the end of the war. (i suspect the new book fudges a lot of this, but im not talking about that.) And the "Brom is Eragon's dad" situation is by far the funniest.

Because Eragon drops that bombshell in the middle of the final confrontation and Does Not Elaborate, including when he talks to Murtagh right before he leaves. He has literally no idea how Brom fits into the backstory of his parents. Technically, he still shouldn't even know that Selena ever betrayed Morzan and helped the Varden! He just has to deal with the knowledge that Brom fucked his mom ~at some point~ and he has no clue what was going on with that. And combined with the details Murtagh does know about the three of them, it's even funnier, like Brom had hang ups about BOTH his parents??? I just know it convinces him that all of them were insane. He has the very tip of the iceberg and everything beneath seems Messy, he's not even sure he wants the rest of the story.

Also he wouldn't actually know how the hell Eragon killed Galbatorix. Eragon doesn't explain that either and Murtagh wouldn't have a different way to know. The spell wasn't spoken, and assuming Murtagh was conscious enough to process all the shit going down, Eragon only says "I made you understand" which is incredibly vague on its own. From Murtagh's perspective, Eragon cast some kinda spell on Galbatorix that apparently sucked so bad that he blew himself up. And he just has no idea what it actually did

King of "I don't know what the fuck is going on so I'll just roll with it I guess"

[lords-of-the-empire]

If Eragon were to have a different love interest then Arya, what kind of love interest would you think is best suited for him?

[lords-of-the-empire]

“bro” is literally the MOST gender-neutral to me 😭😭😭

[lords-of-the-empire]

the funniest thing in the entire pirates of the caribbean series is definitely that one scene in At World’s End where they have parlay but davy jones is part of it, and rather than have him stand in the shallows or something they get a big bucket of water and have in stand on it on shore

who thought of that idea? who thought “put davy jones in a bucket of water” and had the guts to suggest it aloud? and then who went “hey that sounds like a great idea!”

at some point someone told davy jones their idea was for him to stand in a bucket of water and he agreed to it

[lords-of-the-empire]

Modern Inheritance: Reunion, pt. 1 (Reunion and Loss)

(A/N: This came about while I was listening to Eldest at work because fuck yeah work-encouraged headphones! I had written a reunion for Glenwing and Arya in MIC years ago, and now it just didn’t feel right. So this happened.

It’s been almost a year since I really wrote anything for MIC that I found presentable and that I wrote so…voraciously? Iunno. I think in the interim my writing style may have changed. We’ll see how y’all like it. Everyone is a bit…softer? There’s definitely more crying than anyone has done in MIC before.

Before we start, I also need to make a distinct warning. I’ve given more description of wounds this time. Not like…oozy stuff really. But MIC is about the war and its effects, physical and mental, on people. Glenwing had some pretty bad injuries in the ambush, and I wanted to highlight that he’s got his own demons and trauma from the experience. I’ve introduced the concept of ‘recall’ for elves, which was touched on in ‘Collateral’ but never fleshed out till now. Make your decision to read with that in mind. There’s more of it in the next part, but Glenwing’s moments are fairly rough in my opinion. 

The other half will be out when I figure out how to end it better than I did last night. Oh, and I can’t remember, but there might be more little hints and bits in this part that connect or refer to events seen or mentioned in other stories. Woo! Scavenger hunt! Cheers everyone, and welcome back to MIC!)

REUNION

The bustle of activity and near constant rush of people passed by in a blur. Arya let the crowd flow around her, sinking away from the main crush. She settled a few paces behind her mother where the Queen was conversing with Däthedr, silent and watchful as she always had been in these situations. 

She was glad that Saphira and Eragon took most, if not all, the attention away from her. After that whirlwind of political and personal business, Arya didn’t feel much like talking to anyone. Such situations always put her on edge, and after so long away the combat liaison was finding it increasingly difficult to hold her tongue and remain the polite and proper diplomat she pretended to be in the pines.

So instead of mingling, Arya settled into an ingrained At Ease stance and began watching the gathered elves. Well, not so much the elves. Brom was her main target. The man had been all but forgotten in the rush, just as he had planned, and he sat at a table nursing a tankard of faelnirv. Yes, an entire tankard. To himself. Because that would end well. As the hour went on Arya contemplated asking her mentor for his shortsword and rifle. There’d be hell to pay if Oromis had to come down early to corral his former student yet again.  

Oromis. Arya suppressed a wince; facing him was just as daunting as facing her mother. He wouldn’t have left the world unwatched while the queen wallowed in her self pity. He and Glaedr had to have know about Eragon, Saphira, Brom. Their madcap running around the Empire. Farthen Dûr.

And he would know about Arya. And Gil’ead. She hoped he hadn’t seen too much of that. 

For a split second Arya smelled wet concrete and tasted copper and iron. The lilting music and bubbly voices smothered down to a low drone, a buzz that dug into her ear as the suddenly harsh light flickered. 

Behind her back she felt her hands involuntarily snap into white knuckled fists, nails digging deep into her palms. Her wrists burned, fingers tingling with sharp pins and needles as the wet fire encircled the ruined skin and rusted steel bit in deep–

It took a breath, a blink. A shaking thumb subtly run over the dark swathe of scar tissue under the cuff of her combat jacket sleeve. Feeling the half rumpled and half silky repairs to her body. 

The world snapped back into focus in time for Arya to mumble a returned greeting as another elf brushed past. She bit her tongue for real this time. ‘Damn recall.’

The night dragged on, and while the rest of Ellesméra whirled and danced Arya could not help but feel rooted in place, stationary in both time and movement. It felt…wrong. She was no stranger to solitude, that was certain, but for some reason standing there, alone despite the sea of people, felt off. 

The hollow feeling in her chest intensified. Ellesméra felt leagues larger without them there.

Her bitter musings were interrupted by a violent yank on her arm. 

Everything in her body snapped taut as Arya whirled, letting the attacker’s motion turn her as she brought up both fists. The momentum carried her raising arm up to lock against the inner elbow of the man that was now grabbing at her shoulders, ready to throw him off and slam him in the jaw with her free palm. He had both shoulders now, fingers tightening, one hand impossibly hard and cold–

Golden eyes caught her movements, freezing her in place. The entire world dropped away.

Arya couldn’t breathe. The dead man held her at arms length, his brow furrowed and silver hair still settling around his face from where it had escaped his ponytail. His eyes, they had always seen past whatever she said and found what she meant to say, searched her face with the intensity of a hunting dragon. 

He had looked at her like that before, though not quite so intently. Every time she did something so remarkably stupid, like throw an artillery shell back over the trench wall, curl around a grenade to absorb its destruction into her wards, stuck her hand in a Broddring cannon, or, the worst offense of all, go without sleep in favor of double watch shifts and nights disappeared without a word beside their other companion. Always looking out for her. For them. 

The last time she had seen his face it was planted in the dirt, blood pooling and trickling towards open golden eyes as they stared unseeing into the darkness, before the swarm of Urgals had blocked her view.

And now he was looking at her, bright, alert, and with so much fear and disbelief and hope and who the hell knows what else because Glenwing of House Svanran, healer and medic and best friend and dead man walking, was holding her by the shoulders and trying just as desperately as she to figure out if the person in front of him was really, truly alive. 

“...Glen?” Arya half choked, the last air in her lungs used to voice her disbelief. She could barely hear it over the noise around them.

At her uttering of his name Glenwing suddenly seized her face in his hands and let out a cracked laugh. Tears spilled from his eyes as he half cried, half laughed, “Spirits, it is you!” 

And his arms were pulling her in and around her and hugging impossibly tight. 

Arya didn’t hesitate, hugging him back fiercely and holding on, unwilling to let go in case he too slipped away like the other memories. Something snapped inside her chest and in her throat as she let out a broken laugh of her own. “You’re alive! You’re alive!” 

They stayed like that for what felt like ages, relief flowing off of them like a waterfall with tears of joy and disbelief. They weren’t alone anymore. 

It must have been a full minute before the world around them became important again, and Arya reluctantly pulled back. “We should,” She broke off and wiped her eyes, cleared her throat before speaking again without the tremor in her voice. “We should probably go….” 

“Good call.” 

With a small gesture Arya caught her mother’s eye. When the queen inclined her head slightly the two reunited elves snapped their heels together and bowed, knocking their right knuckles to their left collarbones in acknowledgement before all but bolting to the edge of the crowded grove. Here, at least, it was quiet but for a low murmur of the gathered people and a soft thread of music through the trees. No one would be looking out to the forest, not with something as amazing as Eragon and Saphira at the center of attention. Here Arya and Glenwing would have a modicum of privacy to talk.

It was Arya’s turn to take Glen by the shoulders, and she shook her head with another chuckle past the lump in her throat. “You fucking bastard.” They shared a laugh again. “You absolute bastard. I saw you die. And I never thought….”

“You’re complaining about me?” Glenwing beamed, wiping away tears with his right hand. “All those times I told you not to go running off and get yourself killed, and then I figure that you’ve gone and finally done it.” 

“Hey, I was doing my job!”

“You always say that.” 

“I actually was this time!”

After a few moments of excited chatter, Arya felt cold seeping back into the warm relief that seeing Glenwing had brought. Already knowing the answer, she looked out to the dark pines that hid from the celebration’s light. The pommel of the sword at her hip bit into her palm, a small comfort for what she knew was about to come. “Hey, I uh…” She blinked, cleared her throat as best she could past the returning lump. “I take it…you’re my only surprise tonight, huh?” When Glen shifted uneasily, Arya felt a pang of regret at her phrasing and shot him a wan grin. “Not that you’re underappreciated or any–”

Glenwing’s jaw tightened, and for a moment Arya saw his throat convulse as he swallowed. His voice was steady, though, when he gently, grimly, replied, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. Didn’t say anything for a long, painful minute. “I couldn’t have ever asked for either of you to survive that. Couldn’t even think, imagine, hope, whatever.” Arya waved a hand vaguely, unable to put her feelings into words. “But, shit, Glen. We’ve done so much dangerous, wild–”

“Insane?” That grin was back, tinged with sadness but filled with a familiar wild undertone that everyone in their little fyrn breoal held. 

“Insane!” Arya added with a laugh. “Everything we’ve done and everything we shouldn’t have survived…. I’m just happy you made it out. That we made it out. And look! We did it, we found them!” She pointed towards Saphira’s glittering form in the midst of the crowd that felt so far away. “Let’s just…let’s celebrate that right now. Celebrate him. Shit, can you imagine the ruckus he’d make? We did it! We finally did it.” She couldn’t hide the tangle of elation and relief that broke through the pain. This is what they had all been fighting for, together, for decades. Fäolin would want them to have that, to feel the joy for him.

A commotion drew their attention. Elves were returning from the cookfires, arms laden with dishes and bowls and platters. The sight made both the medic and the combat liaison stiffen somewhat, knowing that their brief time to reacquaint themselves was drawing to a quick end. 

Arya let out a short huff and drew herself up, steeling herself for the rabble again. “Alright. Come on.” Glen grinned when she slapped his arm and seized his face with both hands, squeezing his cheeks. “Have to make sure you’re not some hallucination. Let’s go drink. We’re here. We’re safe.” She slid her hands to his shoulders, began drawing them down his arms in preparation to drag him off to meet the biggest pair of silver linings in history. “We’re in one…”

She trailed off as her right hand slipped down his left arm and stopped short at the bicep. That…that wasn’t….

“Piece?” Words stuck in her throat at the sound of the wry tone in Glen’s voice. He thought he was hiding the ache under that twisted tilt of his lips as her eyes snapped up to his. “Yeah…about that.”

“...Glen, what–”

“Later. I promise.” Without waiting for her protests, Glen slid an arm around his lost commander's shoulders and began walking back to the tables. "Celebrate, right? Introduce me to these two first. Then we drink."

~~~

LOSS

The door creaked as it slid open, sticking at that same spot as it always had. Arya purposefully kept her eyes down as she closed it, avoiding looking towards her mother where she stood still half stunned outside. Just as she had told the queen, she really wasn’t ready to forgive her, not now. If she met her mother’s gaze there was bound to be a war between exploding at her in buried rage or breaking down after the many emotional hills and valleys of the day.

She made it two steps into the flat, pack already sliding off her arms, when she froze. 

Glen blinked at her from where he was lounging on the couch, just as surprised as she was. 

They stared at each other for a long moment. 

“I uh…” Arya tilted her head slightly. “Wow. Um. I forgot you were alive. And that you’d probably be here.”

The medic blinked again, bewildered, and burst out laughing. “You what?!” 

“It’s been a really, really long day!” Arya threw her pack at him, ignoring the yelp of protest, and dropped onto the opposite end of the couch. 

Glen moved the bag to the floor as his lost commander disentangled herself from her rifle strap, feeling her eyes on him as he leaned back. He wouldn’t admit it, but he had forgotten that she likely would come back to the flat instead of her long disused room at Tialdarí Hall. He was drained from the night of food and music and emotion, and had trudged home and changed into sleep clothes as soon as he entered, completely oblivious to the possibility of intrusion. 

The loose tanktop, standard issue to Varden soldiers in warm climates, left the metal of his bionic prosthetic on full display, the plating glinting dully in the low werelight. 

They sat in silence for what had to be half an hour, recuperating. Glen made no move to cover the evidence of his missing limb. A niggling feeling in the back of his mind urged him to do so, whispering that she didn’t need guilt on top of everything else. He shushed it, reminded it that he knew that she wasn’t the reason he was down an arm. 

‘But does she know that?’

“...What happened?” Glen rolled his head to look over at Arya, her voice quiet and softer than he remembered she could be. He had tried to lock in the memories of them all together during happy times, wild times, not the times where they had to quietly ask each other if they could keep fighting. “I didn’t…didn’t see where you got hit. I thought it was the chest.”

Glenwing lifted his left arm, the servos drawing power from the precious gems embedded on the insides of the plates whirring almost imperceptibly in the silence. He turned the wrist, tilted the forearm, bent the elbow. Stared at it. “Almost. One went through the bone just above my elbow. Another one got me in the hip.” With two fingers he tapped where the second bullet had entered. “Balan threw me when he got hit and I got knocked out.” 

He inhaled through his nose and bit back a sigh. He could smell pinesmoke again, pungent and heavy. “I think…everything was over when I came around the first time. There was fire but the Urgals were gone. I was cognizant enough to realize I was bleeding out and used the bloodstopper spell to tie off the artery and veins in my arm but…” The fingers made a pleasing series of clicks as he curled them into a fist. “I passed out again. And it was a good bit before I was aware of anything after that.” 

The elves in Vandral, the closest outpost to the edge of Du Weldenvarden where the ambush had occurred, had filled him in as best they could. How they found him half crawling, half dragging himself along the forest floor on their morning patrol. Fäolin’s cold body tied to his own by belts looped across his chest and secured under the dead elf’s arms. The remains of his left arm at and below his now pulverized, shredded elbow hanging on by mutilated muscle. The unmoving fingers white and purple and dusky from lack of blood. The burns on his chest, forearms, knees, thighs, from dragging himself and his long dead brother-in-war and remaining best friend through ashes and embers during the night.

The way he begged them to save Fäolin. Begged them to find her. 

Waking up, his burns healed. His arm–

Pain at his metal wrist ricocheted up to his shoulder. Brought him back.

Glenwing forced the metallic fingers open. “I…I tried to save him.” He dropped both hands to rest limp in his lap, Rhunön’s masterpiece relaying his movements perfectly through metal and crystal. “He was gone before he even hit the ground.”

“I know.” When he looked over Arya was staring past him. “I saw it.” After a moment her eyes cleared, and locked back on him. “Your arm….”

“Bloodstopper worked a little too well, I’m afraid.” He forced a smile. He could still smell the burning pines, but it was fading. Instead it was slowly being replaced by the familiar scent of the worn leather additions on Arya’s combat jacket, gun oil, sharp pine sap and an undertone of gunpowder. It smelled like home, like the Varden, like Arya and Fäolin and decades of companionship and friends. It smelled like safety in their little group. “Rhunön built this for me, though. It works better than the old one!”

Arya shook her head, a touch of a grin on her lips. “I’m sure. She’s outdone herself.” 

“How about you?” Glen didn’t have to know her for over five decades to notice the way Arya changed at the question. Her arms pulled in, the rifle settled across her lap. “What happened to land you with Eragon, Saphira, and Brom of all people?”

Instead of answering him Arya yawned. That was real, he wouldn’t deny that, but she was all too eager to postpone whatever answers she had. “Tell you what,” She stretched and rubbed the back of her neck, massaging a kink out of the muscle that connected to her shoulder. “That’s a story for later. Right now I’m about to pass out on this couch if I don’t get to sleep for a few hours.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Glen’s voice was lighthearted, but they both could hear the warning under the words. It was clear as day, a promise made decades ago. Don’t hide wounds from your fyrn breoal. Head, heart or body, commander, medic or sniper, the only way to stay alive and keep the others safe was to share. “I’m sure it’s a hell of a story.”

Arya waved at him over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall to the room she had shared with her mate. “Yeah. It’s a real doozy. Goodnight, Glen. You still alive bastard.”

“Goodnight, Arya. Resurrected prodigal wild child.”

She blew a raspberry at him as she closed the door.

Glenwing sat back on the couch, the grin fading. His eyes fell on her discarded pack, stripped of weapons and bedroll, sitting at his feet.

The lock on the strap still accepted his thumbprint. It took only a few moments to find what he sought, buried under a mess kit and a pair of socks stuffed in a worn knit beanie she had acquired nearly twenty years ago from a Surdan merchant. A thick file, stuffed with pictures haphazardly sticking out at odd angles, sticky notes and scratched out shorthand. A scattering of numbers and letters, followed by a bold ‘6’ indicated it was the sixth such file in the series, a collection of war wounds and physical exams and the occasional psych eval that never really counted due to the elvish mind being alien enough to circumvent any human or dwarf made test.

Glen pulled it out and brushed his fingers along the tabs till he found one marked a little over two months ago. He didn’t open it, just let his fingertips linger as he mulled over revealing the contents. 

No. 

She would tell him. 

He left the file on the coffee table. 

~~~~~~

(Post A/N: If there is anyone who saw things wrong with my representation of amputation and amputees, please message me. I tried to do thorough research, but I am not an amputee myself and don’t have the real life experience to know if I’m portraying it properly. I did my best to be respectful and as real as the setting allowed. I’m always up for learning and having my misconceptions corrected, and I’m continuing my research to make sure I’m giving it the proper respect and sensitivity.)

[lords-of-the-empire]

look, I know I've talked about this essay (?) before but like,

If you ever needed a good demonstration of the quote "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic", have I got an exercise for you.

Somebody made a small article explaining the basics of atomic theory but it's written in Anglish. Anglish is basically a made-up version of English where they remove any elements (words, prefixes, etc) that were originally borrowed from romance languages like french and latin, as well as greek and other foreign loanwords, keeping only those of germanic origin.

What happens is an english which is for the most part intelligible, but since a lot everyday english, and especially the scientific vocabulary, has has heavy latin and greek influence, they have to make up new words from the existing germanic-english vocabulary. For me it kind of reads super viking-ey.

Anyway when you read this article on atomic theory, in Anglish called Uncleftish Beholding, you get this text which kind of reads like a fantasy novel. Like in my mind it feels like it recontextualizes advanced scientific concepts to explain it to a viking audience from ancient times.

Even though you're familiar with the scientific ideas, because it bypasses the normal language we use for these concepts, you get a chance to examine these ideas as if you were a visitor from another civilization - and guess what, it does feel like it's about magic. It has a mythical quality to it, like it feels like a book about magic written during viking times. For me this has the same vibe as reading deep magic lore from a Robert Jordan book.

#big IC science mood

[lords-of-the-empire]

On my 2nd reading I skipped the Roran chapters until he shows up at the Burning Plains, it was pretty neat and gave the effect of a flashback

Literally cannot read Roran's pov sorry im a hater like how can you reveal that there's a free dragon other than Saphira and then immediately cut to Roran's boring ass pov like girl fuck roran and fuck his girlfriend idc show me Eragon

[lords-of-the-empire]

pour one out for all those fic readers who found one author who wrote one really good fic for their fandom then clicked on their profile to find they wrote exactly one fic for that fandom and the rest for, like, csi or something