Upon Dragon Wings

Abby Ebon

O.o.O.o.O.o.O

Pinnacle…

Murtagh hadn't been prepared to meet his brother face to face – or rather eye to eye. Eragon had…changed. He was no longer the rough around the edges kid – naive and too nice for his own good. Even in battle, Murtagh hadn't allowed himself to focus too much on what he was doing – what he hadn't wanted to do.

Meeting Eragon eye-to-eye was something he couldn't avoid now. Eragon looked like an elf. An elf that had been through hell while trying to look like a human – but, something within Eragon had rejected the human feelings and thoughts, merely allowing him – like some great ironic cosmic joke, to meld the two in appearance.

It didn't seem to matter that Eragon had been born human – something had changed, and he just could not – even with the aid of his magic – "shape" himself to be human again.

That's what it felt like to look in Eragon's eyes – Murtagh was at once overwhelmed and awed by the change. Some twisted part of him knew it would rejoice in taking this new Eragon's innocence – having Eragon moaning and whimpering under him, Eragon's body moving – trying to get away and closer at once – beneath him – Murtagh let out a shaky breath – he had known he wanted Eragon - regardless that it was his brother – his younger brother – he was seeing and lusting for.

Eragon, seeming even more innocent and untouched by Murtagh's feelings and thoughts - bit into his pouting bottom lip. Murtagh swallowed – his throat had gone as dry as a wasteland, this – merely seeing Eragon again - was too much for him – feeling oddly guilty, he looked away.

When he looked up again, Eragon had looked away – he was staring at the entrance to the ruins. Feeling somewhat cheated, Murtagh made his way into them – for a moment he spared the thought that Eragon might enjoy the view – then pushed it away, trying to remember the ancient language. Or the two of them – Eragon was the better at it, even if Murtagh knew more powerful – more dangerous – words of power.

"So we are looking for a way to change your true name?" Murtagh heard Eragon's voice from behind him – it seemed faint – as if Eragon's mind was on something else even as he spoke.

"Or something like that," Murtagh spoke, his skin tingling – feeling the ancient magic that lay on the place – that had formed it from the very bones of the earth, "do you see anything to indicate a records hall – or library? They must have kept something – this couldn't be the only case of a true name falling into the wrong hands." Even as Murtagh said that he knew his voice was thick with the fear that he was wrong.

"Then we ought to head to the center of the ruins." Eragon murmured, remembering his time in Teirm and that the records had been kept from daylight, either in the basement (and somehow the thought of this place holding underground quarters was wrong) or far enough in the center of the building that no direct light touched it. With the Riders, he felt this would have been the case – and as Riders had magic, he knew they would have used something with less possible danger to the materials then fire.

Murtagh merely grunted his agreement. Eragon though was studying the passageways – they were huge, big enough that a dragon could fit – even one as big as Glaedr.

The passageway grew dim, and in the shadows Eragon could make out sinister shapes – statues of men, elves, and dragons – out of the corner of his eyes, every now and then – it looked as if those ancient shapes were watching them – judging the new Riders who passed through the echoing hall.

Eragon swallowed, uncomfortable with the feeling – Saphira's lust still echoed in the very marrow of his bones – but the weight of the shadows eyes seemed more pressing. It was dark enough that Eragon did not see Murtagh stop, and instead ran into him – Murtagh grunted in what Eragon perceived to be annoyance and Eragon was quick to move away from the bigger male.

"Could we, please, get some light?" Murtagh's voice was husky in the dark, thick with things Eragon dared not linger on. It was clear to him that though Saphira's lust had faded with his feelings within the pressing darkness – Thorn's need for Saphira wasn't waning.

"Galbatorix never taught you any?" Eragon asked Murtagh – or the darker-then-shadowed-form he hoped was Murtagh. It would be embarrassing if he was accidentally speaking to a statue. Eragon heard the other male snort – and nearly jumped, the noise echoed all about them.

"Galbatorix only saw fit to teach me battle magic – useful, he called it." Murtagh's tone was rightfully biter – and Eragon had to stop himself from apologizing, again – for thinking Murtagh dead after the battle…

"Oh." Eragon whispered instead, then - remembering a spell Durza had spoken to create light, or rather – hurtled light at him – but he hoped if used as he wanted it, it would just create light, Eragon remembered it carefully going over it in his mind until he had it perfectly, then setting the palm of his hand in front of his face – cupping his hands around his lips, he imitated it.

"Garjzla…" Eragon had imagined a globe of light, as if held in glass – in the palm of his hand. He was pleased to see, that after the light seemed to spill from his lips, the magic had decided to obey his need rather then throw lighting bolts into the dark.

Over Murtagh's shoulder the opening of a chamber, shadowed and huge - Eragon could not – even with the aid of light – see the ceiling of it. But what he could see astounded him – stone bookcases towered above them – as far apart from each other as the passageways. The record hall - for that was surely what it was – seemed to stretch for miles in both directions – Eragon could barely see another passageway on the other side of the record hall. Eragon heard Murtagh groan. He sympathized – this looked as if it might take forever to search.

Certainly more time then Saphira had.

--

Saphira paced, her claws digging into the soft earth and sand of the island. It was growing dark out – for the flight of the sea had stolen most of the daylight. Something within her burned – an ancient instinct – one she knew that no amount of reasoning or willpower would suppress it.

She suddenly smelled him – flying loftily above her, just to be near when she would allow – tempting her - Saphira snarled, her lip curling against her impressive teeth.

She looked up to see him – his wings were locked in the gliding possession. They framed him – made him look bigger – more impressive. His wings were not all one color of bloody red – no, they were – if she were perfectly truthful lovely to behold. With her advanced sight she could see that in the center of every scale there was the soft red of a rose – the edges of his wings and scales were framed in ruby.

His coloring itself spoke to her – telling her of his health – of his temperament (he was loyal, oh yes, but he was quick to anger – never the less, she was sure he would be a pleasing lover) but mostly – is body language told her she would not escape him.

Even if she had wanted to – but, she knew, it would be more worthy to have him prove he could be her equal.

--

"How are we going to sort through all this before Thorn…?" Murtagh trailed off – neither of them had forgotten their dreams – and both of them felt very much aware of the other – alike to a great ticking clock, readying itself to spring to life once it was time.

Eragon heard the metal heel of Murtagh's boots clink against the polished stone floor – it echoed around them. Murtagh was walking towards him. Eragon felt his breath halt in his throat, as his groin stirred then stiffened. He felt Murtagh's warm breath against his neck, and Eragon shut his eyes – telling himself he was imagining it. The Murtagh wouldn't willingly do this to him. It was just the Dragon's Dance.

"Breath, Eragon." Murtagh commanded him- his tone otherwise teasing and husky, his lips whisper soft against the shell of Eragon's ear. Eragon inhaled sharply, shakily, his frame tense at finding Murtagh so close.

"What are you doing?" Eragon hissed, glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. He saw Murtagh's lips tilt in an almost smile.

"Your ears are even pointed…just like an elfs." Then – almost impulsively (though Eragon knew Murtagh did nothing without a reason or plan) Murtagh kissed his neck. It was just a press of warm – if rough lips at first, then Eragon felt his elder brother's mouth open, his tongue boldly darting out to lick and suck at his sensitive neck.

Murtagh inhaled sharply, seeming to come back to his senses - just as quickly as this – whatever this was – had started for Eragon…it stopped. Eragon felt himself oddly regretful hearing Murtagh step away.

"Sorry." Murtagh's voice was rough – and when Eragon looked at him, Murtagh wasn't looking at him- he was very purposefully looking away – his jaws gritted together, and his hands were clenched at his sides. Eragon felt his heart flutter – wondering if Murtagh regretted doing that just now – or hated him for what was happening. It was – Eragon supposed in an adverse way – his fault. If he had never found Saphira – Saphira would have never come of age, and Eragon would have lived his life without knowing Murtagh. Eragon swallowed thickly, feeling as if something unpleasant had been lodged in his throat.

"It's fine." Eragon mumbled, looking away as if he had been caught.

"Are there words that could help us?" Murtagh asked suddenly – and it was clear to Eragon that Murtagh at least had been thinking of something to rid himself of Galbatorix. If they found a way to free Murtagh then he had already made it plain that he would join Eragon in killing him. Eragon wasn't sure what would then happen – Murtagh had told him long ago that it wasn't the government he thought corrupted – just Galbatorix. But Eragon wasn't so sure – if one man could corrupt a government once – another in the future could do it again.

"Maybe. Let me think." Eragon answered finally, bringing his mind to the problem at hand.

Murtagh made a noise a mix between a grunt and a snort and walked away – into the shadows. Eragon sighed – thinking of the light in the palm of his hand growing bigger – big enough to light the passage ways – and then thought of the light going to the ceiling – hovering over their heads. He was relieved when the magic obeyed his thoughts and will. Eragon's eyes went to Murtagh's retreating form – and their father's sword at his side.

Eragon bit his lip, then closed his eyes – thinking of words he could use that would help them.

--

Saphira roared – the noise bursting through her body, tightening her chest – sending flames spiting into the air. Thorn was quick to dash away – he was no longer thinking – he only wanted to mate. Saphira knew she had little time – she spread her wings – they were the color of the morning hue of blue and that of the evening sky.

With a powerful burst of her wings, easily thrusting herself into the air - and up, up into the sky – she was airborne and free.

Thorn did flips and twirls in the sky, a red blur against the darker blue hue of the setting sun – what he was doing - it could have only been described as dancing, for he was clearly showing off for her. He was following his instincts - trying to catch her attention – lure her closer.

So he would not have such a hard time catching her.

Saphira was having none of it. She flipped and dived in turn – challenging him.

He paused, halting – watching her, gilding in circles – nearer and nearer to her.

Saphira with a burst of energy, charged at him, swooping in low enough to scrape her talons against his back. He roared with surprise, tumbling in mid-air, then – seeing her flying away, he growled, summoning up his own adrenalin to chase her.

--

"Eragon…" It was a plea of a need alike to Thorn's own – and growl of possession that was very human. It came from Murtagh – his brother… who was out of sight. Eragon had been lost in the sensations and feelings of his dragon – enraptured with her – hadn't seen where Murtagh had gone.

Eragon was suddenly hot – dizzy with need, and he stumbled. He hadn't known he was moving until then. He didn't even know where he was going. He was torn in his duel feelings – one was to flee – run far and fast, away, or to be lured closer to Murtagh – to go to him – to be with him in mind and body.

Murtagh came into sight ahead of him, he was panting, sweat had beaded over his body – Eragon felt an alien urge surge up within him – he wanted to lick Murtagh all over. Lick the sweat off him – lick him clean of other – less clear things.

Eragon had stumbled away, suddenly frightened of his urges – needs.

"Eragon," his name trembled off his brother's lips, for all that it was husky – a name Murtagh would groan in the dark, Eragon shivered all over – hot and cold at once, "please…please don't run." Murtagh begged him, lust and other – warmer things, pulled at Eragon from Murtagh's eyes and voice.

"I...I…" Eragon stumbled over the words – unsure of what was what – what did he truly want? To be his brother's mate, or be alone in his mind - save Saphira? He didn't know.

Murtagh saw his reluctance – his confusion, and did not come closer. Instead, he leaned against the cold stone of the bookcases – seeking to clear his mind.

Murtagh felt his knees give out, his back pressing to the cold stone – was Eragon rejecting him? Neither knew what would happen to a Rider who rejected the Rider of the dragon his own dragon would mate. Something else – darker, alien – lurched up, demanding he take Eragon – even if it was against his will. Murtagh felt something within him that was closer to Eragon then Murtagh felt he ought to be reject that – curl up and scream in the corner of his mind – screaming his doubts and fears.

Murtagh was shaking – sickened, he wanted to be with Eragon – yes, but he would not force him. His own dragon would not force Saphira – she was goading him on, but Murtagh was certain, Saphira wanted Thorn as much – if not more, as Thorn wanted Saphira. That – he was certain – was how it should be with Riders.

Eragon was struggling with his own desires – but, something within him, at the core of himself - could not bare to see Murtagh – his brother, yes – for all that they had not been raised together – had not even known of each other until long after childhood - shivering curled into himself. Eragon's felt his reluctance break – sharp jagged edges that taunted him.

Awkwardly, Eragon went to Murtagh, every step was easier – more sure that he was doing the right thing – then the last. Finally – he stood in front of Murtagh – though he seemed not to notice. Eragon kneeled, scooting closer – somewhere in the walk Eragon had lost his shirt, and he found he did not miss it as he pressed his heated skin to Murtagh's own. Murtagh did not respond, for Murtagh's gaze was far away – lost, and Eragon knew he saw Thorn chasing Saphira. Rejoicing in the chase – even as Murtagh thought it would be the end of him.

It came to Eragon - then, like an oncoming storm, what was wrong with Murtagh – he did not know that Eragon had long ago forgiven him for the Battle of the Burning Plains. Did not think Eragon could ever want him after such a betrayal.

"I forgive you, Murtagh…" Eragon's voice was rough – need filling it. Boldly, Eragon embraced Murtagh, pressing his face into his brother's neck –having already settled himself in Murtagh's lap. Murtagh's arms encircled him, and Eragon knew he was relieved – thankful.

With his forgiveness came the sudden – almost sharp – awareness of each other, of Eragon's warm body pressed against Murtagh – of Eragon's thighs – like burning coils - on either side of Murtagh's hips – of the cleft of Eragon's ass settled boldly against Murtagh's length.

Timidly, Eragon leaned his face closer – pressing his lips gently against his brothers. It was soft and sweet – but it was not what Murtagh wanted. Murtagh nipped at Eragon's lips, he opened them in his surprise – Murtagh roughly took hold of his brother's skull, gripping his hair – arching his hips against Eragon's ass just as he was thrusting his tongue into Eragon's willing mouth.

At that moment, Thorn caught Saphira – holding her against him, mating with her as he gliding them to the ground.

Eragon let out a keen whimper – with the sound, the magic stole their remaining clothes away. Murtagh hissed at the heat suddenly against his groin – the cleft of Eragon's ass surrounding him. Murtagh bit into Eragon's shoulder – holding him against him – a warning to be still, to not urge him on – for Murtagh feared he would hurt Eragon – even if Eragon was willing and eager for him.

Murtagh's teeth sunk into his flesh and Eragon felt his whole body tremble – feeling a rush of emotions and needs and wants that were not his own – but Murtagh's – if Murtagh noticed, or felt Eragon's own mind rushing against his, he did not show it.

Finally – Murtagh moved, pushing ever so slowly into Eragon – it drove Eragon slowly mad; Murtagh's reluctance to hurt him his first time was making him even more frustrated. Growling softly – a warning for Murtagh not to protest, Eragon thrust himself down on Murtagh's length – impaling him self.

Murtagh gasped, his grip on Eragon's hair tensing – and the one hand on Eragon's hip made him sure he would leave bruises.

Eragon – who feeling no pain – if that was because of his link with Saphira or because he wanted and needed Murtagh inside him now – but would feel it later; whatever the case he let himself arch upward – then fell back, moaning at the intense feeling of the heat of Murtagh penetrating him.

Eragon arched again –then let gravity take over – riding Murtagh, who gasped and groaned his nails and teeth periodically sinking into Eragon's flesh. Both felt the building need and pleasure – shivering along their spines – griping them, holding onto them as they flew together. Panting in the aftermath of their release, Murtagh held Eragon again – Eragon's head was tucked against his throat and chest; Murtagh - even with his eyes closed, and his chin resting atop Eragon's hair, knew that Eragon was content, felt loved – just as he did.

They knew then – they were bonded.