Upon Dragon Wings
Abby Ebon
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
Enraptured…
Eragon lay nestled between his brothers thighs – his cheek pressed against Murtagh's inner thigh, his tongue darted out – teasingly licking the length that bobbed in front of his face.
Murtagh's breath caught in his throat, as his fingers ran through his younger brother's hair. Feeling the rough edges of his brothers nails running along his scalp, sent pleasant shivers down Eragon's spine.
Murtagh chuckled softly, the sound echoing through the whole of his body, and Eragon whimpered softly, shifting his weight on the bedding. Murtagh's eyes greedily took in the younger of the two brothers – Eragon indeed lay sprawled between his legs.
Eragon's own legs spread in turn, showing off the dusky line of hair that went from navel to groin, and the obvious signs of his arousal, comfortably at ease in a way the real Eragon would never be with the two of them so exposed to each other.
Murtagh's fingers – caught in the thick strands of Eragon's hair, tightened and forcefully pulled his head back, exposing the soft tissues and tendons of his throat. Eragon stared up at him, dark eyes thick with desire and anticipation of what was to coming – knowing as Murtagh did, what was going to happen.
Murtagh's other hand had trailed down the length of Eragon's torso - causing the younger of the two brothers to gasp as his brother's hand moved against his over sensitive skin.
Eragon reached for his shoulders, pushing himself atop his elder brother – moaning softly in Murtagh's ear as fingers probed at his entrance.
"Please, brother…"
O.o.O.o.O.o.O
With a hushed gasp, Eragon awoke – to…to the night? – his skin, sweaty and hot all over, had clung to the sheets, and he found himself desperately – painfully - aroused. His heart ached – how could he have had…had a dream like that – about Murtagh – a traitor!
Eragon turned slightly, rolling onto his back, and looking to the side – Roran was, luckily, gone. He could not imagine having Roran awake to his moans and pleas – and to – to wake him and ask him what the 'nightmare' had been! It would have been mortifying…Eragon buried the side his face into the soft cotton of his pillow, sighing into it.
He shifted his weight, glancing down the length of his body and wishing it would just…just go away.
It didn't though, seeming to mock him – the image of Murtagh, nude – if bent away as he washed in a river. Eragon having seen something like this shortly after Brom's death, thought it made it all the more real, but surely Murtagh had not looked at him with such lust, nor licked his lips in desire.
Heat flooded his body, and he found his hand trailing between his half parted thighs, hissing as his hand eased between the restricting cloth of his trousers and the oh-so-sensitive skin of his groin.
Murtagh went to him, walking over the river rocks, smoothed by time – and save for a short but aching distance, there seemed to be nothing between Eragon and his elder brother's dark eyes and tan skin.
Rough and dominating, Murtagh gripped his arms and pulled him closer – trapping Eragon's body against his brothers.
Eragon found his did not mind – his knees weakening as Murtagh squeezed the soft globes of his ass – kissing him roughly – teeth and tongue battling, and Eragon could have sworn he'd tasted blood.
Eragon was panting, rubbing franticly at himself – one hand clenching into the bedding, even as his hips bucked up, wishing for the contact he imagined; that of his brother stroking his most intimate of places – his manhood – his entrance, and where buttocks met thigh.
Eragon bit his lip wanting to cry out – to plead for his brother to go farther then those faint touches – but fearing the consequences of what others would think or say if they heard him. Even if knowing too, that this was just an excuse - his desires warring with his disgust with himself.
For, surely, Murtagh would finish anything he intended to start with Eragon. At that thought – he came, hot spurts coating the insides of his pants – his hand coming away wet, it made what he ad just did all the more noticeable.
Eragon's cheeks flushed with the images still playing in his mind – he was half sure that they – and his reaction, had been all been the work of an agent of Galbatorix…just to keep him off balance and wondering at his own sanity.
It was but you own mind, Little One…Saphira reassured him from the depths of their bond – now for the first time, Eragon found it somewhat awkward to be linked in such a way to Saphira.
Not that he would trade Saphira for anything – it was just…embarrassing, like having Brom – Arya, or even Katrina try to explain sex to him.
He knew what it was – having seen the animals, well, do that – he just hadn't known it had a name – and true, he hadn't quite fitted out how it would be done between two people – but that didn't mean he was naive.
"Why?" He asked himself – and Saphira, if she would answer – why, oh, why had he dreamed of doing that with Murtagh – why had it affected him to such an extent? Eragon sat up, washing his hands in the basin – then taking of his trousers as he listened to his dragon's thoughts to him through their bond.
Oh, Little One…I am sorry, I fear my very nature is to blame. I am, after all, the last female of my kind. Saphira began, and if she had been face-to-muzzle with him, she would have seen Eragon raise an eyebrow at the obviousness of her statement.
What does this have to do with Murtagh? Eragon demanded, seeking still an answer for his dream, even as he pulled on a new pair of pants – and a new shirt, just to make sure no one smelt anything strange when he went to breakfast.
When a female dragon, such as my self, reaches sexual maturity, it signals the beginning of the Dragon's Dance – as the first Riders called the mating flight of my gender. It's a call – unheard by humans, that sings in the blood of the nearby male dragons. Saphira explained to him, and Eragon looked to the window wonderingly – if Thorn, and Galbatorix's Shruikan – or Oromis' Glaedr would answer such a call.
Glaedr is too old, and Galbatorix would not allow Shruikan to go – he prizes his kept dragon too much. Saphira assured him, and Eragon allowed himself to have some peace with that truth. Too soon though, his heart leapt in his throat – realizing Saphira had not said anything against Thorn - his dragon seemed to realize his alarm.
I'm sorry. Saphira echoed her earlier sentiments, and Eragon's eyes widened with alarm and denial.
Is he not too young for you? Eragon asked of her, rather despite for the answer.
No – male dragons sexually mature in less then a year after hatching. Saphira told him, and Eragon shook his head in denial, even though he was far away from her – locked away in his room.
What of Murtagh and me? Eragon managed not to choke as he sent the thought to her, even as he felt sorrow build in his chest – could it be possible Arya had had a good reason for not wanting to get involved with him?
A reason no one had bothered to tell him about?
Do you not see Little One? Because of the Dragon's Dance, Thorn and I will most certainly be mated – and though our bond, your body would echo mine – and Murtagh, my dear, would be quick to take advantage, if only to please Galbatorix. He would nonetheless henceforth share our bond. Saphira finished her explanations, and Eragon shook his head, even as he could no more deny the echoing truth to her thoughts, then to deny she was his dragon.
Is there no running from them? No escape at all? Eragon asked of her, fearing the answer as Saphira seemed to sigh through the link, understanding his reluctance to bend to what she had already accepted.
We could run, Little One, but he would be relentless in his pursuit – and he would have no mercy in catching us. If he comes to us – and I fly with him, and he proves unworthy, then – there is that chance. Saphira allowed, and it was one Eragon found him self clinging to, even as he drifted back into a fitful sleep.
Eragon awoke to the screams of those around him, startled awake – his mind stretched instinctively to Saphira's seeking answers to questions his mind had not yet formed.
It proved a fruitless gesture – for no sooner had Saphira cautioned him had he seen the burst of fire in the horizon – and the red dot of a dragon; Thorn has arrived. Saphira echoed his thoughts – her tone both interested and not.
What of Murtagh? Eragon asked her, hoping that the other Rider had not had a chance to mount his dragon before the Dragon's Dance had taken a hold of him.
He is with Thorn. Saphira admitted almost sadly for her Riders sake, yet she could not contain her hope that she would no longer be alone – and Eragon found he could not spite her for it.
"Eragon - !" Roran yelled as he burst into the room, likely expecting to find the younger boy gone – instead he found Eragon gazing out his window locked in mental communication with his dragon.
"Eragon?" Roran echoed more softly as he approached his cousin, heeled boots clicked on the wooden floor – alerting Eragon to his presence. Eragon turned to him, unsurprised at his appearance, so Roran took it to heart his brother was not ill.
"Murtagh is here," Eragon told him, rising from his bed, speaking as if Roran wouldn't understand, and then he said something that made Roran's insides go cold for his tone alone, "if you get the chance – ask Arya about the Dragon's Dance." Eragon did not give him a backward glance as he left.
He wanted desperately to reassure Eragon, to tell him whatever it was that plagued Eragon couldn't be as bad as he made it out to be. Roran found no words, even as he followed Eragon wordlessly to Saphira's enclosure and watched him set off to the gate.
Roran followed still, even as –above them, like fate circling and dancing above – calling his cousin and his dragon out, was Thorn - and Murtagh – who was, to Roran, worth nothing for hurting Eragon – even if his cousin had confessed to trusting Murtagh with his life once.
Years later, he would confess to finding the sight of Saphira and Thorn flying in accord – Eragon having supposedly convinced Murtagh to fight away from the city – away from him.
Between one heartbeat and a breath, he had surely thought then that something had to have changed or shifted, just in that moment between times – with the realization that Eragon meant to sacrifice himself in some way that Roran did not – or could not, understand.