Author's Note: Merry Christmas! This was something I wrote today in order to honor the 100th anniversary of the Christmas Truce (if you don't know what that is, look it up!). It (the following fan fiction, not the Christmas Truce) is set in the fourth book during the siege of Dras-Leona. I don't own Inheritance Cycle or its characters, etc. That said, please proceed and enjoy!

Eragon trudged through the forest, thoughts as dark and tangled as the brambles around him. He couldn't decide which was more irksome, his recent argument with Nasuada and King Orrin or the hopeless mire of a problem with Dras-Leona in general. For a week now, the armies had been at an impasse, neither having a distinct edge over the other. The wait was grinding Eragon's nerves and fraying his temper. Out of boredom and irritation he'd suggested that the Varden should attack the city directly before they ran out of food and became too weak. Nasuada had stamped on the idea, reminding him how close of a fight his last encounter with Murtagh had been. When first Orrin and then Saphira herself backed Nasuada, Eragon knew better than to argue further. Still, it left him with a bitter taste in his mouth, and he'd wandered off to find somewhere secluded where he would be able to order his thoughts in peace.

He followed a stream in a meandering northeastern direction, away from Leona Lake and the city that shared its name. It felt good to be moving again, even in a pointless manner. He could almost forget the siege, the war, the red dragon, and the enemy Rider who'd once been his friend.

Gradually, the stream broadened, the rocks becoming larger and flatter. The afternoon sun warmed the stone and surrounding foliage, glinted off the tumbling water, and reminded Eragon strongly of his time spent in the Spine. A smile tugged his lips. He decided that here, perhaps, was as good of a place as any for meditation.

Another few steps, and the forest yielded a surprise.

Eragon froze. Shock raced through him. He'd thought himself the only one mad enough to venture so far from the city, and yet here was a clear sign to the contrary. A dark-colored tunic had been left to dry on a broad, flat stone, and near it a pair of boots. A sheathed red sword was leaned against an oak tree, and beneath the tree lay Murtagh- shirtless, barefoot, and fast asleep. He was sprawled on his stomach, arms crossed beneath his head, breathing slow and even.

Quickly overcoming his astonishment, Eragon reached for his magic and raised the hand emblazoned with the gedwëy ignasia. A dozen spells presented themselves readily.

And yet.

And yet he hesitated. The silence in this forest wasn't a lack of noise, for the stream burbled unconcernedly in the background, but rather a kind of stillness, a deep calm and a feeling of being removed from the turning of the world. It seemed profoundly wrong to shatter this peace when there was so little peace to be found nowadays.

If it came to a fight, he knew he would have three options, to capture, drive off, or kill Murtagh. They didn't have the means to hold a Rider against his will, and there was no point to driving him off if he returned immediately to Dras-Leona. This left the third choice, weighing heavy and bitter in Eragon's heart.

His eyes were drawn against his will to the countless scars that marred Murtagh's skin. Some were thin and silvery, others angry red, and none but Zar'roc's mark were more than a few months old. Memories sprang unbidden to Eragon's mind- Murtagh rescuing him from Gil'ead, Murtagh saving his life on the shores of Kóstha-mérna.

He lowered his hand.

He could just hear Saphira and Nasuada demanding to know if he was mad, if he always wasted perfect opportunities or if it was a recently developed habit. But Saphira, he knew, might very well agree with his decision, and Nasuada didn't need to know. A sad smile on his face, he turned to leave.

A branch broke sharply under his foot. It was a small noise, but enough.

Their eyes locked, two predators brought suddenly face-to-face, one guilty and one startled. Murtagh broke the silence first by swearing and lunging for Zar'roc. He whirled around, now on his feet with blade in hand, and took a half step forward before he seemed to realize he was facing an unarmed opponent. His jaw clenched. "Well?" he demanded.

Eragon pointed downstream. "I was just leaving," he explained, keeping his voice even and light, as if they'd happened across each other in the marketplace. "If I wanted to fight you, I'd have done so when I had the advantage."

Murtagh's face darkened. "Don't lie to me," he growled. "You could never bring yourself to kill a man in his sleep." When Eragon made no response, he raised his sword a fraction of an inch and shifted in a manner that might have seemed nervous if his expression hadn't been so dangerous. "How did you find me?"

"I wasn't looking for you," Eragon responded truthfully, then hastily repeated himself in the ancient language when Murtagh's eyes narrowed. He lifted his hands in a placating gesture, showing that he still hadn't drawn Brisingr. "Can we not... Can we not leave off for a day, save our strength for when we have something to gain by fighting?"

He could see the hesitation, the uncertainty flicker across Murtagh's face. The lightest touch of another mind brushed across his own, and Eragon realized his half brother was sweeping the area for other consciousnesses, sure of a trap. Finding none, Murtagh lowered Zar'roc. "You know I can't let you leave," he warned. "My oaths won't allow it."

Eragon nodded, resigned to the fight they would eventually have. He sat cross-legged on a suitable rock and delayed the inevitable. "What are you doing here?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Murtagh eyed him warily for a moment, then sheathed his sword. "Sleeping," he said shortly. One stride brought him close enough to pick up his still-damp shirt and shrug it on. He seated himself on the vacant stone and reached for his boots. Watching his movements, Eragon could see the exhaustion clearly in the dark circles under his eyes and the set to his shoulders.

Murtagh straightened, smiling bitterly. "In truth? I'm hiding. This morning I overheard..." He glanced sidelong at Eragon and shook his head. "It doesn't matter. Suffice to say the king's men will be spending a long, fruitless afternoon searching for me."

"I'm surprised your oaths allowed you to leave Dras-Leona," Eragon commented, thoughtful. He must have touched on a point of pride, for some of the bitterness faded from Murtagh's bearing.

"I stretched a few loopholes to breaking point and convinced myself of a couple half-truths," came the response. "I'm getting better at it. Irritates the king to no end." He nodded to Eragon. "And you? I can imagine any number of reasons why you might be roaming the wilderness without Saphira, but none speak well of the Varden's position."

Eragon drew a breath. He needed to be careful, he reminded himself. The easier it became to speak to Murtagh as a friend, the easier it became to let something important slip. "Sitting in one place and arguing circuitously was beginning to lose its appeal."

Murtagh laughed, a short, abruptly cut off laugh, like he was trying to keep it from Eragon's hearing. "If it's solitude and peace of mind you seek, you could do worse than this place." Something like wistfulness entered his voice. "I only wish Thorn could have left his post to accompany me."

"It's a good place to lose yourself," Eragon murmured.

Murtagh grimaced. "Too good. I didn't intend to fall asleep."

Glancing up at the sun, Eragon was alarmed to see how much time had passed. He stood. "I need to be going. If you're still after a fight, now would be the time."

"Well," Murtagh said, then hesitated. "You are clearly trying to lower my guard."

"Clearly," Eragon agreed, straightfaced.

"Which, of course, implies that you're setting a trap."

"Of course."

"And if, for example, I tried to attack you, I'd likely be playing into your hands."

"That goes without saying."

A ghost of a smile played across Murtagh's face. "My oaths do allow for self-preservation in such situations. Because of the suspicious circumstances, I'll have to walk away."

Eragon nodded seriously. He regarded Murtagh carefully for a moment, then felt compelled to add, "I would have won, you know."

"With magic, perhaps, but never with swords."

He idly fingered Brisingr's hilt. "I am inclined to show you the error of that belief," he said lightly.

Murtagh laughed, truly laughed. "When next we meet, brother."