Title: Translation
Author: Nylrebmik
Pairings: Eragon/Brom
Rating: PG-13
Authors Note: A oneshot based on nothing more than my adoration of Jeremy Irons and impossible attraction. Good times. So, obviously, this is movie-verse Brom and Eragon.
Disclaimer: I own nothing in the Eragon franchise. I own nothing in this story other than the bullshit bits of 'ancient language' I made up, basing my words partially on three years of high school Spanish and partially on whatever keys my fingers landed on when I closed my eyes.
Eragon threw himself heavily onto the grass beside the cold campfire. He was panting heavily and batting strands of damp blonde hair away from his sweaty forehead.
"Hellfire, Brom," he said, his breath coming in sharp, painful bursts. Despite his labored breathing, the young man's boyish face was relaxed and smiling.
"Watch your mouth, boy," Brom rumbled, his own breathing heavy. Eragon noted with some satisfaction that a dark bruise was already blossoming on the back of Brom's wrist, placed there by a particularly clever move on Eragon's part.
Eragon took a long draft of water before standing with a grimace.
"Sparring," he said scornfully under his breath, moving towards the horses with an exaggerated limp. "More like an excuse to whack me around with a stick."
"As if you don't deserve being whacked with a stick," Brom laughed. Eragon pulled a face at him, and at Saphira, whose low growl conveyed her amusement.
You get no say in the matter at all, he told her fiercely.
Poor little one, she said. Is he being unkind to you?
Eragon shot her a withering glare. He reached into his pack for a new shirt, unwilling to reuse the sweat-drenched one he'd pulled off midway through their pretend battle. He grumbled to himself, realizing that the dirty one in his hand was his last. He sighed and yanked the sweaty cloth back over his head.
"Is there any running water nearby?" He asked Brom. He pulled his other crumpled shirts out of the pack. Brom glanced up, his dark eyes meeting Eragon's blue ones with concern.
"Are you bleeding?" He asked. Eragon shook his head and held up his bundle of dirty, smelly clothing.
"I need to wash my shirts," he said.
Brom's interest returned to the fire he was building. "There's a stream not far off," he said. "I have things to wash as well. We'll go together later." Eragon nodded, satisfied. He settled back onto the grass contentedly, noticing Brom's stiff movements about the shoulder. It had taken nearly two weeks before he was able to get fast enough to surprise Brom into exposing any unguarded body area during a fight, but the hard work was absolutely worth it. He grinned to himself, recalling Brom's surprised grunt when he had whacked him hard on the lower back with a heavy staff.
Once the fire was lit, Brom and Eragon sat in companionable silence for a long while. Brom had his pipe in his hands, but neither lit it nor put it between his lips. Eragon watched the flames flicker in the light breeze.
"Ranthas," Brom said suddenly, his deep voice cutting through the silence and sending an odd shiver down Eragon's back.
"Music," he answered without much thought. Brom had spent the last several nights teaching Eragon words in the ancient language. He seemed to enjoy testing Eragon, as if hoping to catch him off guard if he asked at random times.
"Draumr ," Brom said. Eragon closed his eyes and smiled. He enjoyed listening to the way the ancient language slipped off the man's tongue. His unique voice transformed the words into silk.
"Dream," Eragon said. Brom nodded, satisfied. Those were the two words Eragon had had such trouble remembering a few nights ago. A silence filled their little makeshift camp once more and stretched comfortably as the sun began to sink. Eragon watched Brom quietly. The storyteller sat, reclining in the grass and gazing into the fire with a look of mild interest, as though the flames were telling him an amusing tale to add to his collection. The dancing light illuminated the sharp panes of Brom's slender face, as well as the liquid darkness of his eyes.
Suddenly restless, Eragon stood and stretched. He looked towards Saphira, but her eyes were focused on a bunch of long-eared rabbits that were scurrying nearby. Her mind was elsewhere, and Eragon guessed it was on the snack she planned to make of a fat rabbit or two. His gaze wandered back to Brom. Looking at the pipe idly resting in the man's hands, Eragon's face lit up with a mischievous grin. For being all of seventeen, Eragon was still a boy at heart, and Brom was terribly easy to get riled.
He flopped himself back onto the grass next to Brom very casually. Brom's face didn't waver from its gaze in the fire, so Eragon very, very slowly reached for the pipe dangling loose from Brom's locked fingers.
The smooth cut stone of the pipe was cool to Eragon's touch, and he almost had it completely in his grasp before Brom noticed. With a grunt of annoyance, Brom jerked the pipe away. Unfortunately for Brom, Eragon's grip was tighter than he had thought; since Eragon hadn't let go, the jerking motion only served to send the laughing teenage boy sprawling into Brom's lap.
"Thief," Brom growled as Eragon sat up. Eragon flushed, not because of the accusation, but because of the close contact he suddenly found himself in with his mentor. He let go of the pipe, but didn't move from his position.
"Teach me more words," Eragon said, his voice coming out louder than he had anticipated. Brom frowned, as if slightly affronted at the commanding tone of Eragon's voice.
"What words do you want to know?" He asked.
"Well…what's the word for this?" Eragon asked, a playful smile on his face as he flicked Brom's ear. Brom's hand instantly reached out and smacked Eragon's ear in return, rather harder.
"Hey!" Eragon laughed, rubbing the side of his head where it stung. Brom smirked.
"The word for ear is eyreya, and next time learn to pick your battles," he said without any pity. Emboldened by Brom's light tone, Eragon reached and ran his fingers through the dark hair at the base of Brom's neck. Other than the slightest raise of an eyebrow, Brom didn't react. Eragon was surprised to find Brom's hair to be thicker than he had imagined, and softer. For some reason he had expected it to be wiry and sharp, perhaps to match the storyteller's wit. He allowed his fingers to tangle lazily in the dark, grey-peppered hair.
Brom murmured the word, and Eragon reluctantly withdrew his hand. He was afraid he had pushed the game too far, but Brom's eyes weren't angry. They were guarded, but Eragon swallowed to see that they were also dark with something else--something dangerous. He instantly felt the mood of the game shift.
Surprised at his own boldness, Eragon placed a hand on Brom's chest, directly over his heart. Through the rough cloth of Brom's shirt, Eragon could feel a steady, relentless heartbeat. "What's this?" Eragon asked quietly.
"That depends on the word you're looking for," Brom said, his voice laced with something. Was it a warning or permission to continue? "The word for chest is allyud. Heart, however, is hjarta."
Eragon's hand lingered too long on Brom's chest. Their eyes met, a pair of blue eyes questioning and hopeful and a pair of dark eyes that betrayed no flicker of emotion. The air was thick with unspoken words. In the farthest corner of his mind, Eragon thought he could hear Saphira say something, but he pushed her thoughts away.
Eragon reached up and lightly traced the graceful shape of Brom's lips. He felt both their surprising softness and the prickle of Brom's beard against the sensitive pads of his fingertips. "And these?"
"Those are called lips, Eragon," Brom mumbled against the boy's fingers. Eragon smiled.
"I know what they're called in English," he retorted. Brom neither pulled away nor moved forward; he simply gazed calmly at his young charge. Eragon felt suddenly warm under such an intense stare. He bit the inside of his cheek nervously. Now was the moment for him to pull away, to laugh and turn this entire thing back into the word game it had started out being.
Instead he leaned forward and brushed his lips against Brom's in a clumsy kiss. Shifting, he tried again, pressing more firmly this time. Brom parted his lips in response and captured Eragon's mouth with his own. Eragon closed his eyes against the sudden rush of heat that exploded in the pit of his stomach.
Eragon! Saphira's roar was now very close in his ear, but he again refused her entrance into his thoughts. The only thought in his mind was the rasp of Brom's beard against his clean-shaven cheek. Brom's more experienced mouth quickly took lead; Eragon let out a ragged groan when he felt the press of Brom's tounge against his.
"Hellfire," Eragon gasped quietly when Brom pulled away a moment later. His breathing was once again labored, and his heart beat wildly. The desire flooding his inexperienced body made him giddy and dizzy at the same time.
Brom closed his eyes, the faintest trace of a smile playing along his lips. "Watch your mouth, boy," he murmured. Eragon leaned his cheek against Brom's chest, enjoying the calming effect of the steady heartbeat. They stayed like that for a delicious moment before Brom gave a deep chuckle and prodded Eragon out of his lap.
Eragon protested when Brom stood up, wanting--well, he didn't know exactly what he wanted, but he wanted more of whatever it was. Brom grabbed Eragon's wrist and pulled him to his feet, an unreadable smile on his face.
"We still have washing to do," Brom reminded him, kicking at the abandoned pile of clothes. Eragon stared at him, opened mouthed. Surely--surelythat wasn't all Brom was going to say?
"Get a move on, Eragon, it will be dark soon. We haven't got all night," Brom called over his shoulder. Eragon stared after him, struggling with the residual desire that, only moments ago, had left him weak and panting for air. He dared a glance at Saphira.
You are a fool, she snapped. Without another word she took to flight, leaving the teenage boy standing alone. Confused and hurt, Eragon stood to follow Brom. His long stride easily caught up, and he seethed silently as they walked together towards the stream.
"Bestran." Brom's voice broke through Eragon's sullen silence after a few moments. Eragon frowned, partially because he didn't want to play the game at the moment and partially because the word was unfamiliar.
They reached the small stream, and Brom dropped his bundle of clothes and knelt on the ground near the running water. Eragon shuffled through the vocabulary he knew, but he couldn't come up with the translation. The knowing smirk on Brom's face galled him.
"I don't know it," he admitted finally, folding his arms and glowering. Brom submerged a piece of cloth under the water, then another. Eragon jerked his head impatiently, annoyed by Brom's silence.
"I said I don't know the word!" He said, much louder and more angrily this time. Brom returned to his feet so quickly that it made Eragon jump. Grabbing the collar of Eragon's tunic, Brom jerked him close, and--to Eragon's shock--pulled him into a rough kiss.
Before Eragon could respond to the lips pressed against his, the kiss was over and Brom's face was barely an inch away from his own.
"Bestran," Brom said, his breath sending sparks skittering down Eragon's spine, "means kiss." Eragon's face split into a grin, and he burst into delighted laughter. Brom chuckled and released Eragon's shirt with a gentle shove.
"Now wash your clothing, boy, I think our enemies can track us by your stench alone."
Author's Note Redux: So. This was written before we had the shocking revelation that "ohmygodhoworiginal, Brom is Eragons father!!3!". So I took it down. Then I realized that I didn't care, and put it back up. So you can translate (ha!) the story any way youse desire, but I hope you liked it!