Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He wonders what he would have done if the circumstances hadn't changed so much. Panicked, probably. Before, he would have been sent reeling by what he's just done, searching through the shame for a way to repair the damage he's surely just caused. He would have felt guilty, embarrassed, desperate, and maybe even a little bit hopeful.

But things are different now, duller. When Eragon pulls away from Murtagh's lips, he mostly feels numb. Cautious maybe, and perhaps a bit breathless, but not much else. As he stares into his brother's wide eyes, he wonders if he also has trouble with feeling anything anymore.

It was well within the God forsaken hours of the night when they had laid down together on the mattress in their dim, sparse room. They murmured idly about the events of their day, exhaustion sapping their will to discuss the dismal prospect of continuing to rebuild the shattered pieces of the Riders. The words had run dry and they simply laid on their sides in silence as they often did. Eragon stared blankly into Murtagh's eyes until he switched to his lips which was becoming more common these days. But instead of tearing his gaze away and forcing himself back through his usual rationale, Eragon had shuffled forward and kissed him without letting himself question the mistake he was probably making.

They're back to staring now, but less blurry now, sharper. Murtagh's the one who moves forward this time, slower, more carefully than Eragon had. The kiss he initiates lasts longer, and feels more intimate, active, if only marginally. He pulls back slower too; his warm breath flows over Eragon's skin for a few moments before he retreats further. He blinks at him, but Eragon still can't find any emotion in his face.

“Are we crossing the line?” Eragon asks, because it seems like an appropriate question to pose.

“Who cares?” Murtagh counters. “Why does it matter? Who's here to tell us what we can and can't do, or punish us if we step out of line? It doesn't matter what we do; not anymore. I think we can cross as many lines as we want to.”

“But do we want to? What line is this anyway?”

Murtagh breaks eye contact and tilts his face into the pillow, considering. Eragon doesn't have an answer. He didn't when he leaned forward and he doesn’t now that he’s pulled back. But now he ponders. Why did he do this? Why would he risk such a potential disaster when everything is already so unstable to begin with? Desperation to rid himself of this chronic numbness is surely a part of it. But there’s more to it; Eragon doesn’t bother denying that.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, of course I do,” Eragon answers earnestly and without pause.

“Are you in love with me?” Eragon hesitates and Murtagh continues. “Maybe that’s the line. Between loving and being in love .”

Eragon snorts. That's something he's tried not to think about before. “Try” being the operative word here since he most certainly has thought about it. And despite his attempted denials, his conclusion has always been that he loves his brother. Or rather- he's in love with his brother. Yes, that is a better way to put it, Murtagh always was more eloquent than he is. He speaks his mind.

“No, that’s definitely not it. I’ve already crossed that line- a while ago, I think.”

Murtagh looks at him thoughtfully, studying his face. Eragon doesn’t bother trying to mask or control it because if Murtagh was right about one thing, it’s that it doesn’t matter what they do anymore. His expression is honest. Murtagh seems to realize that and looks away with a soft chuckle. “You’re right,” he concedes, “I have too. I’ve been in love with you since I first met you.”

Eragon’s heart twists and flutters in a way that he couldn’t remember it able to do. That alone makes him glad he did this. He ventures to guess, “Maybe this line is accepting it, embracing it.”

The air feels laden in the silence that follows his words. Despite his exhaustion, Eragon’s heart beats at a rapid clip under his sternum. He has to make a conscious effort to keep breathing regularly. His chest aches by the time Murtagh finally opens his mouth and murmurs, “Do you want to cross it?”

He lets out a shaky breath and tries to release the tension from his flesh. He considers taking time to feign thinking about something this important, but it would only be an act. He knows exactly what he wants.

“Yes,” Eragon sighs and Murtagh’s eyes brighten just slightly. “But only if,” he continues, “you cross it with me.”

Murtagh’s expression softens into something more tender, full of love, admiration, and desire. It’s not passionate, and Eragon is grateful for that; he’s not sure he can handle passion from either of them yet. But when Murtagh replies, “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Eragon thinks that they can work their way up to that.

They meet in the middle this time, kissing slow and simple. The pace is sluggish, burdened by fuzzy fatigue and leaden limbs but he hasn’t felt so sated and complete in a very long time. It’s cold outside, it always is this far north, but it’s warm underneath the covers and entangled with each other. He feels eager, nervous, relieved, and maybe even a little bit hopeful.

Chapter Text

The work will never end, Murtagh thought miserably. Eragon had already been through this once, when he had tried to settle Mount Arngor, but it was considerably more difficult without the rest of the world lending a hand. And all the snow ! Whatever had possessed him to travel so far north, Murtagh would never know. It wasn’t too bad when it was just him and Thorn, but then Eragon turned up with the few young Riders that had been made before the incident. He had opened the door to their sloppy, makeshift home to find his brother’s big brown eyes burning a hole into him. His voice had cracked as he said, “I can’t do this alone.”

Building an abode for dragons out of wood was impractical, Murtagh knew that much from making the house for him and Thorn, so they ventured to the imposing stone cliffs in the area and started to mine directly into the side. Their structure was livable, but not comfortable, and Murtagh and Eragon were constantly grappling with possible improvements and the slew of problems that came with them.

They had dedicated the week to renovation, following cautious plans to expand further back into the cliff face. The day was almost spent and Murtagh stood hunched over a pile of sketches and diagrams.

He gnawed over the possibility of cave ins during this attempt at expansion and what they could do, if anything, to lower the risk. This wouldn’t be half so difficult if dragons weren’t so damned big! he thought for the millionth time. He felt Thorn bristle indignantly in the back of his mind at that, but he wasn’t really offended, mostly since it was absolutely true.

The size of Thorn and Saphira alone presented a massive construction issue, even without the young dragons of five student Riders who had accompanied Eragon. For now, they all stayed in the one massive hall that formed the center of the structure, but they knew it wasn’t a practical solution in the long run. Eragon had brought up that, although the young dragons weren’t old enough to feel the effects of mating season, that wouldn’t last forever. By the time they did, they needed to have figured out something better than this. Murtagh shuddered at the thought.

Before he could attempt to refocus his mind on the project at hand, the sound of echoing footsteps interrupted him. He turned to see Hvetra loping towards him, her strides thundering against the stone floors. He straightened when he noticed the worried expression on her face. Hvetra was the first Rider made after Arya and even though she was young, fifteen, the urgal woman stood several inches taller than him and Murtagh had to tilt his head back to see he once she stopped in front of him.

“What is it?”

“It’s Eragon.”

Murtagh’s heart twisted viciously in his chest, but he tried to disguise it. No need to bring attention to themselves. The last he knew, Eragon was with a couple of students using magic to mine out some of the stone in the back. He tried to rationalize that, if there was a serious emergency, then Hvetra would have been sprinting and shouting his name as soon as he was in earshot, but his blood was still pounding when he asked, “What happened?”

Her expression twisted. “We have been working long in the back, but when we told Eragon we should finish, he refused and kept working. We are worried... worried he could push himself too far.” She looked at him with desperation.

To another’s ears, this could sound like a trifling inconvenience, but Murtagh knew his brother. Eragon’s tendency to overwork himself ran deep and destructive. If Hvetra thought that Eragon was pressing too far, then he really was in danger. Murtagh shoved away from the table and set a swift pace to his brother. He could hear Hvetra trailing behind him.

He passed through the crude doorway into the partially excavated room. Jari, their one human student, jolted as he entered then raised a nervous finger to point out his teacher in the center of the room. Murtagh didn’t need it; he fixed his gaze on Eragon the moment he came into view and only halted when he was a couple paces behind him. His blood ran cold.

Eragon was mumbling an incantation to cut into the rock but his voice was ragged, his words faltered, and his outstretched hand trembled violently. What he could see of his skin looked pale and sickly. Part of him wanted to leap forward and shake his shoulders, stop him immediately, but he knew that if Eragon’s spell went awry, it could kill him. So instead he barked, “Eragon!” with as much intensity as he could muster. He didn’t respond.

“Eragon!” he tried again, louder this time. He twitched, as if trying to rid himself of a fly but didn’t stop his spell. “ Eragon, this is urgent!” he shouted, letting an edge of desperation enter his voice. Under different circumstances, Murtagh would have felt guilty, manipulating his brother to get his attention like this. But now, he needed Eragon to stop, and he knew that no matter how stubborn he was, Eragon would stop if he thought that Murtagh needed him. And he did.

He cut off his spell and let his arm drop as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He turned around and faced Murtagh with an expression so tragic that he almost started to cry. His guilt, his fear, his confusion, his desperation- his desperation to fix everything that had shattered apart in his hands; it was all written across his face.

Murtagh closed the last two steps in a heartbeat, reaching out to brush Eragon’s hair to the side before cupping his face in his hands. With every ounce of love and sincerity in his heart, he told him, “Enough. You’ve done enough. You can rest now.”

Eragon’s lip trembled tumultuously and Murtagh guessed that he would have started crying had he not collapsed. Murtagh grasped him before he fell and wasted no time picking him up like he might a child. His heart clenched in fury and anguish upon feeling how little he weighed. He wanted to cry too. He turned to where Hvetra and Jari were still staring owlishly, and told them, “No work tomorrow. The day is free. Make sure everyone else is informed.” Then he swept out of the room.

He linked his mind with his brother’s, feeding energy across the bond to replenish the stores he had depleted. Murtagh had little enough to spare, but Eragon needed it more than him. He felt Saphira join with his mind as well, sharing from her own, vast store of energy. Murtagh relaxed somewhat, and as he he entered the central hall to reach their room, Saphira joined them and crooned to her exhausted Rider.

Murtagh hesitated, suddenly wondering if Saphira would demand that Eragon stay out here so she could keep her Rider under her watchful gaze. Yet, he felt her turn her thoughts towards him and say, No, he needs to rest. Bring him to your room so he can sleep. I trust you to watch over him for me. Her words were double sided; an admission of intimate trust yet a warning to never break it.

Satisfied, Murtagh crossed the remainder to the hall to their room, separating his mind from Saphira and Eragon, confident he now had enough energy that he was not in danger. He shut the door of their room and deposited Eragon on the bed, seating himself on the edge.

“You beautiful fool,” he started, as he often did, “what were you thinking?” Murtagh was careful to keep any accusation out of his voice; Eragon was far too stubborn for such a tactic to work. Not that Murtagh wanted to use it anyway. He loved him, he didn’t want to fight with him.

Instead, he let all his concern and fear flood his voice. It wasn’t hard. He was terrified, and he knew that Eragon was more like to listen if he realized how much his recklessness impacted him. “You could have seriously hurt yourself if you had kept going; you could have died! Why do you feel the need to keep pushing yourself like this?”

Eragon curled up on his side on the mattress and tears began to spill from the corners of his eyes as Murtagh watched. “I’m sorry,” he choked out, beginning to shake again.

Murtagh frowned and gathered Eragon up in his arms with the most comforting embrace he could. “I know you are,” he sighed, “and that’s the problem. You feel so guilty about everything that’s happened that you think you need to fix all of it, all on your own, no matter what the cost is. Eragon, you can’t do it all on your own.” Eragon sobbed harder and Murtagh rubbed his back firmly. “But the good thing about that is, you don’t have to. I’m here for you, Saphira is here for you, all of us are here for you. Don’t try to shoulder this burden on your own.”

He listened to Eragon cry for a time then shifted back far enough to look him in the eye. “Let me tell you something I learned after I left. After I made all of those mistakes in the war. When I heard people mention my name, half of them thought I should be executed for my crimes. At a point, I started to wonder if that would be the best way to pay for what I’d done.”

Eragon opened his mouth but Murtagh cut him off before he could speak. “I realized, with time, that it would be no payment at all. Alive, I could better myself, help those I’d hurt before, make up for the mistakes I’d made. Dead, I could do nothing. You need to survive . Only then can you make amends for the past.”

Murtagh searched Eragon’s eyes and Eragon searched his. Tears had started to roll down his own cheeks, but he didn’t bother to brush them away. Instead, he set his forehead against Eragon’s and murmured, “Don’t disregard your own life. Without that, you have nothing, and you are the only one you can count on to keep it safe. Please, Eragon,” his voice broke and he paused to take a breath. “The world would be so much lesser without you in it.”

Eragon’s breath hitched and he shifted to press the side of his face against Murtagh’s own. He could feel the salt of their tears mingling through the contact and leaned into it. “I’m sorry,” Eragon said a second time, and this time Murtagh felt it was for the right reasons.

“I forgive you,” he replied earnestly in a soft voice. “Just... please take care of yourself. If not for your own sake, then for your responsibilities. You have to help yourself before you can help anyone else.”

He felt Eragon nod slightly against him and Murtagh responded by pulling him tighter into his arms, eliminating any space left between them. They sat there quietly for a few minutes, rocking back and forth gently. Eventually, Eragon mumbled, “I’m so tired,” into Murtagh’s neck and he couldn’t help but crack a smile.

“Well, good, because you aren’t doing anything tomorrow. If you even so much as step out of bed, I will pull you back in and lay on top of you for the rest of the day.”

“Well, what if I need to go to the bathroom?” Eragon countered and Murtagh clicked his tongue. He narrowed his eyes and wagged a finger at his brother, but when Eragon broke into a watery grin, he melted.

“I’m going to get you some food. Don’t go anywhere, you hear me?”

His grin softened and he replied, “Loud and clear, love,” before leaning in to kiss Murtagh gently and sweetly. He pulled back, then settled back into the bed, eyes drooping heavily. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

In the years since his changes at the Agaeti Blodhren, Eragon has noticed that, in general, the more tired he his, the deeper he falls into his waking dreams. That is to say, he's been sleeping quite deeply recently. He always makes sure to sleep lying down in his bed, because he’s become prone to sliding out of whatever position he’s planted himself in if he doesn’t. He also ensures that he shuts his eyes firmly before falling asleep, though that’s partially because Murtagh insists that it’s objectively horrifying to roll over in the middle of the night to find him staring wide-eyed back at him.

But for better or worse, Eragon can’t fully return to the way he slept before his transformation. His waking dreams always leave his senses open, always leave him aware of his surroundings.

And so, on nights like these, when Murtagh starts to mumble and writhe in his grasp, he knows immediately.

Eragon shakes off his dreams in an instant, shifting from his hardly-awake exhaustion to his typical exhaustion with ease. Another benefit of his changes, he figures. He disentangles himself from their embrace and sits up at Murtagh’s side. Although he would rather stay there, as close to Murtagh as he can manage, he knows that touch needs to be careful, calculated, in moments like these. Touch can hurt as easily as comfort.

Murtagh is still asleep, he can tell. His eyes are closed, but his brow is pinched in a strained expression. He continuously mutters under his breath; no true words, just a garbled string of nonsense, but very real in emotion. Panic, confusion, pain. He tosses his head from side to side and Eragon can see where his fingers twitch and clench, uncovered by the blankets when he sat up.

Eragon grasps his shoulders as he rolls from one side to the other, pinning him on his back. Murtagh’s breath hitches and he starts mumbling much louder and more urgently. He hears a couple of “no”s and what might be a “stop” within the gibberish. Eragon feels a flush of guilt, but he knows it’s better to wake him than to leave him suffering in nightmares.

Murtagh starts to thrash beneath him, jolting in an attempt to throw off his hands. Eragon keeps his grip firm and steady, however, and Murtagh’s expression turns into one of unveiled fear and pain. Eragon’s heart twists as he watches.

“Murtagh! Wake up!” he commands loudly, not a shout, but still intense. “Wake up! It’s a dream; you’re safe here.” He keeps his voice as stable and clear as he can. “You’re dreaming, Murtagh.” He can see his eyes flicker rapidly beneath their lids. “Murtagh. Brother! Murtagh! ”

Murtagh jolts awake with an aching gasp and slashes an arm blindly across his chest, dislodging Eragon’s hands. He puts up no resistance, retracting his arms quickly and shifting back to give him more space. Murtagh scrambles upright frantically, his hair wild and his eyes wilder. He flinches when he sees Eragon on the bed and cringes away from him.

Eragon’s brows furrow in concern and sympathy. “Murtagh...” he says soothingly, then reaches out to hold his hand. Murtagh cries out and lurches backward, but Eragon maintains his grasp. He fumbles until he finds his thumb and squeezes the fingertip between his own thumb and forefinger. He finds Murtagh’s index and does the same. He makes his way down his hand then back again, gently squeezing the tips of his fingers.

It was Murtagh’s idea originally. It was a night not unlike this one, when a nightmare had wormed its way inside Murtagh’s dreams, but Eragon had a much harder time bringing him back to reality. He had lashed out each time Eragon tried to reach out to him and panicked at the sound of his voice. He went through a long and painful anxiety attack before he finally returned to the present.

When the air had at last begun to relax, Eragon confessed how hard it was for him to not reach out when Murtagh was in pain. “What can I do?” he’d asked desperately. “It hurts to do nothing.”

Murtagh looked down, long hair obscuring his face. In a hoarse voice he admitted that, after nightmares like those, it was difficult to remember where he was. He trusted Eragon, he assured him, but when he touched him, all he could think of was the people in his dreams. And the people in those dreams... made their touches hurt.

After a long, laden silence, Murtagh had looked up and said, “Maybe... maybe we could figure out some way to remind me that it’s you... Some touch I don’t associate with anything else. Something unique to us.”

They spent the next hour fumbling awkwardly for the perfect touch. Not overwhelming, not aggressive, not restricting, and more than anything, not common. Something they could have just between the two of them. Something to ground each other in the moments when the pain sweeps them somewhere else.

Like now.

Murtagh starts to move each finger forward before Eragon has to grab it, responding to the touch. His gasping breaths start to even out and some of the tension in his spine starts to ease. Eventually, he looks up and meets Eragon's gaze.

"Eragon?" he rasps.

He lets out a shaky breath and says, "Yeah, I’m with you, I’m right here.” He reaches out hesitantly and, when Murtagh doesn’t flinch away, he moves his hands to the back of his neck. “You’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

Releasing an exhausted sigh, Murtagh drops his head into the crook of Eragon’s neck. He wraps his arms around his waist. Eragon rubs his hands soothingly across the top of Murtagh’s back. He can feel the ridge of his scar through the thin material of his nightshirt, spanning the muscles of his shoulder. “Nightmare?” he inquires gently.

“Hmmmm,” Murtagh responds.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hmm.” This time with a head shake.

“Okay.” Eragon listens to him breathe for a while. “Do you want to do something else? Do you need a distraction?”

“Mmhmm.” He nods against his shoulder. “I do.”

Eragon tilts his head back, considering. Quite frankly, he’s exhausted, and he gets the feeling Murtagh is too. This isn’t the time for lively play and fun. Something relaxing would serve better. He hums thoughtfully. “Would you like to have a bath? It’s been a while since we’ve had a chance.”

The last time they’d snuck away to share a bath was after a rare moment when they had the energy and time to roughhouse like the brothers they never had to opportunity to be. They spent the bath flicking bubbles at each other and trying to clean up the mud they’d splattered themselves with.

Murtagh looks up with a weary smile, like he’s thinking of the same thing. “Yeah... Yeah, I’d like that.” Eragon grins back and pulls him off the bed with him.

He roots around in their chest until he finds two towels and tosses one to Murtagh. They walk out, padding carefully on bare feet so to not wake anyone at this atrocious hour. They slip inside the bathroom, where they’d designed a tunnel to collect snowmelt and deposit it in the large hollow they carved. With a bit of the energy from Aren, Eragon heats the water from freezing to steaming. Murtagh dips a toe in and grins at him.

They waste no time stripping down; no care to make it sexual. Maybe some other time. But when Eragon looks, he can’t quite turn away. He pauses in hastily folding his shirt, distracted.

It isn’t anything that Eragon hasn’t seen before, but Murtagh’s nudity possesses a unique beauty. He spares a moment to eye his form. Long, graceful legs, tanned skin, dense, lean muscles; he knows Murtagh would call him ridiculous if he knew Eragon compared him to a God turned human, but he can’t help it. If some deity of love and beauty stepped from the heavens, they could do no better than looking like this. Though, perhaps he’s just biased.

Murtagh catches him staring then pins him with a sly smile. “Can’t quite get enough?” he inquires, teasing his bottom lip with his thumb.

“You’re stunning,” Eragon replies earnestly. Murtagh flushes and turns around, but, to Eragon’s satisfaction, doesn’t argue with his assertion. He snatches a bar of soap off a nearby shelf then swats Murtagh in the arm. “Come on, Sir Stunning, get in before the water freezes again.” Murtagh shoots him a playful glare, but steps into the bath anyway and quickly eases himself into the water.

Eragon follows suit, seating himself directly across from him. They intertwine their legs. Eragon wriggles forward and wraps his arms around Murtagh, pressing their torsos flush. Slowly he leans back, giving Murtagh plenty of warning, and once he shifts his weight with him, they slip under the hot water together. After a moment, they resurface with a splash. Eragon shifts back then laughs as he moves Murtagh’s sodden hair from his eyes.

Now thoroughly drenched, Eragon grabs the soap and lathers it between his hands. Once he’s collected an adequate amount of bubbles he hands it to Murtagh and starts to work the soap into his dark locks. Soon, Murtagh is doing the same to him.

It is a nice feeling, to have someone take care of him because they love him, and also to take care of them in turn. It warms his heart. Although, at the moment, Eragon is more focused on the nice feeling of Murtagh’s hands in his hair. He loves the feeling of his nails scratching lightly over his scalp. He hums happily and closes his eyes, pausing his own ministrations to appreciate the sensation.

Murtagh chuckles and kisses his forehead. “You’re like a dog,” he teases fondly, “always wanting your head pet.”

“Mmhmm,” Eragon agrees easily. “It feels nice.” Murtagh indulges him for another minute before he elbows him.

“Come on, you need to pull your weight,” he says, mock seriously.

“As you command, Sir Stunning!” Murtagh scoffs at the epithet and Eragon gives him a cheeky grin. He returns his attention to running the suds through Murtagh’s hair.

Between several battles for the soap bar, two bubble beards, and an unheeded number of kisses, the two brothers manage to clean each other off. The water has started to cool and Eragon has noticed Murtagh’s eyelids droop by the time he’s telling him to turn around. He bares his back to him, something Eragon knows he would loath to do for anyone else, and he grabs the soap one more time.

He scrubs he back with broad sweeps, careful not to call any undue attention to his scar. Murtagh lets his head drop. After he’s cleaned the full span of his back, Eragon rinses his hands in the water then simply rubs. He smooths over the muscles and coaxes the remaining tension out of his back. Murtagh relaxes and sways gently with the pressure of his hands.

A few minutes later, while Eragon rubs little circles with his thumbs, Murtagh’s head dips lower. Eragon pauses and leans forward, peering over his shoulder. Murtagh’s eyes are closed and his chin rests on his chest. Eragon smiles and squeezes his shoulder. He grunts as he lifts his head up, blinking rapidly.

“Let’s head back to bed.”

Murtagh nods.

They towel themselves off in comfortable silence then climb back into their nightclothes. Eragon opens the door and Murtagh yawns widely as he steps past him into the halls. Once back in their room, Eragon grabs Murtagh’s hands and pulls him onto the mattress; he’s nearly asleep himself. They face each other. Murtagh wiggles closer and starts to tuck his head against Eragon’s shoulder when he pauses.

“Thank you for this. For everything.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Eragon answers, because it is, it truly is.

They sleep undisturbed for the rest of the night.