Author's Note: It's always fun to try writing something new isn't it? I've never written an Eragon story before but I think this was a good first attempt. For anyone who might be bothered by this, it is in fact Eragon and Murtagh slash so if you're not into that I suggest you leave now. It's not very bad seeing as I really only implied it but it's very obvious. So yes, you could probably survive reading this but if you'd rather not take chances, I humbly suggest that you leave now.

Summary: No, Murtagh did not want to face him. But Murtagh had no choice. (MurtaghxEragon)

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Eragon, Eldest or anything associated with them. I also have no claim to Muse's song Time is Running Out which was my inspiration for this piece.

I wanted freedom

Bound and restricted

I tried to give you up

But I'm addicted

-Muse, "Time is Running Out"

He hated this insufferable waiting. He felt like a coward, hiding behind a massive army of men almost completely disloyal to the king. He hated the agonizing hours of doing nothing, simply waiting behind this massive army of faceless warriors, until his time finally came. He had never felt more like a disposable pawn in a chess game in his life than he did now. He hated wondering whether or not this would be his last day on earth. But most of all, he hated this insufferable waiting because it made his mind wander to thoughts of him.

Murtagh felt a hot wave of steaming emotion roil through his body and it took all of his strength to suppress the feeling. He paced the length of his red silk pavilion restlessly. He couldn't stop moving. It was imperative that he kept moving, kept himself busy by doing nothing. He wanted to join the battle but he wanted to flee the battle. He wanted to see him and he wanted to hide from him. He wanted to kiss him and he wanted to kill him.

He couldn't help it; Murtagh forcefully threw his helmet across the pavilion. He wanted it to dent; he wanted it to become unusable so that he would be unable to fight. Not that he even needed a helmet or wouldn't be given a spare but Murtagh ignored those realities. It didn't matter anyway; the helmet remained as good as the day it was made. That bothered Murtagh; out of pure frustration he deliberately knocked over most of his furniture hoping most of it would break and splinter.

It was rare for his rage to overtake him like this. Murtagh hated that he felt so angry. He hated that he was here against his will. He hated that even though he was less loyal to Galbatorix than every other soldier in this insufferable army he had no choice but to obey Galbatorix. He hated that everyone he had known thought that he was dead. He hated that his own beloved brother—the only family he had left---thought he was dead and would unknowingly oppose him on the battlefield. Murtagh didn't want to fight Eragon.

He had no choice.

Eragon was his brother, his friend, his beloved. Murtagh knew he shouldn't be thinking like that; he hated remembering their time together (it made his heart constrict painfully) but the memories surfaced without restraint. He didn't have the will to deny them any longer. They did not allow Murtagh to suppress them; they had been hidden for far too long. Now, they came forth and Murtagh wanted to weep for all that was lost and all that could have been.

He remembered watching Eragon sleep when he should have been watching the surrounding area for danger. He remembered sparring with Eragon and bathing in the same stream when circumstances had permitted. He remembered fleeing across the land together; fleeing with an illusion of freedom.

But Murtagh was not free. He had no choice in the matter. If he did, at the very least, he would not be with Galbatorix's army. He was have thrown his lot in with the Varden (how could he do otherwise after Farthen Dûr?) but even that would not sit entirely well with him. Ideally, Murtagh wanted to fight for one person: himself. He also had no wish to fight Eragon. As an independent man, he could pick his enemies and choose where to lay his loyalties.

But he had no choice.

The more he thought about the upcoming battle the more Murtagh wanted to run from it. He wanted to run from Eragon, run away from the emotions he did not understand. Murtagh couldn't run though. He had no choice. He had to stay, completely bound and restrained, to a cause he didn't fully support and committing actions he was ashamed of.

No, he did not want to face Eragon on the opposite side of the battlefield. He didn't want to be seen as a traitor or as a sympathizer with Galbatorix. He was neither. But most of all he didn't want to face his brother with this strange and unnatural feeling of lustful love. It was wrong, despicable, disgusting. But Murtagh could hardly deny it now: he was addicted to Eragon, unable to give him up. He wanted him. He needed him.

No, Murtagh did not want to face him.

But he had no choice.