Disclaimer: Still haven't bought it from Paolini… Getting there, though…

Author's notes: I know I placed it on complete before, but you have to admit, the story needed to be continued. hehehe. Also, it seemed quite a good idea at the time. So here, my readers (who are hopefully going to leave a REVIEW), is the next chapter. It's not very good, I'm afraid, but bear with it. This takes place when Murtagh saves Eragon from the Ra'zac, their second meeting after so many years. I took the first part exactly from the book, and then it starts to get farther and farther away from there. READ AND REVIEW! (No, seriously. It's read AND review. It's NOT read OR review, and definitely not read AND NOT review.)

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Part taken from the book starts here.

For a long while, Eragon was aware only of the burning in his side. Each breath was painful. It felt as though he had been the one stabbed, not Brom. His sense of time was skewed; it was hard to tell if weeks had gone by, or only if a few minutes. When consciousness finally came to him, he opened his eyes and peered curiously at a campfire several feet away. His hands were still tied together, but the drug must have worn off because he could think clearly again. Saphira, are you injured?

No, but you and Brom are. She was crouched over Eragon, wings spread protectively on either sde.

Saphira, you didn't make that fire, did you? And you couldn't have gotten out of those chains by yourself.

No.

I didn't think so. Eragon struggled to his knees and saw a young man sitting on the far side of the fire.

The stranger, dressed in battered clothes, exuded a calm, assured, air. In his hands was a bow, at his side a long hand-and-a-half sword. A white horn protruded from his boot. His serious face and fierce eyes were framed by locks of brown hair. He appeared to be a few years older than Eragon and perhaps an inch or so taller. Behind him a gray war-horse was picketed. The stranger watched Saphira warily.

"Who are you?" asked Eragon, taking a shallow breath.

Part taken from the book ends here.

Moments passed as the stranger continued to observe the young rider and dragon curiously. He seemed in no hurry to give any sort of answer, nor any sort of acknowledgment to the query. Seconds turned into short minutes for Eragon under the man's impassive stare, and just when he was about to relinquish hope of receiving a reply, the man seemed to come to a decision, tightening his pale fingers on the bow.

"You are still bound, rider." he spoke in a deep, detached voice yet which betrayed a hint of unknown emotion.

Eragon frowned at the poor evasion of question, but nonetheless took a closer look at his miserly state. The burning in his side had yet to subside, and it didn't seem as it would do so soon. As he tried to reach up a hand to assess the damage, tight ropes around his wrists restrained him. Realizing that he was sorely helpless with his hands bound behind his back, he reached for the magic inside him, accompanied by Saphira's low, threatening growl. He glanced briefly at the other man then, deciding it couldn't do much harm, released his magic.

"Jierda!" he grunted.

The thick ropes fell off his wrists with a light snap, prominently startling the other, who widened his eyes a fraction. The reaction, however, lasted only a fleeting moment before the man was able to recover and compose his features into indifference. Slightly confused at the rather lack of reaction and quite irked at such apathy, though he didn't know why, Eragon shakily stood up in childish indignation, only to fall back harshly onto the ground with a dull thud.

Suddenly alarmed, Murtagh, for the stranger was he, hastily tried to come to his aid, only to be stopped by an angry snarl. Saphira watched him in grave suspicion, giving a low growl as she took a defensive position over her rider. Murtagh narrowed his eyes at the dragon before addressing her.

"Step aside, dragon!" he snapped. "I am merely trying to help your rider. Had I meant you any sort of harm, I would have done so ages ago when both of you were still bound!"

Saphira stood her ground, her sapphire eyes boring into narrowed hazel ones as Murtagh returned the draconic glare, neither making no move to back down and submit to the other's will. Tense moments passed between the two when their silent match was suddenly interrupted by pained groaning from the ground. Eragon barely managed to shakily push himself into a sitting position before calming his dragon.

Let him by Saphira. This man saved our lives. I suppose we have no choice but to trust him for the moment, for I am currently too weak to tend to our injuries alone.

Saphira considered, casting another distrustful glance at Murtagh who was watching the silent exchange in bewilderment. After giving one last growl in warning and a glint in her eyes that seemed to say I am watching you, she tucked her wings by her side and moved back, letting Murtagh rush to the rider's side. Eragon made a move to stand up, but Murtagh quickly pushed him lightly back into sitting.

"We must learn the extent of your injuries first." he said simply, pressing a large hand onto Eragon's battered side. Eragon cried out as sharp pain raced up his back from his bruised side.

"I cannot be sure," Murtagh started. "but you may have a couple of broken ribs, maybe more. Aside from that, however, you are relatively unharmed. You are lucky."

Eragon, wincing at the pain, caught on to the implication of the statement.

"Yes. I am lucky." he said miserably, casting a glance at Brom, who was lying down near him, half-naked, except for the bloodied bandages wrapped around his torso.

Murtagh hoisted him up, pulling him to stand. With unsteady legs he went over to Brom's side before starting to undo the bandages hiding the deadly Ra'zac wound.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Murtagh. "He'd bleed to death without those."

When Eragon gave no notice, Murtagh simply shrugged before announcing that he was going to make some soup for Eragon. "You're weak and you need to eat something," he said, leaving Eragon to finish his task of revealing the wound.

It was unusually thin, belying its depth, and Eragon guessed that it went right between Brom's ribs. It had barely begun to heal, and Eragon knew that wounds inflicted by the Ra'zac are like so. Once again, he reached for the wells of power within his consciousness, silently asking for Saphira's aid. Eragon felt the unmistakable feeling when Saphira's mind joined with his. He raised his palm over to Brom.

"Waise Heill"(A/N:forgot the spelling)

At first it seemed as though nothing was about to happen. Eragon, alarmed, almost recalled his magic when suddenly, slowly at first, Brom's torn flesh and muscle started knitting back together. Eragon was met with flawless skin moments after, disguising the grave injury he was unable to heal lying beneath its depths. Utterly exhausted, he slumped back onto the ground beside the old rider.

We have never done anything like that before. he remarked.

Together, we are capable of greater feats. Will the old one be all right, little one?

I do not know Saphira. I am hoping that he will be.

Murtagh came back with soup not long after, taking the sight of Brom's seemingly healed injuries in stride. He gave a bowl to Eragon who, famished, dug in with gusto. He sat down and took a bowl for himself, pausing between slow spoonfuls to start a conversation.

"Is he completely healed?"

"I'm afraid I've only mended what was on the outside." Eragon replied dejectedly. "I don't know enough to be able to heal him entirely. The rest is all up to him, I guess.

"I see." Murtagh paused in contemplation. "Snapping thick ropes and healing injuries with magic. You've certainly grown, Eragon."

"Would you care to tell me how you know my name?" the rider replied, setting down the bowl, surprised and wary. He couldn't quite place it, but something seemed awfully familiar with the man now that he had the time to note his appearance. Wild, dark hair framed a handsomely-angled face, a face which shone palely under the light of the fire. It was an awfully familiar face, a memory dancing just out of his reach. Sharp hazel eyes regarded him with amusement in his confusion before the dark-haired man gave a reply.

"Oh, you've forgotten me already. I was hoping you'd remember me but alas, you have wounded me deeply." Murtagh claimed dramatically, almost ridiculously, holding a hand to his apparently-pained heart. It took quite a while before something clicked within Eragon, bringing him within reach of one particular memory, a treasured memory of his very first friend, an exasperated boy reminding him again and again to use the sword as an extension of his body and not wave it around like a stick, someone carrying him half-asleep on his back as the sun set on the horizon, and then, nothing more. Yes, Eragon had remembered, but he had to make sure.

"Murtagh?" he asked unsurely, a surprising joy starting to well up inside of him. "Is that really you?"

Murtagh smiled fondly.

"So you remember me, now. I'm glad…" He trailed off, mentally bracing himself for the onslaught of questions that were sure to come. Sure enough, they came, but for the second time since he befriended Eragon, he was surprised by an excited hug from the younger man. It was different than the first time—Eragon was still injured and barely had the energy to wrap his arms around Murtagh—but for a second, Murtagh was back in the forests around Carvahall, teaching a brown-haired little boy how to wield a sword. It was unsettlingly nostalgic.

"It's nice to see you again, Tag."

"You too, little kid."

--

They spent the rest of the evening catching up with each other's stories. Saphira was asleep, weary from standing guard over Eragon for hours, leaving the two to talk to each other undisturbed. Eragon had told Murtagh how he spent many fruitless days looking for him in the village, asking anyone who gave him time about a black-haired boy with hazel eyes. He told him sheepishly how he moped for days soon after, when he realized that Murtagh wasn't of Carvahall, a mere visitor, and that it was more than likely they would never meet each other again. He described how he practiced fighting with sticks whenever time allowed it so that he wouldn't forget what the other taught him, skills which made Brom raise a curious eyebrow the very first time they had a spar. But most of all, he told of Saphira, how he came to get his hands on her egg, how he raised her and fed her, and how they left Caravahall after Garrow's death.

Eragon's cheerful attitude gradually died down as he told his story, just as Murtagh grew grimmer as Eragon started relating stories of his dragon. So far, it was actually a one-sided conversation, with the young rider giving the brunt of the words and the older man merely giving small responses, a nod here and a raised eyebrow there. But Murtagh had his own story to tell, and he wasn't quite sure where to begin it. Finally, it seemed as though the brown-haired teen had finally realized his endless chatter and gave the other a chance to talk.

"What about you, Murtagh? Heh-heh," he said, sheepishly scratching behind his head. "Tell me your story."

The other remained strangely silent, having a heated debate within itself. After they came back from Carvahall, Murtagh took the first chance he got to ask Tornac about his mother. It had taken him many persistent afternoons and one victorious sparring match to finally convince Tornac to tell the story. And what he learned surprised him in the least.

Murtagh was not an only child, he learned. Unknown to him, Selena gave birth to another boy, whom she fondly named Eragon. By then Murtagh had already received the wound which would forever haunt him as a terrible scar, and taking him away from the prying eyes of the king and the rider Morzan was impossible. Frightened by what may happen to her youngest son, Selena had no choice but to take Eragon away, to entrust him to the care of her only brother and to hope for the best. Tornac didn't know who and where Selena's brother was, and it was probably for the best, he said, so that the king may never find out. But Murtagh knew then, and it troubled him. His brother was in Carvahall, and he would be unable to return to that far-flung region for many years yet to come.

After some silent moments, where the young rider waited curiously for an answer, Murtagh started.

"Do you remember what you told me about your mother back then, Eragon? How she left you under your uncle's care?"

"I remember." Eragon replied, confusion seeping into his features. He didn't know where this was going.

"You never did remember that afternoon what her name was, did you?" Murtagh continued cryptically. Eragon frowned.

"Not really. I was quite a forgetful child back then, always occupied with the next game I wanted to play. These days though, her name is one of the most important memories I have left of my family." Eragon finished sadly, once again straining to recall just one sliver of a happy memory she shared with his mother. But there was none, and nor will there ever be.

"I understand." Hazel eyes shone in sympathy as the other regarded Eragon's statement. Almost unsurely, Murtagh continued. "Would you mind telling me her name?"

"Selena. Selena was my mother's name." Once again, a frown graced Eragon's features. "Why, Murtagh? Why are you asking me this?"

"Eragon…" Murtagh paused anxiously. "I don't know how to tell you this, but my mother… My mother's name was Selena as well."

The young rider was shocked into silence. It took a little while for his weary mind to take in the message of what Murtagh was saying, but when he finally realized it, he didn't know how to feel. If both their mothers were named Selena, then that would make them brothers. Brothers…Eragon thought. Somehow the idea didn't sound so ridiculous; in fact, it was a welcome revelation among the multitude of ill-fortune befalling him these days. It was both unbelievable yet incredibly easy to accept, as though it had always just been an unspoken truth, waiting to be put into words. I have a brother? he asked himself. He had to make sure.

"Tag, are you saying that we're brothers? Of the same flesh and blood?" he asked anxiously, almost hopefully. A silent nod was the reply. Yet Eragon's surprise was still making it difficult for him to accept it.

"Are you sure? Perhaps our mothers merely have the same namesake? Selena might not be a very uncommon name after all."

Murtagh shook his head. "Of this I am sure. My mother had given birth to only one other child, a child she named Eragon, a child whom she was forced to entrust to her brother. That child was you, Eragon, my own baby brother." he said, giving a particular stress to the word "baby". He smirked playfully at said brother, considerably lightening the mood of their conversation.

Eragon pouted.

"Well that was mean…totally uncalled for."

Murtagh laughed.

Eragon huffed, though he would never admit it, childishly, crossing his arms as he did so.

"I merely speak the truth, little brother." Murtagh paused, smiling sadly. "You have no idea how nice it feels to be able to call you that, to have someone to call family again…"

He trailed off.

"Actually, I do know how it feels." Eragon said, giving a small smile of his own. "I know it very well…"

A contemplative lull befell their conversation, and during this time, Eragon realized something, frowning as he thought more about it.

"Murtagh?"

"Hm?"

"If we're brothers, you and I, how come our mother left me in Carvahall? Didn't she…Didn't she love me? Was I an unwanted child?"

At this Murtagh's façade darkened greatly, the pleasant smile vanishing from his face to be replaced by a pained grimace. Memories flooded his vision.

"Our mother loved you very much, Eragon, I swear it. And it was for this reason that she was forced to do what she did to save you."

"To save me? Why then? What was the reason behind it all?

Murtagh's grimace turned into a bitter scowl, as if the very memory he was thinking of left a rancid taste in his tongue.

"Eragon… Our father was Morzan… Morzan of the forsworn."

For the second time that night, Eragon was shocked into disbelief. The revelations seemed to pile onto one another, each one as bizarre as the next, growing more and more unreal. Having already accepted the fact that Murtagh was his brother—he had always fondly entertained the idea especially when he and Roran got into terrible rows—Eragon was yet again faced by a seemingly preposterous prospect. Morzan couldn't be his father, could he? He couldn't have been sired by such a ruthless man…such a beast! It was all so impossible, as if it wasn't him sitting beside that fire, but he realized that he had already received much bigger surprises than this— Saphira's hatching, Brom's history, and now, beside him, his own brother. No. Deep down, he knew that what Murtagh said was the truth, how unpleasant it may be. He stole a glance at his big brother, who was looking miserably at their campfire, silently awaiting the cruel rejection. Something clenched in the rider's heart, and suddenly, everything was clear.

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The end! I hope you like my story! Heheh! .

Kidding! Hahaha.. (I just had to try it….)

Let's continue…

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Murtagh cursed himself silently. All those years of looking forward to this day, the day when he can finally be with his brother again, ruined! Everything had been going so well, and he was more than glad that Eragon accepted him as his brother. But he just had to get his anger get the best of him. He didn't fully understand what made him reveal their father's name so thoughtlessly; remembering Morzan and all the despicable things he did brought a thick cloud of hate in Murtagh's consciousness, making him say the first thing that came to mind. Stupid! he berated himself, stopping his hand from straying towards his scar just as his thoughts are doing. His frustrations with himself grew and grew until it came to the point where he merely waited for the inevitable rejection in poignant acceptance. Eragon will never accept such a foul idea. Now he will never accept you as well! But it seems, once again, he was wrong.

Murtagh had been ready to simply walk off into the night, to leave before he got to see the repulsion in Eragon's eyes. What he wasn't prepared for was to receive a second hug that night, from a sympathetic Eragon. He hadn't even been able to give off a sound of surprise when he was once again wrapped by foreign yet familiar arms. It seems fate was smiling down at him tonight, and hesitantly, he returned the embrace.

"Don't look so down Murtagh." Eragon finally said, chuckling, then pulling back. "Our father could bloody well be Galbatorix himself and I wouldn't care… None of it all matters... Just so long as you are sure that we're brothers…You are certain, right? "

The hazel-eyed man didn't know what to say. Here was Eragon, who just found out he was the son of one of the most hated men in Alagaesia, and he was accepting it all in incredible stride. Murtagh, in fact, couldn't bring himself to believe how understanding his brother was being.

"I'm sure of it."

"Then I'm glad…"

A comfortable silence fell between Eragon and a quite-relieved Murtagh. They spent it in quiet reflection, thinking of what they've just been through, of everything that was said, and of all the terrible secrets revealed. Of course they have yet to tell their whole tales to each other, but that could wait another time. Any more surprises would be one too many for the night and just sitting there, knowing they're with family, made them feel content. Of course, it wasn't long before someone broke the silence.

"You're headed for the Varden, right Eragon?"

"Aye. They are the only refuge we have. And what's with this "you" business? You're coming as well, aren't you? Or are you planning on leaving me again?" the rider asked suspiciously.

"Of course not! Not if I can help it." Murtagh said defensively. "But I'm sure the Varden would be less than willing to shelter the son of Morzan."

"Nonsense! We are both sons of Morzan, and if they're willing to lock you away for not being a rider like I am, then they very well would just have to lock me up as well! I'd like to see them try." Eragon hmphed and, loathe was he to admit it, pouted.

Murtagh had to smile. Eragon had said it all so surely (childishly, I might add) and so adamantly that he had no choice but to put his faith on his little brother and believe. He could see the fire in the rider's eyes, and he could see that he was telling it all from the bottom of his heart. If all goes well, then nothing would be able to tear them apart once again. Neither of them, it seems, would allow it.

"Hey Tag?"

"Hmm?"

"None of those hugs happened."

" Ahh. Of course not. They were manly embraces."

"That they are, then. That they are..."

With those words the matter was settled, leaving them to decide to tuck in for the night. Both of them could afford to sleep, as their camp was secure enough not to need watch, for tonight at least. The excitement had drained them of most of their energies, even though they've done nothing but sit and exchange words. Their tiredness weighed heavily on their eyes, yet they couldn't be happier. They had time to get to know each other better in the future, after all, tomorrow, and the days long after.

For Brom though, time had just run out.

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Author's notes: So how'd ya like it? It wasn't really good, but I hope it was enjoyable. I tried very hard to tone down the fluff, and I hope that I was able to accomplish an acceptable level of "love". Oh and the last part with the "None of those hugs happened" bit was entirely unoriginal, you would notice, even though I tweaked it a bit. By the way, this is probably only gonna be part one of I'm thinking two chapters in this timeline. After that, I'm still deciding. Whew! I barely made it before the weekend ended. Fanfic cliché: Press the pretty little button!