Chapter 22 – the taste of blood

ERAGON

Murtagh's shock at seeing him was clear on his face. His brother hadn't believed Eragon could have survived their last fight. Eragon's lips curled back to show sharp teeth that bordered on fangs. Neither had he himself believed in his survival that day.

Muscles in his back worked to propel him towards the red rider. His first strike with Brisingr was blocked by Zar'roc, but barely. Murtagh had been healing the wounds on his dragon, before he'd drawn his sword in defence upon sensing him.

Eragon's strike was deflected. He swung diagonally, intent to be the first to spill blood. Murtagh managed to block the strike, otherwise the ground would have been littered with his guts. Eragon snarled.

"What the hell happened to you?!" Murtagh shouted at him after the two opponents separated once again. Eragon wasn't going to give him the reprieve that answering his question would have given him otherwise. In a quick fluid motion, he stepped away from the dragon's claw trying to tear him in half. Wings half-opened for balance, he used the momentum his body possessed to swing Brisingr at Murtagh again.

Zar'roc's blade caught the blue sword and threw it off its mark with a metallic clang. Brisingr sank into flesh as the magical protection woven around the red rider was rendered useless by the magic woven at the blade's creation. Eragon detected the stench of iron, a part of him satisfied by it. He craved more of it. He wouldn't let his enemy flee, before he wasn't torn apart piece by piece, for every second Eragon had had to live without her.

Murtagh groaned in pain, shocked to have his magical protections failing him. Wide-eyed, he truly looked at his opponent. The spark of madness he saw in Eragon's blue eyes sent a shiver down his spine. Eyes that were glowing with magic.

Thorn hit Eragon with his massive tail the next second, roaring in outrage at scenting his rider's blood. His tail catched Eragon in the chest and he was thrown unceremoniously into a wall. Pain flared like a hot line of fire on his back. Eragon could hear something else cracking besides the bricks under the force of the impact, with dust welling up where he had fallen. He coughed some of it out of his lungs. His link to Vanir flared up in worry, having felt the pain through their surface shielding against other minds. Harshly, he shoved Vanir's presence aside. It would distract him too much during the fight.

Back on his feet, he swayed for a moment before he regained his balance. The sickening crunch he'd heard had been his left wing. It hung limply at his back, reminding him of its existence with waves of pain. Eragon shoved that aside too. His gaze fixed back on Murtagh the moment the dust settled.

Thorn had coiled himself around Murtagh who was holding the wound from Brisingr, his lips moving in the ancient language. The bleeding stopped, flesh knitting back together fast. It was clear the use of magic was exhausting Murtagh after having to heal Thorn earlier.

"Eragon," Murtagh said, the wound healed for the most part, "you've become stronger since the last time we met in battle."

"I'm not the same weak farmboy you've fought with last time, brother." he hissed, memories of that day flashing through his mind. For a moment, he thought he saw something akin to regret flash through Murtagh's eyes, but it could easily have been a trick of the light. Eragon didn't dwell on it.

He bridged the gap between them in a blur of movement, his enhanced speed having Murtagh scramble to defend against the next clash of swords. He'd moved at the same time as Eragon to meet his blue blade with Zar'roc.

"Did the elves do this?" Murtagh asked him, Zar'roc travelling in an arc only to be deflected by Eragon with Brisingr. Thorn tried the same tail swipe again, but Eragon jumped out of the way, having predicted the move. He wasn't going to be beaten this way a second time.

"Shocked, brother ? After seeing the consequences of what you yourself did?" were his words, laced with his hatred for the other rider. Murtagh flinched, the minute motion nearly costing him his head.

Thorn snapped at Eragon with his teeth next. Eragon hissed at the dragon, his attention split between two opponents. Brisingr cut through scales on Thorn's snout. Blood rained down on him, sizzling when it made contact with the ground. Thorn retreated, his roar leading to a ringing sensation in Eragon's enhanced hearing.

Eragon's own magical protections were tested next by Zar'roc, the sword stabbing into his sword arm. The cut wasn't deep, the sword having been halted before it could chomp off his whole arm. Blood ran down in a wet stream from the cut. The spasm in his arm muscle had his grip loosen on Brisingr, enough for the sword to fall to the ground.

The growl leaving his lips was less human and more dragon than any other sound Eragon had produced before. His left hand swiped at Murtagh, fully formed into claws that left deep gashes across Murtagh's face. It was by sheer chance that he didn't gouge out one of the other's eyes.

Murtagh stumbled back. He looked like he'd encountered a feral mountain cat with his face bearing the jagged marks of claws. Eragon could have purred at the sight. He rolled away from another attack from Thorn, picking up Brisingr. The blade's blue colour was like a beacon to him, the intensity with which he perceived it making it easy to spot among the dull browns and reds of the destroyed plaza. He jumped to his feet, intent that this time, he would thrust Brisingr through Murtagh's heart.

Eragon didn't kill Murtagh. For that to happen, Murtagh was still too good of a swordsman. He gasped with the strain on his body from deflecting Brisingr again while his side split open, the wound apparently not having been fully healed. Eragon beared down on Zar'roc for a moment, seeing Murtagh's arms tremble with it.

A claw ripped into his uninjured wing, enough of a distraction for him to fall back and snarl at the attacker – Thorn – taking Brisingr with him to nearly cut off one of the dragon's toes. Thorn's scream as the weapon tore through flesh and to the bone, chipping it, was loud enough to shake the nearby buildings.

Eragon was hazy with pain from having both wings injured.

They wouldn't let the wyrdfell escape. They could still fight, so this was what they did.

Murtagh recoiled from the enraged form of the indlvarn when Brisingr came at him again. The younger one's eyes held a strange fire in them and it was then, that he realised something far, far too late.

"Where's Saphira?"

The wyrdfell dared to utter her name! Their growl was filled with grief and pain and rage at the man who'd caused that pain, that grief. They thirsted to slit his throat and paint this city with his blood.

"Tell me Eragon! Where is she?!"

For a moment, Eragon's mind cleared of the haze he'd fallen into. It didn't quench his rage. "You killed her when you left me to die on the burning plains!"

"No…"

Eragon's blade was a hair's breadth away from Murtagh's throat, before Thorn rescued him by flattening Eragon to the ground. Murtagh hadn't defended himself from that attack with Zar'roc. Had the news truly shocked him more than thinking both rider and dragon dead? What did it even matter to him, if Eragon had been the one to survive with a broken rider bond? He'd made his decision when he brought his sword down that day.

"Coward!" Eragon spit at Murtagh, feeling the bones of his broken wing grind against each other with his struggle against the weight of Thorn's tail on top of him. Murtagh was unmoving for a long time, before he shook off whatever thought had paralysed him.

An uncertain look in his eyes, he stared at Eragon. "This fight, it's over for today. And… I'm sorry."

Eragon howled in anger at the words that meant nothing to him, not when they came from Murtagh who'd been secure in the path he'd chosen when he'd driven that sword through Eragon's chest. His regret over it now meant nothing!

Murtagh climbed onto Thorn's back. Still injured, he never left Eragon out of his sight, while he did. The dragon's wings had been healed enough for him to regain his flight. The tail on top of him lifted, before Thorn threw himself back into the sky like he felt maybe for the first time what it was like to be prey.

Eragon lunged but with one wing brokenly hanging at his side like deadweight, the other slashed through and bleeding, he was off centre and unable to follow. He scraped his palms on the rubble and cobblestone, the blood smearing on the ground and soaking into the stone. He hissed, his eyes fixated on the red shape of Thorn that got smaller and smaller the further they were from him.

"Coward!" he snarled at the sky.

His sharp cry stayed unanswered for a long time, before his ears picked up the sound of light footsteps. His eyes were still fixated on where Thorn and Murtagh had fled. The person stopped when they reached him. They let out a sigh that spoke of weariness, of relief, of emotions Eragon was too distracted to parse through. He allowed it when arms embraced him carefully, inhaling the by now familiar scent of ground cinnamon and the forest after a heavy rain. All at once, the fight left him. He went limp in the other's hold, the pain of his wounds hitting him more with whatever had gripped him during the fight.

Vanir must have felt it too, feeling along their bond to ascertain the state of his wounded limbs and shortly after, Eragon could feel the cool sensation of magic healing the damage done to them. It was easier to use magic this way, since Vanir wasn't as drained as him, but he could feel every tear and break through Eragon.

"I hate him," he whispered into the stillness. His mind had been pushed back into the nightmare that was the burning plains for him. Murtagh had revealed the truth, that they were brothers by blood, and then he'd tried to kill Eragon. He would have succeeded. Whatever remaining friendship was between them before, it was torn to pieces by what Murtagh had done.

"It's alright to hate him. As long as that hate doesn't destroy you. "

Eragon laughed, a dark and self deprecating laugh. "He murdered her," he snarled, but it was weak and Vanir's embrace tightened around him, conscious of the broken wing.

"I know," was all the elf said, his mind a calm place of understanding but also free of judgement – that more than anything else made Eragon feel safe enough to allow himself to let the tears fall.

His eyes burned from the amount of tears he shed, but it felt cleansing to him. Meeting Murtagh again had ripped open wounds he'd thought sealed, and every emotion he'd unconsciously pushed down since that day came bubbling out of him now in the form of not quite silent tears. Vanir didn't stop his efforts to heal his worst injuries which were his wings throughout it all for which Eragon was very grateful. He could stay in the elf's arms and simply breathe through the storm of emotions that gripped him.

His knees protested when he extricated himself from the comfortable place in Vanirs arms to stand up after what felt like an eternity had gone by. He wiped over his face knowing he looked very much like he felt – a complete wreck.

"I'm sorry for having to lean on you like this. I should be stronger. Instead you had me crying all over you." he said, averting his gaze from golden eyes that were much too understanding now that his head seemed clearer. What was he saying? He could practically feel Vanir's understanding of Eragon's emotional state through their bond.

"Don't apologise. Others have gone mad from what you had to endure."

Eragon chuckled mirthlessly. His wings were healed for the most part, but there was blood dried on his armour and clothes, the cut with crusted blood around it on his arm, more cuts and bruises from his contact with the wall, and he felt ready to lay down somewhere and sleep for a week.

"Haven't I?" he asked. Vanir shook his head, but the look in his eyes had melted to something lighter, now that Eragon was looking marginally better.

"Debatable," Vanir tried to humour him, "but humans are all completely bat shit crazy, in my humble opinion."

Eragon laughed, openly, fangs flashing. With that, the atmosphere around them finally lifted from the opressingness that had lingered after Murtagh and Thorn had fled.

"Let's go find the others," Vanir suggested after a moment had them both just standing there. Eragon nodded. Nasuada would still need them when she took over the city from here. His nap had to wait until they could find a place and time to rest.

He stepped forwards into Vanir's space, his husband reading his intent from his thoughts and canting his head slightly to meet him halfway. Lips met in a close mouthed kiss, soft and assuring. Vanir's lips were warm and inviting and moving against Eragon's lazily now. Eragon pressed his own deeper into them, still left with some of the high that came from battle. His wings folded forward to frame his husband between them, like a protective shield. He separated with a wince at the slight pain it brought him. They would still need some time to heal from what he'd put them through today.

"We should go," he sighed, gazing softly at Vanir.

"We should."

Neither moved. It was Vanir who brought his right hand up to cradle Eragon's cheek, before kissing the skin above Eragon's brow, the touch as light as a feather, but it warmed Eragon down to his toes. He clamped down on the urge to kiss those lips again, reminding himself that he was in a partly burning city, not to mention the blood clinging to them both, or the wounds that would need to be taken care of. He could kiss his husband senseless later.

"Is that a promise?" Vanir purred. Blushing, Eragon growled at the flirtatious intent he could read off of the elf through the bond. "Don't tempt me, Vanir."

Vanir laughed, but he didn't tease him further. Instead he turned around, walking into the direction they could hear the last of Dras Leona's resistance fight against the Varden army. Eragon joined him and together they made their way through the chaos around them, towards the ending battle over the city.