To anyone who read the original version of this chapter: yes, I went back and changed some things. Eragon's monologue seemed too out of character and unrealistic, and it was bothering me. I also wanted to cut down on the purple prose... though I doubt I completely eliminated it...

Chapter Three: Brothers

Eragon awoke later to a grating squeal, the noise of his prison door being opened and the rusty hinges screaming in protest. He winced, eyes flickering open, hearing a surprised exclamation that was probably Minerva, who had not gone to sleep, and a grunt, that was probably the young man waking.

His opening eyes were greeted with the sight of a shoe a few feet from his face, in the entrance of the door. His lifted his gaze upwards, and his breath caught in his throat.

Murtagh.

Eragon stared, wide-eyed, at his brother who stood in the doorway. "Murtagh?" he exclaimed, disbelieving. For a moment he was hit with insane joy – Murtagh was alive and well, and before him. His closest of kin, his rival, the only other Rider of his generation – and they were together once more. Then the feeling faded, replaced with the dull ache of betrayal, and with it, the instinctive hate of someone who had hurt him.

"Eragon," Murtagh said quietly, emotions flickering over his face too quickly to be read. Hope? Anger? Resignation? Then the calm mask he wore was back in place, and Eragon could not see beyond it.

Murtagh's eyes left his brother's face briefly, scanning the others in the cell. The old man dying on the floor, Minerva no doubt crouched over him and tending to him, the young man sitting against the wall, looking back warily.

Murtagh's eyes settled on the young man after a moment, something like recognition lighting in his eyes. Then he looked back at Eragon, and gestured for him to stand upright. "Come."

Eragon glared at him, refusing to move.

"Stubborn," Murtagh growled. "Do you want to die here?"

Eragon's eyes widened in surprise.

"I'm trying to help," Murtagh said flatly. "And I can't if you don't do as I say."

"You wouldn't help me," Eragon retorted. "You're bound to Galbatorix. You have to do as he says."

"I can't help you escape, no," Murtagh agreed. "Come."

Eragon didn't move, and Murtagh glared at him. "I can't get up," Eragon admitted. "My ankle's broken." He flushed at little at this; admitting the he couldn't even stand on his own to his rival wasn't something he enjoyed doing.

Murtagh's mouth twitched in amusement. He stepped forward, into Eragon's reach, and offered his gloved hand; Eragon took it, pulling himself upright and staggering slightly. Murtagh supported Eragon on his shoulder, motioning for the guard to close the door and lock it behind them. Eragon glanced back at the cell, to see his cellmates looking at him curiously. The two Riders began to walk down the dungeon hallway.

Eragon glanced around, noticing for the first time the lack of guards. Only a few here and there, and only three in sight. Murtagh had come down alone.

Guessing the brunet's thoughts, Murtagh smirked. "You're magicless, weaponless, and injured, and I happen to be one of the most powerful magic-users alive. Do you really think I need guards to help keep you in check?"

"Touché," Eragon muttered.

Murtagh hesitated, then laughed softly. The noise didn't sound quite right, almost like Murtagh was surprised he was laughing and wasn't quite sure how to do it. Eragon frowned at the thought, partially because it rang of truth, and partially because of how childish it sounded.

After a moment of limping and supporting himself on his brother, Eragon asked, "What are you doing here, anyway? Galbatorix send you to come torture fealty out of me?"

"Hardly," Murtagh replied. "I live here. And I doubt Galbatorix knows you're here yet."

Eragon froze, mouth dropping open. "What?"

Murtagh raised his eyebrows and tugged Eragon along to get him moving again. "Don't stop like that, I might drop you. Yes, I live here. This is our father's old estate – I inherited it upon his death."

Eragon flushed slightly at his own stupidity. Of course this was Murtagh's castle. The young man in the cell had told him that a Foresworn once lived here, and the city the castle was next to was named "The City of Red"; named, no doubt, for Morzan and his dragon. Not only that, but Nasuada had told him Morzan had owned this castle; if he hadn't been so busy sulking, he might have paid more attention to her. "Oh," he muttered.

After a few seconds, Eragon opened his mouth to speak again, but Murtagh shook his head. "Wait until we get to my room. I don't want to accidentally say something I shouldn't when anyone could be listening."

Eragon found himself was curious. Things Murtagh didn't want others to hear? He knew his brother wasn't exactly loyal to his master, but Murtagh was literally unable to do anything traitorous; he was bound by oaths in the Ancient Language. But there were loopholes, and Murtagh had exploited them in the past. Hope, irrational, despairingly real hope lit a flame in Eragon's heart, and he found it impossible to extinguish. It wasn't possible, Murtagh couldn't… but maybe, just maybe…

Finally they reached a door in a long hall. Murtagh shifted so he could reach and open the door, nearly causing Eragon to drop, but Murtagh somehow managed to center their weight again. When Murtagh led him through the doorway, Eragon's breath caught in his throat.

The room was huge.

The furnishings were expensive and made of dark wood, the stone walls and floor of the room were of dark quality, and although their was a window, little light came through it, causing the room to have a permanent aura of quiet, seclusion, and depression. But was really hit Eragon was the vastness of it; the room was large, and the absence of anything but the necessary encouraged that impression. The room looked like it'd never been lived in; the bed was tidy, the covers weren't rumpled, the furniture was dust-free, and no clothes were strewn across the floor.

Murtagh guided him gently to the black-sheeted bed and set him down. Then he stepped back, eyes slightly wary.

"I wanted to talk to you." His voice was emotionless.

"I guessed. I suppose you took me here because you didn't want the guards or my cellmates to here what you have to say?"

Murtagh nodded again. "Galbatorix will be here soon," he told Eragon quietly.

"I know. How long?"

Murtagh shrugged. "Three days for a messenger to get to the capital, a day or two for him to fly here, plus whatever time it takes for me to actually send the messenger."

Eragon froze, eyes widening in disbelief. "What? You haven't sent – "

Murtagh shook his head. "No," he admitted. "Not yet. He ordered me to inform him should I ever capture you. He failed to specify when, and I intend to take advantage of that. I need time."

"Time," Eragon repeated, confused and hopeful.

"To convince you," the raven-haired man explained.

"Convince – " Eragon stopped suddenly as he realized what Murtagh meant. "Go to hell," he growled. "I can't believe I actually thought you might be doing something decent – "

"Decent? Trying to save my brother from being tortured by a madman isn't decent?" Murtagh retorted. "You don't know what he can do to you, Eragon – you didn't go through what I did. And you don't need to go through it, just don't resist."

"Oh, yes, a perfectly wonderful idea," Eragon hissed. "Lie down on my back and let myself get stepped on like a good little slave."

"Only a fool would fight when he's doomed to lose, and you aren't a fool. Don't do this to yourself."

Murtagh's voice was insistent and held no doubts, but Eragon refused to give in.

"I won't – "

"And why not? Who are you doing this for?" Murtagh demanded. "Revenge for your uncle? He's dead, and it will do him no good. For the glory? Fame can't make you happy or keep you alive. For them? The people? They have no right to expect someone to just show up and make everything right. You don't owe anyone anything, so do something for yourself for once!"

"And gain what?" Eragon snapped back. "The only difference between you and I is the fact that you have to do everything he says and I don't. I may be a prisoner, but you're a slave."

"There is no difference between you and I, Eragon," Murtagh insisted.

Eragon stopped, looking at him oddly. "What do you mean?"

Murtagh stepped forward, his gaze fixed on his brother. "Don't tell me," he said quietly, sincerely, passionately, "that you honestly believe you were ever in a better position than I am currently."

"I don't know what you mean. Nasuada wasn't imprisoning me. She's my friend – she was your friend."

"You know exactly what I mean." Murtagh's heated gaze didn't waver. "Because you've felt it, just like I have. The despair. We didn't choose this. We didn't want this. Don't tell me, Eragon, that you've never spent a sleepless night wishing Saphira didn't choose you."

Murtagh didn't press the issue farther, just held his gaze firmly. He didn't need to say anymore – Eragon knew exactly what he meant.

"You're right."

Murtagh stared, this time puzzled and a bit hopeful. He didn't know what he had been expecting, but this wasn't it. Eragon was beginning to listen to him? Please.

"You're right," Eragon announced again. He fell against the bed so that he was lying on his back with his leg hanging off the end, and closed his brown eyes. He was sick of lying to himself about this. He was sick of pretending to be the hero. "I hate this. At first I thought being a Rider was great – like becoming the hero in a fairytale. There's the bad guy, powerful beyond imagination, but there's no doubt you'll defeat him. There's the good guys, the ones you need to save. Then there's the beautiful woman that you save from a horrible fate who eventually falls madly in love with you."

Murtagh nodded as Eragon paused, urging him to go on.

"But then reality starts creeping back in. People you care about die. You start to see that the beautiful woman you're pursuing looks at you sometimes like she doesn't know whether to pity your worthless advances or be disgusted by them. Your best friend betrays you. And after a while, you hate it.

"You start to hate killing. You hate wanting to do more and not being able to. You hate being expected to do anything at all.

"And there's this voice in your head, reading your thoughts, stripping you bare without even trying. You start to hate her, because she knows just how human you are, just how weak and vulnerable and how you aren't really a hero. And she knows you hate her, but even though you love her like a sister, you can't stop hating her.

"So you throw yourself at any work you have, you constantly study magic so you don't have to think, you constantly exhaust yourself sparing so you can be to tired to dream about it. But all those problems are still there, and there's no way out except to win the war. You're still a prisoner..."

Eragon's voice trailed off.

Murtagh didn't speak, didn't break the fragile silence of the room. He wanted to shout in triumph and joy that someone else felt as hopelessly alone and trapped as he did. He wanted to rush to his brother and comfort him. He wanted to tear Galbatorix apart, limb from limb, from doing this to them.

So he settled for asking a simple question. "Why did you tell me that?" he asked.

"Because you understand," Eragon said bitterly, opening his eyes to look at Murtagh. "Because you hate being a Rider just as much as I do."

"So you do know, then. Then why don't you want to be by my side? We need each other, just like Saphira and Thorn need each other. We're the only of our kind, in a way, just like them."

Eragon closed his eyes again and didn't reply. Murtagh's heart almost stopped. Was Eragon actually considering it? Please, Murtagh silently begged any god that might be listening. Please, just let him give in. I need him.

"You can't stop him, Eragon. Whether or whether not you fight him, he will control you. And whether or not he controls you, he will defeat the Varden." Murtagh's voice was calm, as if stating facts, and Eragon found himself listening more closely than he should have. "There's no way to win – all you can do what's best for yourself. Give in. We're brothers, and we were meant to be side-by-side."

But Eragon shook his head, opening his eyes and staring coldly at Murtagh. "You're right about one thing, though – we were meant to fight side by side. We're the same. So help me fight him."

Murtagh hesitated.

That… made sense. But that didn't stop the fact that Eragon was fighting a losing battle – fighting Galbatorix would only lead to death or worse. Not that Murtagh even had to choice to fight Galbatorix; his true name now belonged to the madman, and with it, his free will. "You know I can't," he said quietly.

Eragon sighed and turned away. "I know," he admitted. "But it doesn't matter. This will end one way or the other – either I will win, and we will both be free, or he will win, and we'll serve him together."

Murtagh looked at his brother quietly; they say each other perfectly, every curve and toned muscle beneath skin, every movement of every expression, despite the dim light.

The raven-haired Rider swallowed, feeling somehow comforted and oddly horrified – he'd never felt this particular way about someone before. It wasn't any negative emotion, nor lust, nor love of any kind, and it went far beyond ordinary friendship. They understood each other perfectly. They felt the need to protect each other. They were rivals, almost perfectly equal in strength. They felt the need for each other's presence.

Kinship, then?

Gods, I wish he weren't my brother.

Murtagh froze, cutting off his train of thought right there. Why the hell had he thought that? It was just something that came to him out of nowhere, a random, absentminded, stray thought. It'd just suddenly occurred to him that he didn't like Eragon as his brother.

"Murtagh?"

Murtagh blinked, coming back to reality, and realizing he'd been staring. "What?"

"You were spacing out," Eragon explained.

"Oh." Murtagh stared absentmindedly at Eragon's ankle, then sighed. "Lie down on the bed, will you?"

"Huh? Why?"

"So I can fix your ankle." Eragon obediently laid down on his back, sliding back so just his feet were hanging off the bed. Murtagh stepped over, kneeling by Eragon's feet. Then he remembered something he should have done earlier, but had forgotten. He glanced up at at the brunet again. "Sit up."

"You just told me to lie down."

"You can't drink lying down."

"What do I need to drink?"

Murtagh stood up, then picked up the cup that had been sitting on the bedside table. A small vial laid beside it, one he picked up and poured into the cup. He handed this to Eragon. "Here."

Obediently, Eragon gulped down the tiny amount. He made a face - the liquid was almost tasteless, but it still had a strange feel to it, as well as an oddly familiar odor. "What is it, anyway?"

"A drug to suppress your magic."

Eragon choked. "What?" he gasped. "You - "

Murtagh laughed. "Beginning to wish you'd asked first, right?" He knelt down by Eragon's foot again. "How did you do this to yourself, anyway?" he asked, inspecting the swollen flesh and running his fingers over various spots.

"No idea. I woke up, and it was like this. I guess whoever brought me here dropped me or something… Why – ow! What was that for?" Eragon exclaimed, attempting to yank his foot out of Murtagh's grasp. Of course, Murtagh didn't let go, and it didn't occur to Eragon that playing tug-of-war with a broken limb was going to hurt until he was already crying out from pain.

Eragon whined, then bit his lip, refusing to show just how much agony he was in. It had hurt when Murtagh had twisted his ankle a bit earlier, but he now wished he'd just put up with it instead of instinctively trying to get away.

Murtagh let go, concerned. He laid his hand comfortingly on Eragon's. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Eragon muttered, blushing. Murtagh was being nice?

"Good. Don't jerk around, idiot, or it'll hurt much worse."

Eragon's blush darkened. So much for concern.

"I wouldn't have been jerking around if you hadn't been jerking myankle around," he hissed.

"I was trying to realign the break. If I heal it while it's at an odd angle, the break will heal incorrectly and you might not be able to walk. Then we'd have to break your ankle again and heal it again. I don't think you'd enjoy that." Murtagh's voice was calm. "Sit still. I'm going to try to realign it again, okay?"

"Yeah," Eragon gritted his teeth as Murtagh shifted his foot and a bolt of white-hot pain lanced through the broken limb.

"Waíse heill."

Eragon sighed as Murtagh's magic did its work, and his bones creaked slightly as the break was healed. Sweet relief flowed through him – he could walk again. Thank the gods. He wriggled his foot around a bit, moaning softly in relief and pleasure - only moments before, that small movement would have been agonizing, but now the joints there felt pleasantly loose.

"Better?" Murtagh's voice was too calm.

Eragon frowned, opening his eyes and examining his brother suspiciously.

Eragon opened his mouth to speak, but Murtagh sighed motioned for him to stay silent. "What is there left to say?" he said quietly. "Eragon, I will ask you one last time. Please, I'm begging you - will you just give in to him? Don't put yourself through unnecessary pain."

Eragon shook his head. "I already gave you my answer, Murtagh. I won't let myself become his slave."

"We'll speak later," Murtagh stated flatly, his voice monotone. Eragon sighed, realizing that just after he'd managed to tear it down, Murtagh had indeed put up another emotional barrier. "If we're done here, I should return you to your cell. Test out your foot - make sure it's healed properly." He offered his little brother a hand.

Eragon took Murtagh's offered assistance, but didn't miss that Murtagh flinched slightly from the touch. The brunet staggered upright, blinking in surprise as he once broken limb supported his weight without protest. He gingerly took a step, indulging in a triumphant smile as nothing bad happened.

He was impressed despite himself - healing broken bones was one of the more complicated healing magics, the only more complicated being internal bleeding and brain damage, both of which were rarely used for fear of further harming the patient. Eragon had studied these magics thoroughly - he hated it when someone needed healing and he couldn't help them - and even he found them difficult sometimes. Yet Murtagh, who had been a Rider for a shorter time, had apparently already mastered it.

"Thanks," Eragon said warmly, smiling at his brother's blank features.

Murtagh apparently couldn't hold his emotional barrier at such a simple, sincere reaction. He smiled. But he moved away, motioning for Eragon to follow him, and kept his distance.

Eragon followed silently, thoughts swimming in his head as he watched his brother walk quietly ahead of him. At first he considered how Murtagh was exposing his back - did the older Rider trust him not to suddenly attack in an attempt to escape? Or was Murtagh showing confidence that Eragon couldn't hurt him even if he tried?

Next he found himself thinking about Saphira. He felt the relief that she could no longer access his mind, and the sharp guilt that came with that relief. Saphira was his friend, his dear friend, and as soon as they were in contact again she would know that he had such thoughts about her still.

As soon as thoughts of Saphira vanished, he found another image in his mind, of another female he loved - Arya. He shuddered, not wanting to think about her right now, and pushed those thoughts out of his head.

And unexpectedly, he found himself thinking of someone else in a way he found disturbingly similar to the way he felt about Arya. He flushed, admiring for an instant the way that Murtagh's pale skin glowed softly in the dim light, how gracefully the older male moved... how smooth and soft Murtagh's voice had been in the bedroom...

It was only minutes later, when the door to his cell closed, that it occurred to his that he was feeling an attraction to Murtagh.

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Yup, Eragon's horomones are kicking in. Pity that Murtagh's aren't...

And the reason for Eragon's angst is revealed! I apologize if he's being OOC for acting that way, but in my defense, I don't believe a normal person, after being dragged into being a hero, then having someone constantly invading his most private thoughts and self-doubts, would be very stable of mind.

In fact, I suppose I should apologize for Murtagh's OOCness, if he has any.

And while I'm apologizing, I'm also sorry for the lack of slash. That comes (no pun intended) later.