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The council meeting was going smoothly. Smoothly, that was, until Nasuada asked Eragon if he and Saphira were prepared to handle the threat of Murtagh. Arya spoke straight over his affirmative response to say, “Circumstances have changed. If we wish to recapture Murtagh, now is the time to act.”
Eragon was not the only one startled by her uncharacteristic interjection. Only Elva and Blödhgarm seemed unfazed, even if Nasuada did not show her surprise beyond a slight raising of her eyebrows. Though Saphira, gone on a hunt, showed only a flicker of interest in the declaration when Eragon relayed it to her. She was more focused on the deer she was stalking.
“Do we wish to recapture Murtagh?” Orik asked. His tone plainly said he did not. Murtagh had killed more than his king; Hrothgar had been his father as well.
“What has changed, Arya?” Nasuada asked, instead of answering one way or the other.
“Murtagh is distracted by illness. Eragon has seen it,” Arya said, unrepentantly redirecting the room’s attention to him. Had he? Eragon tried to think.
Eragon and Saphira had arrived on the battlefield three days ago, and in that time Murtagh had not yet attacked. A significant deviation from the usual pattern. Good fortune seemed to smile on them, but Eragon did not trust it.
Only on the first day had he seen Murtagh. His brother had been pacing the walls of the city with Thorn, looking restless and rubbing at the joints of his armor. The tic was new and seemed compulsive. His gorget — also new — either fit poorly or he did not like the constriction around his neck.
Still, Eragon did know that Murtagh was not one to show his discomfort easily. It was unsettling.
What was curbing Murtagh so that even fear of Galbatorix was not enough to have yet spurred him into action? It couldn’t be injury, because he and Eragon had not fought. And surely, if Galbatorix had hurt him so badly that magic could not fix it, he would not have sent Murtagh out to defend the city from Eragon and Saphira. There was no sense in it. Murtagh was his only remaining Rider. Not the kind of weapon to be damaged casually.
“He does seem strange. Sick,” Eragon reluctantly agreed.
His net of allegiances was beginning to tangle around him, and he still wasn’t sure how to handle disagreements between those he had sworn fealty to, let alone any complicated personal feelings he had for those outside of them. At the moment, he was guided by the truth. Whatever the council decided, Eragon would abide by. No matter how difficult he might find it.
The thought of killing Murtagh was repulsive. Murtagh was his own flesh and blood, his own brother. Never mind that any chance for connection between them had been thoroughly destroyed even as it was spoken it into existence.
Still, Eragon was willing to do what needed to be done, and as things stood, it certainly seemed that killing Murtagh must.
Murtagh had sworn his unbreakable allegiance to Galbatorix, and even when offered an out he had attempted to capture Eragon. If an offered solution was not immediate, he was unwilling to take it. He was too afraid of punishment. Eragon had chased his thoughts on the issue around many times. He had little to show for it. What else could he do but leave Murtagh to it?
“So he’s sick,” Orik said. “Why shouldn’t we let it carry him off? Whatever this illness is stands a better chance than the rest of us, Eragon excluded.”
If only Murtagh could be swayed on the grounds of affection, rather than fear! That, Eragon could provide easier than death.
Arya was not flustered by the question. “The cure to this sickness is total. It bears a high chance of changing Murtagh’s True Name. The question is: do we want Galbatorix to fix him, or do we do it ourselves?”
The question deserved consideration. Of course they did not want Galbatorix to bind him more tightly, but could the Varden afford whatever unpicking those stiitches would take? Yes, Eragon felt, but he was not in charge. Nasuada was.
She had befriended Murtagh when he was first imprisoned by the Varden, and Eragon thought that she might also still nurture a flicker of tenderness for him. He was allayed by the thought that he was not the only one invested in this solution for Murtagh, not merely what it would bring to the Varden. Though that gain would not be insignificant. If whatever Arya was proposing succeeded, Murtagh would be free to leave.
And yet fondness was not loyalty or responsibility. “I cannot spare healers for an enemy magician,” Nasuada said, and the aperture of hope closed.
But then Arya said, “I do not need healers. I only need Eragon and Saphira to transport me to Murtagh, and convince him to agree.”
“What precisely are you planning to do, Arya?” Orik asked suspiciously. It was not unwarranted; Arya was not a healer, and Eragon was unsure how much one illness could actually change a person. There was something to it she did not want them to know.
“I will not speak of it here,” Arya said resolutely, confirming that suspicion, and directed the rest of her words to Nasuada. The decision — the combined inclination and ability to soften Murtagh’s current death sentence — would lie with her. Orik had no sympathy and Eragon had no power. Elva would see them all dead if it would not kill her thrice over, and Blödhgarm had little interest either way, it seemed. “It is connected with secrets of the Riders which are not mine to disclose. But I will tell Eragon, if you trust him to act on your behalf.”
Nasuada frowned. She glanced at the cursed girl at her side. Elva shook her head, saying, “Whatever Arya’s plan, it will not harm any of them.”
Nasuada stepped neatly past a question that would reveal Eragon had no idea about the secrets of which Arya spoke — a bad look, after the significant time Nasuada had spared for his training with the Elves. Instead, she asked, “And what would you suggest we do with Murtagh if you do manage to change his name?” Relief burned brightly in Eragon’s chest. She was coming around to the idea. “I cannot allow him in the camp if there is a possibility that he will be recaptured.”
“The Dwarves will not allow him to do so regardless,” Orik interjected.
“It is likely that any freedom would be temporary,” Eragon said apologetically. He owed it to Nasuada to be honest about the risks. “He seems to feel that Galbatorix would know his Name had changed, and be able to guess at the new one.” Murtagh was blinded by his fear. One man could not possibly know everything about everyone, no matter how powerful he was. But that was not an argument Eragon wanted to make here.
“If Murtagh cannot be reached by Galbatorix, the risk is nullified,” Arya argued. “Ellesméra will take him in for the remainder of the war.”
Eragon shot her a sharp look. Why was she pushing so hard for this? He could not think of a reason that made sense. Her home — not to mention Oromis and Glaedr — would be put at risk. Murtagh had been part of her initial rescue from Durza, but they did not know each other beyond that, as she had immediately resumed her responsibilities after waking. She had barely tolerated Eragon, at that point.
The presence of Murtagh and Thorn in Ellesméra would not benefit anyone. Eragon and Saphira had been one thing, but Galbatorix would not let Murtagh slip away easily. Ellesméra might draw his wrath. Would the other Elves support Arya?
Nasuada seemed to share Eragon’s thoughts, for she prompted, “Blödhgarm?”
“He is a Rider,” Blödhgarm said. “There are precious few dragons, these days. Ellesméra will hold him if the Varden won’t. We cannot afford to carry our quarrels forward.”
And then he asked Arya, “Er du árskálpr kenna du vara eldrvarí förn?” It was not in an undertone, as if he felt no personal or political shame in deliberately excluding the rest of the tent from understanding his question. He had been serious before, but now he sounded a little amused; mocking, almost. Disrespectful.
Nonsensically, he had said “Does the early shell know the spring burn gifting?” or possibly “Is the forthcoming shield understanding the green-growth burning boon?”
Though Eragon’s immersion in Ellesméra had greatly improved his knowledge of the Ancient Language, he could not comprehend the question. He knew the words, but not the meaning. Jokes were hard to translate well, especially given the amount of wordplay Elvish ones usually involved.
The other non-Elves understood even less. Eragon could see tension in Nasuada’s pressed-flat lips. She looked at him, and he shook his head slightly. He didn’t understand either.
“Illa,” Arya said back, giving Blödhgarm a quelling look. That word had only one meaning: Badly. Whatever humor Blödhgarm had found in the situation, Arya did not share it.
“Then this is the only chance you’ll have,” Blödhgarm confirmed. He was back to sounding serious, though a flicker of mirth lingered in his eyes.
Since no one else could offer expertise, Nasuada considered the options laid before her. Eragon did not envy her choice.
To Arya, she said, “Since you are certain, I will allow you one chance. If it fails, we will continue with the plan to disable or eliminate Murtagh. If it succeeds, you will take him to Ellesméra immediately. The Dwarves may judge him if he enters the camp,” she added with a nod to Orik. He did not look happy but accepted the compromise. “Do you have guards to spare for the journey?”
“Yes,” Arya said immediately.
“Do you need time to prepare?” Nasuada asked.
“No. Merely to speak to Eragon.”
“Alright,” Nasuada said, and turned the conversation to the next issue of business.
After the meeting drew to a close, Eragon was forced to jog through the camp. Arya was walking faster than usual. Despite her calm inside the tent, she seemed agitated now.
Though Arya had promised to deliver illumination, she did not speak to Eragon until he asked, “Arya, how sure are you that this will work?”
“Very,” she said grimly. “Listen. This will not be pleasant for any of us, and it’s unlikely to be easy. You and Saphira need to convince Murtagh that I can help. I don’t suppose Oromis told you about varaförn? 'Du vara eldrvarí förn'?” She sounded hopeful. Eragon hated to disappoint her, but he had to admit that Oromis hadn’t said anything that involved that string of words.
“Hm. He probably thought you were too young,” Arya said to herself. Eragon was used to the Elves forgetting he was a full adult, but it rankled to hear it had hampered his education. “Do you remember the Dagshelgr Invocation?”
“Yes?” Eragon said, after a beat, not liking where this conversation was going. That had been the spell the Elves had cast to make everything in the forest find a mate. It had seized their minds; even Eragon's, before Arya had protected him.
Arya looked at him significantly.
“But if it’s a spell, can’t you just end it?” Eragon asked, baffled. “Or teach him how to?”
Arya gritted her teeth. “It isn’t the same. When we’re done, I’ll explain, but we don’t have time now. Your turn will come soon enough, anyway,” she said, giving him a critical look. Given his total physical transformation at the Agaetí Blödhren, Eragon was not sure what she hoped to find. “Saphira should be old enough to trigger the change in you.”
“But Thorn is younger than her,” Eragon protested, as he swallowed hard against the images his brain conjured up.
Arya could not be implying the solution to this was what he thought it was. Eragon couldn’t imagine a woman behaving in such a way, especially with a man she didn’t like. Not even an Elf. True, Eragon had been told that marriages were not conducted among Elves in the same way as humans, but it was still shocking to imagine. Surely they would have to wed, should anything develop.
That pushed the limit of his imagination, however. He could not picture Arya as a mother. And thinking of Murtagh as a father hurt; it was too raw a reminder of their own parentage.
If Murtagh was sickened with the need to bed a pretty girl, it would explain why Blödhgarm had been amused. But why Arya? She seemed to think she was the only candidate. That question would have to go answered for now, though. Eragon didn’t think he could ask without sounding jealous enough to strain things between them again.
But the distant future was no more relevant than the dust beneath their feet; it was the more immediate one that kept recurring in his mind. An image: Murtagh laying over Arya’s supine body. The tissue of his scar rippling as he sank into the mysterious place between her legs. The sweep of his hair over her cheek.
Would he kiss her? Would she kiss him? Would Eragon, as escort, be asked to watch over them? The shiver the idea produced made something in him feel unpleasantly liquid. He hoped not. Thinking of it was torture enough.
Arya did not seem nearly as distracted. “And Thorn has had his growth spurred unnaturally. It’s not surprising that there have been complications.” She paused, and then continued, angrier than Eragon had ever heard her, “It is unconscionable that Galbatorix has allowed him to be fighting during this.”
The two of them had reached Saphira on the edge of camp, back from her hunt, and Eragon rapidly summarized the conversation for her. He was glad she directed her question to Arya, because his head was still spinning.
What do you want us to do? Saphira asked. She sounded curious, not alarmed. Eragon wasn’t sure if she had a greater understanding of what was happening than he did — either because Glaedr had explained it or because it was something dragons knew inherently — or if she was simply truly unbothered.
“I need you to get me close enough to Murtagh and Thorn to speak, and get him to land. If he isn’t thinking straight, it’s possible he’ll injure himself in the air. And I need you to explain what is happening to Thorn as soon as you can reach him. I can’t say how cognizant Murtagh will be of what is happening, if it’s gone on this long.”
“We can do that,” Eragon said, glad to have a more specific plan.
“If he goes for me, stay in the area and keep Thorn calm. It’s probable he will be distressed. Murtagh may be aggressive and bite me, but it won’t be a lífbita,” a life-bite, Eragon translated, as she settled in the saddle behind him. A mortal wound, so it was no wonder Arya warned, “Do not let him bite you. The guard I’m sending along to Ellesméra will find you in a few hours; don’t come back to us until then.” Eragon was comforted by the way she was framing it as a fight with a particularly hampered opponent. It put him on morally shaky but familiar ground.
“And, Eragon,” she continued after a moment, sounding uncomfortable. She had lost the rhythm of orders. Saphira had begun to rise in the air with a massive flap of her wings, and gained altitude quickly. “There is a chance that Murtagh will go for you instead. You’re related, but he knows you. If he does, you’ll have to redirect him to me. He won’t be able to do it himself, and I can’t get in the middle. He’ll be territorial.”
“Alright,” Eragon said. He didn’t think that would be a problem. Why wouldn’t Murtagh choose Arya?
Arya having exhausted the explanations she was willing to give, they passed the rest of the short flight in silence. Eragon did not feel prepared, but a giddy tension built in his stomach nonetheless.
He would get Murtagh back, whatever it took. Only time stood between them now.
Saphira began speaking to Thorn much sooner than Eragon had expected; it seemed dragons had a wider mental range than he had realized.
Thorn, he heard her say, and was uncertain if she was letting Murtagh listen as well. Eragon hoped she was. Arya’s explanation was not the most detailed, but Eragon reminded himself that it did not matter how much he knew. He would not be involved. Murtagh, however, likely understood even less of what was happening to him. Saphira continued, Your Rider is ill. It does not reflect well on a dragon to let him suffer.
She paused, and Thorn and Murtagh came into view, winging towards them and away from the walls of the city. There was a fierce energy about them. At first, Eragon mistook it for enthusiasm, but Murtagh did not engage. Instead, he and Thorn hovered at the very edge of hearing distance.
“And what do you know about it?” was their snarled response from the human throat. Not promising. Murtagh looked truly miserable; despite the lack of exertion, he gleamed with sweat, and a thick, sweet smell was rolling off of him in waves. Ointment or magic? Distracting, certainly. It made something in Eragon’s stomach tighten.
“I know that we can help you,” Eragon shot back. Perhaps he should have let Arya speak, but habit had taken over. He was not used to having anyone besides Saphira flying with him.
Murtagh laughed, harsh and low. “I would not have expected the offer from you.”
Eragon felt a flare of hurt at the words, which he tried to squash. Of course Murtagh believed himself abandoned. Hadn’t Eragon told him as much before? And yet some contradictory part of Eragon still hoped Murtagh would mend the connection between them.
“We can free you of Galbatorix,” Eragon said. “And we can do it now.”
Silence greeted his words, but not one of consideration. Hardly the reaction he had hoped for.
Saphira was beginning to lead them away from the battlefield and towards the unoccupied forest. Eragon was not sure if Murtagh had noticed; Thorn and Saphira were circling each other, and sustained movement in any direction could have been accidental.
Murtagh seemed more focused on trying to keep them at the perfect distance. It was clearly taking significant effort. He seemed afraid to come too close. Several times, he directed Thorn towards them before darting just as quickly away. They seemed out of sync. Eragon did not think Murtagh’s behavior was making sense to Thorn, either.
Eragon was fiercely glad that he did not have to try to kill Murtagh now. Like this, it seemed all too easy.
Murtagh was hissing something under his breath, too low for Saphira or her passengers to make out. But no part of them locked up, or began to burn with pain, or did any other of the myriad things that would imply he was using a spell on them.
They kept flying.
A lake shimmered in the distance below them; not far for a dragon to fly, but hard for a human to reach quickly. The trees bowed out in a graceful circle around it, leaving a large clearing by the shore. Eragon nudged the thought of it into Saphira’s mind, and she began to drive Thorn towards it.
Are you telling the truth? Thorn asked. It was the first time Eragon had heard his mental voice, and he was surprised by how unformed it felt. Too open and too guarded all at once; desperate for an answer and scared to be heard. His mind really did not match his body. Eragon remembered Saphira at that age, and felt a terrible stab of pity.
“Eka otherúm,” Eragon said, directing the words to both of them. Unsure how much of the Ancient Language Murtagh or Thorn understood, he clarified, “I swear it.”
Arya spoke as well. “Eka otherúm vae weohnata tuatha ono.” I swear we will temper you. A more detailed oath than Eragon’s own, which she did not translate. For her, speaking the words was enough.
It did the trick.
In an abrupt motion, Thorn dropped beneath Saphira and dove towards the ground. He was heading for the same lake — he had noticed that they were herding him, then. Saphira hung in the air a moment longer, startled by his sudden speed. Then she dove after him, wings tucked back like a falcon after prey. Thrill swooped through Eragon’s stomach; not out of place when flying, but strange in this tense chase. Arya held tight to Eragon’s waist.
Unfortunately, landing did not bring an end to the conflict. Regardless of why Thorn had decided to cooperate, Murtagh evidently did not share his feelings.
The second Eragon dismounted, Murtagh went for him on foot.
Eragon, not expecting the attack, was driven backwards by his furious brother. Saphira snarled, but could not do anything more without harming Eragon. Thorn was bristling, teeth bared and wings flared, but he did not act either. Murtagh did not seem entirely conscious of his actions; their father’s sword was nowhere to be seen.
The only weapon he had was himself.
Yet it was enough, when he was an opponent one did not want to injure. Eragon found himself trapped with his back against a tree, Murtagh crowded up against him. Murtagh’s teeth were bared, and for a wild moment Eragon was convinced Murtagh would tear his throat out.
And then Arya ripped Murtagh off him by his gorget.
He turned in her hold, hissing — Eragon didn’t think he’d ever heard another human make that sound before — as she hauled him back towards Thorn. In one movement she let go of him and bounded away. She sheltered by Saphira’s bulk, stopping roughly halfway between Murtagh and Eragon.
Eragon stayed where he was, pulse pounding. It seemed unfair that Murtagh could move that fast when he was ill. It’s alright, he said to Saphira, now that events had stopped unfolding so quickly. Arya’s gaze was fixed on Murtagh, jaw tight and arms crossed. I think the plan’s still on. Even if Murtagh had identified Eragon as a rival.
Her tail lashed. He put his hands on my Rider! I should kill him for that.
Please don’t.
Murtagh knelt in the grass where Arya had dropped him, forehead pressed to the ruby scales of Thorn’s foreleg until he gained control over himself. It was discomfiting to watch, and Eragon was glad when Thorn curled a wing over him protectively. The membrane of it was thick enough to hide Murtagh from their sight. Eragon was not entirely sure what he was meant to do, but Arya seemed unsurprised. He mimicked her nonchalance, straightening his disturbed clothing. He tried to slow his heartbeat.
After a long few moments, Murtagh brushed Thorn’s wing away and resumed standing. Though his hands were clenched into fists, hard enough that it had to be hurting him, he was not moved to violence again.
It was a miracle that swords hadn’t been involved, Eragon realized. He didn’t think he’d have been able to stop from swinging at Murtagh, which was the opposite of what they wanted. He wanted to hit him. Or, not quite, but to do…something. Get hands on him.
Murtagh was still sweating, and the scent coming off him seemed stronger now that there were no air currents to disperse it. It wasn’t unpleasant, for all that it made Eragon’s teeth itch. Just strange and overpowering. It made something in him quicken.
“Has anyone explained what is happening to you?” Arya asked.
Murtagh glared at her, and said nothing.
No, then. Or at least not enough for Murtagh to feel confident that they had not left anything out, and he would not make a fool of himself answering Arya.
Whatever calm Murtagh had managed to gather together momentarily was abandoning him, unraveling in little strips. Eragon watched him fight and lose against the impulse to pull agitatedly at his armor. His fists uncurled, and he began kneading at the metal of his gorget like it helped him think. Turning on himself. So it was violence he needed then, not anything else; Arya had simply chosen a poor example earlier.
Eragon hoped Murtagh would not pick Arya. He did not want to hurt Murtagh, not really, but he knew he could meet him blow for blow. And more than that, Eragon wanted to be the answer; to be worthy. Not to be found wanting.
Not for Murtagh to walk away again.
Restless, Eragon shifted on his feet.
A fine trembling was spreading through Murtagh. Eragon didn’t think it was a seizure, as he remained standing, but Murtagh’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as his face slackened. He leaned backwards, putting as much of his weight as he could against Thorn without thinking they would notice his weakness. He was still worrying at ungiving metal.
“Did Galbatorix tell you this would resolve by itself?” Arya tried again. “If it’s been as long as I think it has, then it won’t. Not with what he’s done to Thorn.”
She sounded disgusted by it. Eragon had not missed the sadness that flashed across Arya’s face when she looked at Thorn. Although she had not carried him across the continent like she had Saphira, she must have mourned him and the single remaining egg in Galbatorix’s clutches for longer than the four of them standing here had been alive combined.
“He told me I’d come to him when I got desperate enough,” Murtagh said, pressing his other hand to his pink mouth. His eyes, which kept sliding to Eragon, flashed with dark humor. “He wasn’t going to do me any favors until then.”
Eragon’s stomach twisted.
Arya took a step towards him, and Murtagh recoiled against Thorn, who growled. “Don’t!”
Raising her hands in surrender, Arya retreated in Saphira’s direction.
“Why are you here?” Murtagh spat at Arya. He was breathing through his mouth, though Eragon would have expected him to have been scent-blind by this point. The smell of him was so thick in the air. “To humiliate me further? I was doing fine.”
“She can help you,” Eragon said, more sharply than he meant to.
“She can help me,” Murtagh repeated tonelessly. It forced emphasis onto the wrong words.
“Regardless of who this happens with, and it will happen,” Arya said gently, although from her it sounded almost identical to stern, “it will change your True Name enough for you to escape. If you agree to give up your part in Galbatorix’s war effort, we will offer you shelter and teaching in Ellesméra, starting immediately. Eka otherúm thornessa er ilumaro; I swear this is true.”
“Why?” Murtagh asked, looking between her and Eragon. His confusion edged the majority of the hostility from his voice.
“Because you are a Rider,” Arya said. “Because the opportunity to free you has fallen into our laps. Because Eragon wishes it.”
Murtagh twitched aggressively; the movement carried through his whole body. He had a look on his face which meant that he was communicating with Thorn and didn’t want them to overhear.
One thing Eragon had learned from his time in Ellesméra was that when Elves stated something in that way, three reasons all in a row, they were skirting around the real answer. All of those factors were probably true in isolation. But they weren’t why Arya was doing this.
Eragon didn’t know if that was something Murtagh knew about Elves.
Thorn touched his head to Murtagh’s shoulder, and Murtagh closed his eyes. Acceptance looked like agony on his face.
“Do I get a choice?” Murtagh asked bitterly.
Arya shrugged. “Eragon or me. We are both knives. But I think you’ve already decided.”
Anticipation rose, inappropriately, within Eragon. It was hard to remind himself that Murtagh would choose Arya. He couldn’t remember why he was so sure of that. Not when it was violence that Murtagh’s body demanded. Eragon could provide that. And he was good at it. Murtagh knew that. He should let Eragon help him.
Murtagh smiled as he threw the next challenge to Eragon. It was not a kind expression, but it made Eragon's heart sing. “And you, brother? What choice have you made?”
Eragon straightened, attempting to look as sincere as he could. “I will do whatever is needed to free you, Murtagh. Brother.” He felt almost wild with the need to help. Even if that was by bleeding him, as Arya’s comment seemed to imply.
Eragon was a Rider, not a torturer; he did not know how to cut without killing. But if Murtagh required it, he would learn.
“A final piece of advice,” Arya said, cutting across the current that seemed to have risen in the air. She was moving, edging away from Murtagh. Eragon saw it out of the corner of his eye; he could not look away from Murtagh’s burning gaze. The retreat did not undercut the severity in Arya’s voice. “Don’t bite.”
And then Murtagh had closed the distance in a flash, and was kissing Eragon.
His hands seemed to be everywhere. Eragon could not help but lean into the touch, and his mouth fell open. Something squirmed inside; Murtagh’s tongue, he realized. It should have been disgusting. Instead, the excitement Eragon had been feeling redirected abruptly towards his lower region, so fast it made him dizzy.
Although that could have been Murtagh, too. Up close, the unfamiliar sweet smell made it hard to think.
Saphira touched Eragon’s mind with a mix of humor and concern, letting him know that they were retreating, to give the two of them privacy. Eragon could not find the words to respond, and simply shoved all the emotions he was feeling through their connection.
Come rejoin us when you’re done, Saphira said, and withdrew. She did not seem to comprehend his confusion at this turn of events. Had she seen this coming? At least she did not seem to be worried for him. Or about his ability to perform.
Eragon had never kissed anyone before. Saphira knew this; he hoped Murtagh did not. He wasn’t sure it was meant to be this desperate, or this wet. Murtagh kissed him with what felt like a despairing hatred; it was more like a fight than Eragon had expected. Although that was actually somewhat reassuring. Lust, he knew, was not altogether divorced from the bloodlust he was more familiar with.
He could do this. Saphira would not have left him alone if there was any actual danger.
And at least if he made a fool of himself, Murtagh could not mock him for it without being reminded of his own desperation.
Murtagh was using the few inches of his height advantage to push Eragon down, and Eragon let himself fall to the ground. He knew how to do that without hurting either of them. It broke them apart, and Eragon noticed that Murtagh’s mouth seemed faintly swollen. His pupils were blown wide. Eragon could see why people liked this.
Eragon sat up and reached for him; leaving Murtagh untouched was intolerable. “What,” Eragon said, breathless, “what do you want me to do?”
Crawling into Eragon's lap, Murtagh reached for the laces of Eragon’s breeches. His knuckles brushed Eragon’s excited prick. He did not seem able to answer in words. Murtagh’s own breeches were damp, soaked through with something strongly resembling the unknown scent around him. He couldn’t be comfortable in that armor, Eragon thought, and reached for the buckles holding it in place.
Murtagh was rocking against him as Eragon placed his gorget on the ground next to them, seemingly having abandoned the quest for undressing. Breath hissed from between his clenched teeth. His hand was still between them, though he was touching Eragon only incidentally, fingers grazing his belly as Murtagh rolled his hips. It was still a contact more intimate than any he’d received before, and Eragon’s heart pounded in his chest. He wanted to bring himself off. But he had enough control to remember that he shouldn’t. And besides, with Murtagh heavy on top of him, he couldn’t.
This is my brother, he thought tentatively, watching Murtagh’s face. His eyes were closed, pink bottom lip worried between his teeth. The spark the thought sent up Eragon’s spine was unexpectedly hot; his body did not care about the blood they shared. That was a problem for the Eragon of the future, he decided. For now, it was an advantage.
He reached up to steady Murtagh in his lap, holding his low back where Eragon knew the scar wasn’t. He wasn’t sure what else he should be doing. Murtagh seemed caught in the grasp of something beyond himself.
Groaning low in his throat, Murtagh shuddered in a different way, grinding down against Eragon. It was probably, Eragon realized as his expression turned briefly peaceful and strangely familiar, not the first time this had happened to Murtagh today. Not the first time in front of Eragon, either.
Murtagh’s hands, which had been clenched in the leather of Eragon’s jerkin, relaxed as he stilled. As he panted, his eyes seemed to clear, and he looked down at Eragon with an expression that was hard to read. Eragon wasn’t sure how much of the past few minutes Murtagh remembered; did he know who he’d chosen?
“Murtagh?” he asked tentatively.
Murtagh did not move fast enough to classify the motion as a recoil, but he pushed himself to his feet and began to pace in small staggered circles in the scrubby grass. Eragon stayed where he was. He wasn’t sure how to handle this.
Was that it? Was it over? Murtagh didn’t seem much better off than he’d started.
“Are you alright?” Eragon asked, and Murtagh’s head snapped towards him.
“Don’t pretend it matters now,” he said, but at least stopped pacing. Hatred filled his expression, but it seemed more guilty than angry. And it was, Eragon realized, tinged with a not insignificant amount of lust. This wasn’t over, then. What should he do if Murtagh hadn’t meant to choose him? Call Arya back?
No. That wasn’t an option.
Murtagh’s hand had found its way back to the join of his neck, rubbing in fierce circles. He emitted a strangled, punched-out sound as he made contact with whatever his armor had been covering before. It went straight to Eragon’s prick, which gave a sympathetic throb and derailed the counter argument he was planning on making.
“I’m sorry,” Murtagh said reflexively as his breeches got a bit damper, and added with a tinge of hysteria, “It won’t stop.”
The fear touched something rawly sympathetic in Eragon. Murtagh really was poorly, then. Eragon looked away, pretending he wasn’t noticing Murtagh’s cracking facade, and realized that Arya had taken a camp blanket out of Saphira’s saddlebags. That was a good sign. If Arya was confident this could be resolved by the two of them, then Eragon was willing to trust her.
She had ceded her role in this to him. Eragon wasn’t sure he was meant to be quite so pleased by that. He had never put much thought into being the one bedded, but it did not seem like a great sacrifice. Not if that was all it would take to recover a piece of his family.
He unrolled the blanket, laying it out on the ground, and then said, “Murtagh, if you come back over here we can try again.” Just like training a skittish horse. Eragon tried to look soothing, but the tense line of Murtagh’s body didn’t relax at all. He was running his hands through his hair agitatedly; trying not to touch his neck or his prick, Eragon guessed. “Arya wouldn’t have suggested this if it wouldn’t work. Just tell me what you want me to do.” He understood how things worked between a man and a woman, in theory, but he did not know how he was meant to fill in for Arya.
Murtagh mumbled something into his hands but came to sit on the blanket. He pulled his mail shirt off, metal clattering as he dropped it. Murtagh didn’t look at Eragon as he said, hard as stone, “You fuck me.”
“Oh. Are you sure?” Eragon asked, wondering how Arya had been planning to manage that.
“Yes,” Murtagh said shortly. So he had not misspoken. His hands were trembling too much to manage the laces of his breeches.
“Alright,” Eragon said, and reached over to undo them for him. He was quick about it, well-behaved. He didn’t let himself brush against the hardness he could see. Murtagh kicked his boots and breeches off as he laid down on his back, but protested when Eragon reached for his tunic.
Eragon wasn’t sure if it was because Murtagh didn’t want him to look at his scar — unlikely, since it was on his back — but he left it. Murtagh’s swollen prick was tenting the fabric still draped over him. It wouldn’t take much to uncover it. Fluid beaded where the tip was hidden. Murtagh’s eyes were squeezed shut as his hands fisted at his sides, like he was trying not to reach for it. His hips were bucking every so often, like he was trying to restrain that movement too, but too far gone to stop entirely.
“Murtagh,” Eragon said to get his attention. Murtagh’s body clenched hard for no clear reason and his prick jerked, disturbing the fabric. Eragon couldn’t help but watch it with a guilty thrill. “Do I just…” and trailed off as Murtagh squinted up at him.
Sounding harassed, Murtagh asked, “Haven’t you done this before?”
“Not precisely.” Which really meant not at all.
He’d certainly thought it, which must count for something. The fundamentals did seem to be the same, at least on his part. He hadn’t imagined doing this with Murtagh — or, well, not since some confusing dreams during their initial travels that had since taken on a very guilty cast in his mind. He tried not to remember them when he brought himself off, though it couldn’t always be helped.
Murtagh dropped his head back as he groaned in displeasure, exposing his neck. Eragon was beginning to understand why Arya had warned them against biting, because it was all he wanted to do. Before today, Eragon had never wanted to use his teeth on someone else, but looking at Murtagh now, he had trouble imagining anything else. He was so vulnerable and open. The desire was so powerful that even the heat in his sex dulled in comparison.
He could just worry at the skin — surely it couldn’t count as biting. And there was something new there, swollen just under Murtagh’s skin exactly where he had been rubbing. A smooth oblong lump, the size and shape of an almond, sitting on either side of his neck.
“I do understand the concept,” Eragon said, irritated by Murtagh’s assumptions and his own impatient desire. Rather than reach for his neck, he rucked Murtagh’s linen undershirt up over his stomach, and realized that it, too, was soaked through.
The white of the fabric had turned transparent. It could not have been comfortable, especially considering that he still had his tunic on top of it. “What is this?” he asked, rubbing the wet part of the fabric between his fingers. The liquid certainly wasn’t blood or urine, but it didn’t seem entirely like sweat either. It tasted less sweet than it smelled, but not bad.
“I don’t- I don’t know,” Murtagh said, staring at Eragon. He didn’t seem interested in unraveling the mystery. Instead, he grabbed Eragon's wet hand with surprising strength and pulled, until Eragon was kneeling between his spread legs. When he dropped it, Eragon’s fingers brushed against the soft skin of Murtagh’s inner thigh, just below his upright prick, which was flushed with blood and looked very much like Eragon’s own.
It looked as desperate as the man it was attached to, and Eragon ached to swipe his thumb over the tip. Just to see if he was really as wet as he looked. Another bead of fluid welled up and spilled helplessly, and Eragon realized he was staring.
Murtagh was watching him with an inscrutable expression. “You’ll need to get yours out for this,” he said, and Eragon flushed.
He wasn’t sure if he should be embarrassed about how hard his prick was when he pulled it from his breeches. He hadn’t even been touching it, really. Just Murtagh.
But he hesitated there. It seemed wrong to just push ahead, no matter how much he wanted to. How could he be sure that this would work? Like this, Murtagh seemed intensely vulnerable, and Eragon did not want to hurt him. It didn’t seem right.
It wasn’t at all like a fight.
Not with the way Murtagh’s legs had spread just a bit wider, exposing the dusky skin of an entrance between them that Eragon had never given much thought to. It should not have been intimidating. It also shouldn’t have been enticing, but that was forgivable in these circumstances. This was the source of all the fluid, he realized absently, watching it gleam.
One of Murtagh’s hands crept downwards, two fingers dipping into himself just a bit, enough so that his face went lax. His thighs flexed as he pushed his fingers deeper, so that they disappeared inside. Eragon realized his mouth had fallen open as he touched Murtagh’s upper thigh. He hadn’t intended it to mean anything, but Murtagh pulled his fingers back out, scowl reforming. His fingers glistened as he wiped them on one of the drier parts of his shirt.
That would be him soon, Eragon thought dumbly. “Get on with it,” Murtagh snapped. “Unless Arya told you something she didn’t tell me, that means put your cock in me and fuck me until this nightmare ends.”
Eragon swallowed, blushing furiously despite himself, but did as he was told. It was hard to breathe. He set the head of his prick to Murtagh’s hole and pushed in. He tried to do it slowly. His body didn’t comply. The slide in was easier than he had thought it would be. Murtagh was hot around him, and so tight.
Eragon briefly lost his mind.
When he came back to himself, he was buried in Murtagh, with his face pressed against Murtagh’s neck. He had collapsed onto his front, and their chests were pressed together. Murtagh had pulled his knees up, bracketing Eragon’s sides. He had never been so close to anyone before. His teeth ached in his mouth, wanting pressure. Eragon bit his lip and pulled back, giving Murtagh more space. Murtagh writhed underneath him, jolting them together again.
“Helping?” Eragon asked, as he thrust in again. It was all the words he could manage. His toes curled. It felt just as overwhelming the second time. Everything else had broken down into the component parts of sensation: the heat pouring off of Murtagh, the wool beneath his cheek, the smooth stretch of skin where Eragon realized he was stroking Murtagh’s flank. No wonder Murtagh had been having difficulty speaking, if he was feeling anything like this.
“Yes,” Murtagh said. The word came out in a long hiss; the fear was gone from his voice. It had been replaced with want. “More.” As Eragon gathered enough of his mind to figure out a rhythm, Murtagh lifted his hips to meet Eragon’s thrusts.
Movement became much faster and easier. It was as if the madness had been spread between the two of them, taking the burden off of Murtagh alone. Eragon wasn’t sure which one of them initiated the kissing again, but it helped him keep his mind and teeth off Murtagh’s neck.
Eragon had no idea how long he would be able to last; it would be, he thought, sooner than was expected of him. To buy himself more time, he dragged his hand down Murtagh’s tacky stomach and found his prick. It had fully recovered from its previous ordeal, though Eragon thought it entirely possible that it had not softened at all.
Murtagh jolted at the touch, arching upwards and squeezing around Eragon — and was that what his body had been trying to do for him every other time it had done that? His breathing accelerated before he pulled Eragon’s hand away, redirecting it to the less sensitive flesh of his abdomen. Eragon stroked just as tenderly there, and could feel muscles jump under his fingers.
“Not until you do,” Murtagh said, though he was trembling with the effort of not spending again. Eragon gave him a look that he hoped conveyed how soon that would be. He didn’t think he could take much more of this, let alone Murtagh.
Murtagh must have taken it as a plea.
Looping an arm around Eragon’s neck with the other under him for balance, Murtagh pulled them flush together. It settled him more fully on Eragon’s prick. But even that paled in comparison when Murtagh scraped his blunt teeth over Eragon’s neck, nuzzling into him. Murtagh’s was not the only body that had been changed by this process, Eragon realized, gasping at the euphoric rush the action produced. The sensation was like nothing he had ever felt before. No more ignorable than a lightning strike.
No wonder Murtagh had been so focused on it earlier.
That stimulation alone could have been enough, but then Murtagh spoke, sounding like he was putting effort into focusing. “Eragon.”
Eragon managed a weak gasp in acknowledgment as his climax threatened. It should not have mattered that Murtagh knew it was him — not when it wasn’t real, not when it was to save his life — but it felt like a victory. “Aren’t you going to spend for me?” The breath caught in Eragon’s lungs as his hips stuttered. The pleading in his voice tugged at something deep within Eragon. Murtagh hummed, sounding pleased, and began to soothe the skin he had bullied. This time the sensation was more akin to fireworks; it burst through him multiple times. But that pleasure in Murtagh’s tone, more than anything, was what pushed him over the edge.
Murtagh wanted him.
That knowledge got Murtagh his desired result. Eragon began to spill into his brother, making a keening noise that he would deny if asked about. Murtagh, at the very least, had an excuse for that sort of thing.
Teeth pressed against his skin, but Murtagh somehow managed to resist biting down. Perhaps it was the flare of disappointment that accompanied that thought which affected Eragon’s peak, but it felt noticeably different than usual. Strange. But too good for sustained lines of thought.
His release seemed to be occurring very slowly — or perhaps the duration had been dragged out, because the intensity of it was the same. More, even. It seemed to fill Eragon’s entire body, from the curl of his toes to the clench of his stomach to his tingling hands, wrapped around Murtagh’s shoulders. He sank into the flow of it.
Murtagh was keeping Eragon pressed to him tightly, legs clenched around the back of his thighs. He pulled his mouth away from Eragon’s neck with a wet sound and stuffed his fingers in instead, biting them until they turned white with pressure. Eragon, who was still grinding into Murtagh desperately, could not have minded any less as Murtagh released wetly against him. He seemed to get impossibly tighter as Eragon pulsed into him. Something in him rumbled with the satisfaction of a job well done; it was almost like Saphira, though he could not feel her presence in his mind.
But still, it was strange that Murtagh began to recover before Eragon did, when his climax had begun much later. Murtagh started to relax underneath him, sprawling bonelessly. It was over, Eragon thought, strangely dissatisfied.
Then Murtagh tensed and said, sharply, “Eragon. What is this?”
“Um,” Eragon said, trying to think as Murtagh reached between them and felt at the place where they were joined. His fingers stroked over the base of Eragon’s prick, but could find no purchase. Eragon filled him too fully to admit entry.
Eragon tried to pull out, but the intense discomfort that resulted made both of them grimace. The only logical conclusion was that they were stuck, though Eragon could not possibly guess how. “I’m not sure what’s happening,” Eragon admitted. He dropped onto Murtagh’s chest, alleviating the sensation. He still wanted to thrust, but it was a lazy desire and mostly blocked out by the panic that something was going wrong.
“Well, that makes two of us.” Murtagh shifted, as if he was trying to sit up, and Eragon squeaked, grabbing at his hip. Eragon still felt strange, like he could tip over into another climax with little warning or cause. Every movement, no matter how small, was keenly felt. Murtagh stopped moving, and spread his arms out over his head as he sighed. Keeping still was a badly-needed lesson in self-control.
“Do you have any idea of how long this will last?” Murtagh asked, several moments into the awkward silence.
“No.” Although… Saphira? he tried mentally, and received prompt acknowledgment. It was a good thing dragons didn’t feel embarrassment, because Eragon was full enough of it for both of them. It hadn’t mattered as much with Murtagh, because he was also affected. Hopefully Saphira had felt less of what had passed between them than he thought she might have. Can you tell me how long we’ll be…stuck?
Arya says about half an hour, Saphira said back, after a short pause. Eragon felt his face heat as he realized that not only did Saphira know precisely what they had been doing, but Arya almost certainly did as well.
“It’s not that bad,” Murtagh said, sighing, having clearly had the same conversation with Thorn. “But roll onto your side, you’re heavy.”
It took some maneuvering — and Eragon had to grit his teeth and try very hard not to feel any of it — but they got it done. Murtagh smoothed his undershirt back down, covering his thighs and, incidentally, Eragon’s. It did feel nice to be less exposed.
Murtagh was holding himself very still. Much more so than at any point previous in the encounter, including when he had been pacing the city walls. His restless energy was gone. He was back in his right state of mind.
Eragon felt horribly awkward now that there was no longer a problem for him to solve. He wasn’t sure where he was supposed to put his hands, and settled for tucking them between their chests. “Do you feel better?” It felt strange to attempt normal conversation while still buried in Murtagh. Especially because his prick did not seem to share in his embarrassment.
Murtagh sighed. He let his arm rest on Eragon’s hip, and stared over the top of his head. It was more subtle than closing his eyes had been, but he was still avoiding looking at Eragon directly.
How much did it bother Murtagh that this had happened with Eragon? Significantly, probably. Eragon tried to imagine what this would have been like with Roran, and couldn’t manage it; he flinched away from the thought with instinctive revulsion. But Murtagh didn’t have anywhere to flinch to.
“I’ve never felt so sore in my life,” Murtagh groused, shifting again. It was a reassuringly normal complaint. “But I don’t feel like I’m going to die if someone doesn’t fuck my brains out, if that’s what you mean.”
“It…was,” Eragon said, hoping Murtagh didn’t notice the catch in his voice, or the way his prick twitched. If only they could separate, it wouldn’t be a problem. Eragon thought his prick had softened at some point — though it was hard to interpret the sensations his body was sending him, which were not at all like his hand — but it seemed to be stiffening once more. He wouldn’t be callous enough to make Murtagh deal with it again, but he hoped Murtagh wouldn’t say anything else like that. Particularly not in that voice.
A second peak still felt dangerously possible. It certainly had been for Murtagh, and who knew how many more times before it. No wonder Murtagh had been half out of his mind, if that had been what it was like. “Did I hurt you?” Eragon couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t. And if Murtagh chose to interpret the question as being about his physical state, that was fine.
“No,” Murtagh bit out. He tilted his head down to look at Eragon. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” Eragon said, surprised.
“I know it wasn’t your choice to do this.”
“It’s really fine.”
“Hm,” Murtagh responded skeptically, but lapsed back into silence.
“I wonder what these are,” Eragon mused after another moment, motioning to Murtagh’s neck but not daring to touch. “We seem to both have them, but I certainly hadn’t noticed them before today.”
“What, your fancy Elvish teachers didn’t tell you?” Murtagh said resentfully. Eragon tried not to give into the anger that wanted to rise.
“No. Arya said he thought I was too young. They don’t count adulthood in the same way we do. And we were trying to cover a lot, very fast.”
“Well, you certainly seem to have picked up the language.”
“It’s not like you don’t know more magic than I do,” Eragon pointed out.
Murtagh was silent, jaw clenched tightly. Eragon was glad Murtagh had left his tunic on, now. He seemed to be cold. No wonder; he had been bleeding so much heat that he had probably been running a fever. Eragon readjusted his arms so they were around Murtagh’s back, and wriggled further against Murtagh’s chest, closing the gap he’d left. It would help him warm up.
“Will you go with the Elves?” Eragon asked, a few minutes later, instead of saying the many things that came to mind, all of which would have instigated a fight. The silence made him nervous. He couldn’t fidget to displace the nerves either, because it would be acting on Murtagh. His prick was definitely hard again; Eragon was attempting to rise above it.
Murtagh stayed quiet. Either he was trying to wait Eragon out, or he was cataloging his sense of self. It seemed more likely to be the latter. He knew Eragon would just ask again, and it wasn’t like he could leave. And the whole point would be moot if they’d been wrong and his Name hadn’t changed.
Eragon wondered what it felt like to know the string of words that summed up one’s entire self. It did not seem like a flattering prospect. Especially now that it included this. Did his own say that he had liked it? Or did it simply know laying out dry facts was enough?
“I know you want me to say yes,” Murtagh said eventually, which at least meant that the plan had worked.
“I’d prefer you and Thorn fighting alongside me and Saphira,” Eragon said. It was true. Orik never would have accepted it, but Murtagh was his brother, and one of the only other people in the world who knew what having a dragon meant. There was little Eragon couldn’t forgive him for, as long as they were together.
“The men I’m leading don’t deserve to die.”
There was nothing Eragon could say that would change his mind, so he hurried to his next point. “But if that isn’t an option, then yes, I’d prefer to keep you out of Galbatorix’s hands.”
“He might already know,” Murtagh said, sounding hopeless. His hands clenched against the back of Eragon’s jerkin. “And as soon as he does, he can start guessing my Name.”
“You think he’s capable of guessing this?” Eragon asked, unable to keep the skepticism out of his voice.
“He knows everything,” Murtagh said. A particular dreamy quality had entered his voice that Eragon did not like.
“Not everything, surely.”
“Everything,” Murtagh insisted. “He knows your thoughts before you think them. Why do you think he let me out?”
“To humiliate you?” Eragon asked. It seemed like the kind of thing Galbatorix would do. And Murtagh had suggested that, earlier.
“No,” Murtagh said icily. He slid a hand down to test the space between their bodies: still full. Still sensitive. Neither one of them was storming away from this conversation any time soon. Eragon tightened the muscles in his thighs, then released them. It did not quite resolve the urge to move.
“Because he knew it would be me?” Eragon guessed. That was an accurate hit. “Is it such a terrible thing, if it worked?”
“You didn’t want me as your brother to start with,” Murtagh snarled. “Are you going to tell me that this made it more palatable?” And he clenched hard around Eragon.
Eragon swore, and thrust without meaning to, just once. He stopped, trembling, but it was no good. “Murtagh,” he said, trying to ignore how desperate he sounded. “Can I please—?” He couldn’t bring himself to say what he wanted to do. Not with Murtagh level-headed and watching him.
“Say that again,” Murtagh demanded.
“Murtagh!” Eragon cried. “Please. Please let me have you again. I need you.”
“Fine,” Murtagh said, eyes very dark, and hooked his leg over Eragon's hip to pull him closer.
Eragon kept repeating his name, because he could feel how Murtagh shuddered every time he did. Eragon gave in to what his body wanted, too, rocking into Murtagh with short jerks because he couldn’t get any more leverage. It didn’t matter. He released again only a few moments later. It came on blindingly fast, straight from a simmer to a boil. Murtagh’s eyes on him didn’t help.
As he climaxed, he feared that whatever was holding them together would swell again, but it didn’t seem to. The aftershocks passed as usual. Likely it was wishful thinking, but it seemed like there was more room to maneuver afterwards.
Eragon caught his breath with Murtagh still staring at him. His expression was very intense, though Eragon couldn't read it.
He picked up the dropped thread of conversation as soon as he could manage. “I do want you as my brother. I always did. And this doesn’t change that at all. You didn’t exactly tell me under the best of circumstances,” Eragon added, thinking back to that terrible fight. “You wanted to punish me with it and then you were angry that I was hurt.”
“I wanted you to understand,” Murtagh said sulkily, “which you still clearly don’t.”
“What, do you want me to prove it?” Eragon asked, and Murtagh stared at him with burning eyes. Without letting himself stop to think, Eragon closed the gap between them and kissed Murtagh. It was sweeter than any they had shared so far.
Though it lasted only briefly, because Murtagh’s mouth twisted strangely under his own. When Eragon pulled back, he realized that it was because Murtagh had begun to cry. Tears leaked crossways down his face, absorbed in the blanket beneath them.
“Oh,” Eragon said, startled. Hadn’t Murtagh wanted this? Apologies sprang to his lips.
“Fuck off,” Murtagh snapped, when Eragon asked if there was anything he could do, and covered his face with his hands. It didn’t do much to stop the tears.
They couldn’t separate, so Eragon fell quiet. He was not good with crying people. He put his arm around Murtagh, stroking at his hair like Aunt Marian had used to do when he was small, trying to soothe him. Murtagh sobbed intensely but briefly, like a summer storm. He made almost no sound.
It did not take long until Murtagh forced the emotion back down and said, no longer crying but somehow more distressed, “It doesn’t matter. You aren’t ever going to be able to win against him. We’re his forever.”
“You aren’t his right at this moment,” Eragon argued. “Neither is Thorn. Go to Ellesméra and they’ll protect you!” Murtagh did not look any more convinced. “It doesn’t have to be bad forever just because that’s the way it’s been before. You broke out once, you can do it again.”
“I’m not a coward.”
“No,” Eragon agreed, following the logic. “Then come back and fight later, but right now I don’t think it’s going to help anyone. Who knows; maybe your Name will change even more in Ellesméra, and Galbatorix won’t be able to guess it when you come back.”
“I’m tired,” Murtagh said, like the words were being pulled out of him.
“Then rest,” Eragon said, aware that he was missing the point but unable to stop. He had to convince Murtagh to save his own life.
Murtagh said nothing back.
Eragon shifted, and realized that whatever had held them together was now gone. There was no discomfort when he pulled away and slipped out of Murtagh strangely easily. He wriggled backwards, putting space between them, and sat on his folded legs. All at once, Eragon became aware of his state of undress, and of Murtagh’s. His soft prick was covered in viscous fluid that was unlike his spend. But no blood, thankfully. Did that mean Murtagh had done this before, or was it different for men?
Murtagh pushed himself into a sitting position, but didn’t stand. Some of their combined fluids began to leak out of him onto the blanket, as if they’d been waiting for the chance. Murtagh grimaced at the sensation, fingers moving as if he wanted to push them back in but had thought better of it. He let it ebb out unimpeded.
The sight sparked another question, and Eragon wished he had pressed Arya for more details. Would his seed take root in Murtagh? Surely it couldn’t. That kind of thing didn’t happen to men. Not in Carvahall, at least. Only stories.
But then again, Riders had only been in stories, too.
Shaking the thought out of his head, Eragon stood on numb legs. Murtagh took his offered hand with ill grace, but he allowed the help. Eragon tried not to look at his spend dripping down Murtagh’s legs, past the hem of his shirt and his limp sex. That was a reassuring sight; Murtagh had not softened at any point previously. So Eragon had truly helped Murtagh through his ordeal. He felt, strangely and wildly inappropriately, proud.
Murtagh started walking in the wrong direction, heading for the lake without looking back. He didn’t seem bothered by the shift under his feet from grass to rocks as he closed the distance to the water. “Hey!” Eragon called after him. “We have to get going!”
As he kept moving, Murtagh asked, “Do you really want to face Arya looking like that?”
Fair point, Eragon thought, and hurried after him after removing the rest of his clothes. The water was freezing, and Eragon desperately wished for a bathtub, if only because he would have felt confident in his ability to heat the water without warming the entire lake.
Murtagh didn’t seem to mind the temperature; he strode in until the water was up to his chest, and then dunked himself, clothes and all. He scrubbed vigorously at the many fluids covering him; it seemed like a nightmare to Eragon. He was glad that his own were more contained, and he was only soaked with the usual sweat from exertion.
There was only so much he could do without the soap that was still back in camp, but Eragon did feel cleaner afterwards.
He finished washing himself before Murtagh did, and returned to the blanket. Eragon was less worried about setting the blanket on fire than their clothes, so he experimented with a spell to clean and dry it. It worked better than he had expected — the wet spot that had formed under their bodies vanished, and the blanket was faintly warm to the touch. He did the same with Murtagh’s damp breeches — there was a truly inconceivable amount of fluid on them — then used the blanket to dry himself. It did not absorb water well, but it cut the chill from the wind.
Curiosity won out at that point, and Eragon examined his prick in detail. Nearly everything looked the same as it had before, which was a relief. If it was bigger, as it had felt, it was only slightly so. However, there was an extra band of thin skin near the base of his prick. It was currently deflated, but Eragon could easily imagine that, when it swelled, it would lock within Murtagh. Something to be aware of in the future, then. Especially if it was a result of any stimulation, not just situations like this. Eragon redonned his clothes quickly, glad to be covered and warm.
He felt absently at his neck as he watched Murtagh in the water. The bumps he had noticed were still there, though he had to push hard at his flesh in order to feel them. Most likely they wouldn’t be visible, even if they didn’t go away. They seemed significantly less sensitive, too. Maybe that was just circumstantial.
By the time Murtagh was ready to leave the embrace of the lake, Eragon was once again talking with Saphira.
The mating went well? she asked, still sounding amused.
Yes, thank you, Eragon said back, and added, You can tell Arya I didn’t bite him, if she’s worried about it. Though it didn’t seem like it would have been that dangerous.
Good, Saphira said. I wouldn’t have wanted to have to go with them to Ellesméra to fix it.
Eragon meant to ask her what that meant, but Murtagh rejoined him before he could.
“I haven’t been this clean in weeks,” he said. He was in a good mood, Eragon thought. Somewhere underneath exhaustion and caustic deflection, he sounded glad to be done with it. Free. He was still soaking wet, including his overclothes, but aside from wringing the water out of them, he made no move to dry them. It looked immensely uncomfortable, and had to feel worse.
Confused, Eragon asked, “Aren’t you going to fix that before we go?”
Murtagh gave him a withering look as he pulled his breeches and boots back on. He left the mail off, because even he had to concede the net of metal would be miserable over two wet fabric layers. “‘Dry clothes’ isn’t exactly a useful combat skill, Eragon.”
A spark of pity burned in Eragon’s mind as he abruptly put together another piece of the puzzle that was Murtagh. It wasn’t only jealousy of Ellesméra that made him resentful of Eragon’s training, then. He didn’t think Murtagh would appreciate its expression, though, so instead he just held out his hands and said, “Let me.”
Murtagh held still as Eragon thought about the fabric and said, “Verma.” As he focused, he explained with words slowed by care to not burn him, “I’m just trying to heat the clothes, and with the intention in the word, I can do so.” It might have been more effective to heat his hands — and that was indeed his first impulse — but he didn’t think Murtagh would appreciate Eragon pawing at him again so quickly afterwards. There was no excuse for it anymore.
Murtagh did not thank him, but he did stop shivering, and that was what mattered in the end. He did jerk out of the way when Eragon reached up for his hair, though.
“You’re going to get sick,” Eragon protested, and realized he sounded exactly like his aunt.
“Nevertheless,” Murtagh said, and started off through the trees to where Arya and the dragons were waiting. Eragon rolled up the blanket and followed him. The walk was long enough that Eragon, with relief, knew it was out of earshot of where they’d been before. Murtagh glanced uneasily at the trees around them as they started to grow closer together.
“There’s nothing else out here,” Eragon said. “Nothing that Saphira and Thorn can’t match, anyways.”
“That’s not—,” Murtagh started, and then sighed and didn’t continue the sentence. A few minutes later, he said, “We’ll go to Ellesméra.”
Eragon smiled, and knew that Murtagh saw it. But he kept his mouth shut about anything that would make Murtagh reverse the decision. It couldn’t have been an easy one.
Not long after that, Saphira said, Here, and the clearing came into view. Thorn and Saphira were crouched near each other, with Arya standing beside them.
And another Elf, who Eragon had never met before.
He had a pack of his own at his feet, and was watching Thorn and Saphira with obvious awe. Eragon was sometimes surprised by how wondrous people found Saphira. Not that she wasn’t incredible, of course, but she was such an integral part of his life that he had difficulty recalling what it was like to not be around her.
“Who is this?” Murtagh demanded of Arya as he went straight to Thorn. Thorn seemed relieved to see him; the tension that had been held in his wings before was absent now. Eragon tucked the blanket back into Saphira's saddlebag.
“Your escort to Ellesméra,” she said. “Launis. He’s skálpr like you. He’s here to vouch for you once you reach Ellesméra and answer your questions.”
“Murtagh,” Launis greeted, tilting into a half-bow. "Shadeslayer."
Murtagh looked at him with suspicion. Any openness that had been present in him was now firmly closed back up. “And what precisely does that mean, skálpr? I’m going with you, so there’s no benefit in withholding knowledge now.”
Arya matched his rigidity, squaring her shoulders.
Launis gave Arya a scandalized look, and chided, “You didn’t explain?”
“It’s private,” Arya said stiffly. “And it wasn’t the time.”
“Skálpar are the ones who, hm, take the knífar inside. Knífar are the ones with the pommel,” Launis said, making a fist. “Hence, sheath and knife and lock.” Despite the fact that they weren’t looking at him, Eragon blushed and pressed his cheek to Saphira’s scales. Pommel indeed.
You didn’t seem to mind it, she said privately to him.
It’s not about that, Eragon said back. Arya’s right, it’s private. And he’s my brother. I should mind it.
Saphira made a snorting sound that indicated her general disregard for human customs.
“So, Eragon, he’s knífr?” Murtagh asked. There was the barest flicker of real curiosity buried beneath the challenge in his voice.
“Well,” Launis said. “He’s still árknifr, but once he presents, yes.”
“And when does it end?” Murtagh asked, looking him straight in his startled face. He was bristling just as he had at Arya; Eragon could see how much he hated having to ask.
“It…doesn’t?” Launis said, and looked to Arya for help. She shrugged laconically. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand the question. Your varaförn is over for now, but you’ll be renskálpr for the rest of your life. I know this one was quite hard on you, but it’s not a sickness, as Arya may have framed it.” Launis did not sound as if he approved of Arya’s handling of the situation. Arya’s arms were crossed tightly across her chest.
Launis seemed as if he would have ended his explanation there, but Murtagh had not stopped looking at him like he was about to charge — or bolt. “It’s just part of being a Rider. To think of it another way: you are a son.” Not a good start, Eragon saw in the way Murtagh’s face shuttered. Morzan overshadowed them both too heavily to be invoked like this. “When you have a child, you will become a father. The second state does not negate the first, but even if your child dies, you remain a father. In much the same way, you are renskálpr. You have passed the threshold into full adulthood, though you are very young for it.” He sounded faintly disapproving, though he looked only a few years older than Murtagh himself.
Arya spoke up finally, and said, “The Riders were always young for it. Between varaförn you shouldn’t notice much of a difference.” Launis nodded to this last.
“How often?” Murtagh asked tightly.
Launis considered. “For us it is on a cycle of between five and ten years. For you… More often is likely, but you’ll have to learn as you go.”
“Very helpful,” Murtagh said, turning away from him to fiddle with the straps on Thorn’s saddle. He clearly did not think much of Launis, nor this second entrance into adulthood. The first was already long behind him. Launis looked anxious, glancing at Thorn. Other Elves generally showed more of their emotions than Eragon expected; Arya was often much harder to read.
Partly to draw the unwanted attention from Murtagh, but mainly because he was curious, Eragon asked, “There’s a distinction you’re making between states of being, right? The ‘early’ and the ‘oath.’ How does that transition happen? I don’t think Murtagh swore anything.”
“Oh!” Launis brightened. This seemed more in line with the questions he’d expected. “The contrast isn’t between those two, it’s between ren and ilumaro.” Oath and truth, Eragon translated automatically. “Elves choose one dynamic naturally, but human Riders are given one through their pact with the dragons. In fact, you have a slightly different structure as a result, which does lead to discrepancies in experiences. The first human Riders—”
“The two of you should begin the journey,” Arya said, having reached the limits of her patience; Launis seemed about to launch into a full history. “Murtagh’s absence will have been noted by now.”
Eragon was disappointed he would not be able to hear the rest of the story, as Launis agreed reluctantly. He seemed like he was regretting asking for this assignment.
Murtagh turned back to them, face blank again. “Let’s not waste time,” he said, climbing into the saddle. “He’ll make his own way back?”
Arya nodded. Launis bowed to Thorn, who gave his assent. Murtagh let Launis clamber up alone.
Eragon, knowing he would not get another chance in the near future, said “Murtagh!”
Murtagh hesitated, looking down at him. He seemed desperately hopeful that Eragon would not bring up anything that had passed between them, and so Eragon simply said, “Travel well, brother.” He chose the word deliberately, ignoring the voice that told him he should avoid it. Arya had to have known it was a risk and Murtagh deserved to know that no bond had been severed through this. Saphira and Thorn, of course, knew everything.
Murtagh nodded, and said, “You as well, brother.”
Eragon watched the sky for long after they had disappeared into it. He hoped Ellesméra would be as healing for Murtagh as it had been for himself.
“Should we head back?” he asked Arya, but she shook her head.
“We’ll want to stagger our exits.” And then: “Eragon. I am truly sorry for my part in this. I did not believe Murtagh would perceive you as a viable option.”
Thinking of anything that had happened but with Arya in his place instead filled Eragon with a terrible jealousy. He could not say with certainty which party it was aimed at, just that it was worse than his first wondering had been. Now he knew concrete details.
“It’s alright, Arya,” he said instead. “If there was a chance I could have helped him, I wouldn’t have said no, even if you had told me. And it did work.”
Arya nodded, and then changed the subject. “Launis was wrong, you know.”
“About what?” Eragon asked.
“You aren’t árknifr. He doesn’t know what you were like before, but you’re renknífr now. You’ll want to wash again if you don’t want questions. Especially…” she gestured evocatively.
“But I didn’t feel anything nearly as bad as what Murtagh did,” Eragon protested, even as he resolved to do precisely that. Though if he had passed over the same threshold, perhaps the Elves would now take him seriously.
“So you can see why I was concerned. That’s what it should have been like for him as well.” Arya paused. “Varaförn is harder on your species, generally, but I have never in my life seen anything quite like that.”
“What would have happened if I hadn’t been there?” Eragon asked.
“And if I wasn’t, or he rejected me? It does happen; I could not force him,” she said, off Eragon’s look. “Either he would have died when his body became too stressed, or Galbatorix would have taken your place. Most likely the latter. Galbatorix would not want to lose Thorn.” No jealousy dogged that response, just queasiness.
Murtagh had said as much before, hadn’t he? Eragon had not understood the comment at the time, beyond a general sense that Galbatorix would have seen him suffer, but he felt sick as he considered what it would have actually meant. He couldn’t imagine Galbatorix treating Murtagh’s fear with anything except amusement. “I’m glad you said something,” he said quietly. “In the meeting.”
Saphira rumbled her agreement, and deemed that it had been long enough. She had been patient, Eragon recognized, and appreciated it immensely. It took Eragon a long time to refocus his mind on military concerns. Arya did not press him as they flew back towards the camp. Saphira did, though she cared more about Eragon than the circumstances specifically.
You’ve changed again. Saphira did not often make neutral observations, so Eragon glanced at her curiously.
Apparently I have, he agreed, not wanting the conversation to reach Arya’s ears.
Does it bother you? I should not like to take on a new shape yet again.
Eragon thought, but eventually said, No. The way Arya and Launis explained it, being renknífr is simply part of being a Rider. It’s a natural change, like my ears and my magic and my strength, and like your growth. I can’t say I expected it, but there’s no point in fighting it. I don’t resent it. After a moment, he added, I’m glad I was able to help Murtagh. It seems like a hard path to walk.
Thorn was frightened, Saphira agreed. I should not like that, either.
It won’t happen like that to me, Eragon promised, feeling her massive lungs expand beneath him. The sun was still high above them, but he did not anticipate an early evening. He tried to figure out what he should say to Nasuada. Only that it was handled, he thought. Murtagh would not want her to know more. Surely she would understand that.
Later, Eragon and Saphira were curled together for the night. He was thinking about Ellesméra, hoping that Murtagh and Thorn were experiencing a similar comfort. News of either success or failure had not yet reached the Varden, and likely wouldn’t for some time. He wished he could have told them of Oromis and Glaedr directly, but if they were recaptured the risk was too great.
Out loud, Eragon wondered, “What would it mean if it did happen again?”
Saphira laughed as if she’d been expecting the question, and said, You’ll have to ask Arya what the Elves would think. But for my part, I don’t mind Murtagh so much. At the very least he is a Rider. He knows the claim I have on you. And Thorn is not terrible, for all that he is young. I think I would not be unhappy if you shared your life with him.
Eragon, who had not been asking about anything quite so permanent, was nevertheless touched by her approval. “I’m glad,” he said, and needed to say nothing more.