When I read the scene about Eragon looking at Murtagh's sword and reflecting about his feelings towards him (unfortunately not in the way I had hoped -.-) this little bunny came up behind me and bit me...frigging bunny. It turned out better than I expected, so I hope you enjoy it.
Please refrain from any flames that torch the EragonxMurtagh pairing. I wrote this for the fans of the pairing and people who are interested in reading something interesting (hopefully) and providing constructive criticism. Believe me, concrit is my life force, but people who bash for the sake of bashing will be burned at the stake with their own flames. With that said, I do not own the Inheritance Cycle. Christopher Paolini does. Therefore the only thing that he could do to be even more awesome is canonize (is that a word?) EragonxMurtagh. Read on now, my lovelies.
The gentle scuff of iron scraping on iron sent an almost inconspicuous shudder up Eragon's spine as he unsheathed the sword. For almost a full minute, it sat in his lap, his hands clutched loosely around the hilt. He wanted to look...it was something that had been a part of Murtagh. Something that was always at his side, that had been worn down by his hands. . It had been months since he had picked it up from among the bodies that lay in the battlefield, and he hadn't been able to so much as look at it. Slowly, almost reverently, he lowered his eyes to the blade.
It was in worse condition than he had expected. One night in the dirt had stained the blade a rusty, mottled brown. Splotches of Eragon's own dried blood splattered the once-gleaming metal. Reaching out a trembling finger, he traced a trail of blood down to the hilt, where Murtagh's own bloody finger prints were clear upon the weather worn wood. He held his breath, heart throbbing painfully as his tentative finger ran over the spot where their blood mixed.
A sudden white-hot shock of pain spread over Eragon, and he doubled over, his stomach pressing into the cold metal of Murtagh's sword. The feeling ripped through his heart, bringing tears to his eyes. "Damn him..." He muttered, his voice choked. Damn him for making the dragon egg hatch. Damn him for joining Galbatorix. Damn him for...for everything.
A shuddering breath of air allowed him to regain control of himself. Carefully, he began his exploration of the blade once more. The edge was jagged, marred from the many blows that Eragon had landed upon it with Zar'roc during their battle.
"I never told you my mother's name, did I? And you never told me yours. I'll tell you now. Selena. Selena was my mother and your mother. Morzan was our father."
Eragon fought off a wave of nausea as the memory filled his head.
An odd smile crossed Murtagh's face, borne out of a mixture of pain and hate; not at Eragon, but at everyone and everything else. The world that had neither trusted him, nor had the heart treat him with any compassion. Compassion was never meant for Murtagh. The one thing he had, the one thing he valued more than life itself had been taken from him. No...not taken. Ruined. "Brothers, Eragon."
Eragon found himself unable to fend off the oncoming wave of nausea any longer, and he lurched over, vomiting onto the floor as the sword was knocked from its place on Eragon's lap and clattered to the ground. Shaking, he kept himself upright with trembling arms, kneeling on the floor with his head down. Thinking Murtagh was dead had shattered Eragon's heart beyond repair. Learning of his betrayal had almost killed him.
A steady flow of tears dripped from his face as he mourned for Murtagh. For his childhood. For his loss of freedom. For them both; the things that could have been. Or rather, things that Eragon was foolish enough to believe could happen.
A strangled laugh forced its way from between Eragon's lips, and his body shook with an odd combination of sobbing, retching and laughing. Hilarious, fucking hilarious. Men, brothers and mortal enemies. Everything will be just fine.
Still chuckling humorlessly, Eragon pushed himself back onto the bed, taking the sword with him. As his breathing slowly began to ease, he clutched the sword to his chest, deluding himself that the hunk of cold, lifeless metal could provide a link between himself and Murtagh.
"I miss you, you bastard..." Eragon whispered into the silent, sad emptiness of the room.
That was supposed to be longer, but I don't think it would really...feel right if I kept going. I might turn this into something multi-chaptered, if I get enough feedback. So, you like? Hate? Want to skin me alive and eat my flesh? Review!