Disclaimer: Christopher Paolini's.
all our times (have come)
eragon/murtagh; companion piece (sort of) to the arya quintet
--
Nasuada says, "I don't know what to do." She looks tired, weary; Murtagh knows it's condescending and egotistical but he can't help but feel guilty, like maybe if he was there, before, it wouldn't have--come to this.
They're sitting in Murtagh's room (it's the cleanest), clustered around his desk and a map. It reminds Murtagh of strategy meetings with the King, but he had crazy dragons and memories to hold over Murtagh's head. These two try, but neither of them was fucking his father--Eragon's getting pretty damn close to being Murtagh's father, but that's beside the point.
Eragon's burning, all fire and anger and what the fuck's his dragon doing, being decorative? It's her job to calm him down--
Murtagh reaches out a tentative tendril of thought, probing slow and cautious at the surface of Eragon's mind, finds no shields and a steady mutter of killkillkill and a barely-restrained bloodlust that's enough to match Murtagh's, on those rare times he loses control.
Eragon says, fingers tracing along the map spread out on the table in front of them, "We have to take them, now, at this pass--" All of them know that's suicide. Eragon knows it's suicide, but he thinks he's invincible, that he's a god amongst mortals and--goddess, Murtagh's bitter, lately. He can taste copper on his tongue already, and magic is rising.
Murtagh says, "Nasuada. Leave, now." Steel underlying his voice, as best he can.
She looks back and forth between the two of them, reluctant.
Eragon nods, mouth pressed tight.
Nasuada gathers up the map in her arms, eyes dark. Which one of them's supposed to be the liege-lord, again? The door slams behind her with a little more force than he's used to, from her, but it's just as well. Eragon'd probably break the door down.
Murtagh stands up, and looks at the idiot who is unfortunately leading his best chance for survival and wears his challenge on his heart pinned on his sleeve. Come and get me.
Eragon's eyes are harsh steel-blue—there's something in them that scares both of them. A relentlessness burning, a ruthlessness that did not use to be there. Murtagh swallows, steps forward and kisses him. Eragon tastes like danger.
It's like a battle, even now—their tongues are fighting, even if it's electric; they're warring for dominance and it's not entirely evident who's winning. Murtagh's eyes go half-lidded and he's moaning into Eragon's mouth and this is his brother. He should not be enjoying this; maybe enjoy isn't the right word. A blush rises up his cheekbones and he falls back, less aggressive than he was before, not surrender, just--
Eragon's body is sliding, grinding against his, now; they break apart for air and Murtagh thinks, Arya's not going to be happy. He can't bring himself to care.
Eragon says, half-panting, "You bastard--" Innate magic winds around him, silver particles glittering like his eyes.
Murtagh grins, breathing heavy. "Takes one to know one." He knows his eyes are gleaming; his shoulders rising and falling in great dips and swells. His nails dig into his palms, there's a brief twinge of pain, overwhelmed by the rising arousal. "'Sides," he gasps, "I came back." His eyes search Eragon's face for—for any hint of sanity; he doesn't find it. There's this sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach; he pushes it down. He has to do this; he's the only one who can.
Their mouths crash together—gravity pulling them closer and closer—like Icarus, Murtagh's flying too close to the sun, but his intention was always to burn.
Eragon whispers something into Murtagh's mouth; Murtagh arches up against him, craving friction, and doesn't hear the words. He starts to form the question—then Eragon's kissing him in earnest and he can't think.
Eragon pulls back, eyes gone steelly. He says, "Blood is red," and he sounds like a child.