A. N. Yes, this is a repost. I was brainstorming with a wonderful authoress by the name of JJ and came up with the idea. It's a co-authored fic. I came to JJ with the skeleton and she gaveit all the innards. I couldn't have done it without her. So, that having been said, give us reviews so we can be happy. We both worked for ever a week to get this up and running. We hope you like it!
Disclaimer: None of its ours and no copyright infringement is intended.
I looked up, my mind jumbled from the blow to that back of my head, and saw a vision, a vision of beauty. Actually, it was my drug induced impressions of his glowing golden skin that captured the very essence of me the first time I ever saw him. This time was no different. My mind tumbled back.
How many months had it been?
The luminescent beauty of his contrast and the strength of that troubled brow as he waited to see if I would live through the night enfolded me like a warm blanket on a cold night. His very presence was intoxicating. Who was this stranger who sat by my fire? Who was this dark beauty that waited, staring at his sword as if it held the answers to the universe? Who was this warrior that had cared for my friend and my dragon, but left me on the cold ground?
When I first got a good look at him, the firelight cast a dark and flickering glow on his brow, that made my pain ridden mind almost fear him. Well, fear him or lust after him. His seemingly black hair had fallen forward into his face, like a shield, protecting, obscuring his eyes from my scrutiny. His hands... Hands that I would come to know so well, gripped and regripped the hilt of his sword with a firm hold. His lithe fingers caressed and wrapped lovingly around its handle, but never really held still. While my admiration could have continued, concern for my mentor, Brom, who lay much too quietly across the fire, came to the forefront.
I was as cautious of Murtagh as I was of any stranger, but more so of him. Something, warned me. Something, called me. Of course, I have learned since that night, that beauty always had its price. But for the night, I was content to watch my dark angel of mercy.
I had seen things, many things of beauty since I found Saphira. Beautiful things. Horrible things. And yet they all paled in comparison to the breathing contradiction that was Murtagh. Godsend, even now my breathing quickened.
However, Brom's death the next day at the hands of the Razac shattered me. To this day, I still feel a pang of regret, grief and rage when I remember the moment the light left my mentor's eyes. But for the very first time in my life I faced an unknown life alone and I didn't like it.
However, my need for a constant father figure, first Garrow and then Brom, was waning and there was Murtagh. With Murtagh I found myself on new ground, as an equal if not a superior. That equality and friendship went far beyond the bond Roran and I had possessed. But there was something else, Murtagh was like no other.
It shamed me to admit that the few months I spent with Murtagh overshadowed the fifteen years spent with Roran. I had forgotten him. I crucified myself for forgetting Roran, for forgetting Brom, even Garrow, but with Saphira's gentle guidance, I finally found the truth. And I could not ignore that truth any longer. Just because he was new and exciting, did not excuse the sin against my brother. I had forgotten him. The shame twisted in my gut with that something I had refused to name, for a very long time. And that was a longing for something I didn't think I could have; the longing of looking but not touching.
Murtagh taught me of life. He taught me of a love I had never felt before. He taught me how to enjoy both. But I could always feel the desire to be with him, to touch him. And I was afraid. I was afraid of the price if I broke the rules.
But soon enough, I learned that even staring at such a gorgeous man had its price. I didn't know those lips that begged to be kissed when he laughed, had a price. How I wanted to brush his hair back and stroke his cheek. He never tried to take me from Saphira and Saphira definitely liked him more than Arya, not that she was exactly warm and cuddly towards Murtagh either. In the beginning, that is. Saphira even came to ... respect Murtagh. She even saw his beauty and ... encouraged me.
Then one day, I began to learn beauty's price.
After the escape from Gilead, and Durza, our hard ride through the Hadarac Desert took a toll on our friendship. The scorching heat and the sand in every possible crevice of our bodies while constantly riding horseback did nothing for Murtagh's mood. Nor mine for that matter. We were sunburned, hungry, and thanks to my efforts not all that thirsty, but I would have given my left leg to hear the sound of running water by the third day. I cannot explain the oppressive heat of the desert, the unrelenting sun broken only be teasing bits of shade from a cloud.
When the foothills of the Beor Mountains came into view you would have thought that Galbatorix had suddenly died of a toenail infection if the dazzling smile of relief and joy on Murtagh's face was any indicator. Of course, I was the sane rational one of the group, jumping into the first available water source above my knees.
Our reprieve, however, was quickly stolen. The Urgals, we discovered, only trailing behind us by a day and keeping an unnaturally fast pace, were going to overtake us. So we rode and rode hard, pushing the horses to the brink of death.
And then the Slavers came.
The slavers must have thought we were suicidal. For we both drew our swords rather than submit to collar and chain. But we knew it would surely end in death, perhaps not a physical one, but the thought of Murtagh in a collar, or Arya lying poisoned waiting for us. We couldn't wait a moment longer, so we fought. Then again, we did have Saphira watching our backs as well.
And at the end of that fight, I learned the price. How could I love someone who could kill in cold blood. Their leader, Torkenbrand, was unarmed, kneeling at Murtagh's feet, as we stood victorious, his minions fleeing at the mere sight of Saphira. I saw Murtagh raise his sword, and then kill an unarmed man. As much as his beauty entranced me, I could not ignore ... that.
Torkenbrand had been defenseless and the Rider within me balked at the thought. Murtagh hadn't just killed him, he had beheaded him. My trust in my friend, the man I dreamed about late at night and woke praying that he hadn't heard my passioned cries in his sleep, had behead an unarmed man. Even then, even after that he was still beautiful to me, and that scared me more than anything else.
And the price grew higher yet.
The revelation, a few days later, that Murtagh was Morzan's son shook our already crumbling relationship. My heart screamed in terror and mourned a loss at the same time. Beyond all that, that same twist in my gut became too violent to ignore any longer.
In a brief second on the run from Kulls chasing us to the Varden's very gates, I saw his eyes darken in a longing that mirrored my own.
It was wrong, even more so then we realized at that point. However, we both also knew that it would taste sweeter than any fine wine, once one of us finally got the courage up to do something. There were many times it caused me actual physical pain to hold back.
One instance that stands out vividly in my mind was inside his 'imprisonment cell' after gaining entrance to the Varden. Even thinking of it now makes my soul burn with longing and anguish. The covering of the lantern cast a rosy glow over his face. His lips danced and smiled over words I was too entranced to hear. His eyes seemed more inviting, his smile more sincere, his movements more lithe.
It was strange to see him so relaxed, at ease. He had always been poised before; guarded from every element surrounding him. His eyes missed nothing, not a leaf blowing by, not a hand gesture in a crowd. Here, he spoke of scrolls and legends. Murtagh said that he had been reading and was quite pleased with his accommodations. I nodded and smiled mutely.
It had been a while since I had been in his presence. I was overwhelmed to say the least. At one point he had turned to reach behind him for a particular scroll of interest. His shirt rode up a little as he leaned to get the scroll, revealing the tail end of his scar. But I could only see the play of muscles beneath his skin and the obviously hard lines of a taught body. Honestly, there in the Varden stronghold, the view nearly snapped my weary self restraint. Unconsciously, my hand clamped down on my ankle, to keep it from wandering towards the warm soft flesh I knew I would find there.
Murtagh swung back around to face me and noticing my rigid posture asked me if I was alright. I nodded my head and turned my face away from him. I knew that at that moment my eyes would betray the longing I felt for him. My guilt at his imprisonment had abated slightly at the sight of his comfort, but it was nothing compared to the attraction and arousal he stirred within me. And I knew Murtagh would know if I lied.
I jumped when I felt his hand on my shoulder, urging me silently to speak my mind. But I tried to lower my eyes, I couldn't allow him to see my pain. I felt panic that almost overwhelmed me when he held my gaze, his call was strong, my guilt was stronger, but then a stronger presence brushed against my own, giving me the strength I needed. Saphira's calming presence was a godsend. I broke eye contact with my ... companion, until Saphira spoke, and the words she spoke are words I shall never let myself forget.
'Little one, your heart bleeds in pain. Pain of loss, of wounds, of fatigue. We cannot tell our hearts for whom to care for. Murtagh heals you. The closed and narrow minds of other men, dwarves and elves should never stand between you and your heart. His past is tainted, but his heart is pure. He is with you now and now is all you may ever have. Do not let it waste.'
Saphira. She of all the beings knew what my heart needed. Her words echoed in my mind, trading tattered pride for true courage, and showing me the truth and not the truth of men. She showed me the truth of love.
With that knowledge, I met Murtagh's deep brown eyes. I tried to see past my own tears to his face. Our journey here had been so long and difficult. Murtagh had been my strength, my steadfast pillar to cling to when things got too hard. He had saved me from Durza and in return I had forced him to a place he hadn't wanted to go. I had forced him to live behind a locked door. I had brought him to this place of imprisonment, but at the same moment, he was smiling. Shame, hope, and despair were a very odd combination of feelings to experience at once.
His eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in concern, "Eragon? What is it?"
I could feel the warmth of his hand on my shoulder as he squeezed it gently, and I promise on all the stars in the sky, that that one gesture nearly broke me inside.
"What's wrong?" he coaxed.
Cautiously, I lifted my fingers to the side of his face, running the soft pads over the stubble that had grown. My fingers trembled as they traced his lips. I couldn't look up and meet his eyes, I was terrified that I would be met with disgust and anger. And, if this was to be my one and only stolen moment with him. I wouldn't, no, I couldn't let it go.
"Eragon," Murtagh, said gently, and then just as gently took my hand and lifted it to his lips. I swear to you that even now I can feel the tightness in my throat as his lips left a mark on me as enduring as Saphira's, the only difference was his touched my very soul.
I memorized every line and every facet of his mouth before I dared to look into his eyes. And for a moment, I saw a dark flame burning within them. Panic raced through through my veins and I tried to move away from the bed we had been sitting on. Already gasping and forming an apology in my mind, jumping to the conclusion that he was trying to put me off gently when he kissed my hand, that I had misunderstood, but when his hand clamped down on my shoulder, I steadied myself for the blow I was sure to come.
But it never came.
I hesitantly looked up into his face, and saw the dark flame smoldering, full of dark fury, sarcasm and strength. It was beauty. It was Murtagh,
I don't know which one of us move first, but in the next second our lips met as our bodies collided as we shared our tears and passions. Murtagh moaned as his hands took possession of my face and tried to steal the very breath from my lungs. He shifted his body weight, pinning me beneath him so I could feel every hard contour of him. I have never relished a weight more. I pulled him closer by the back of his neck, lifting my hips towards him in a desperate, unspoken, unknown plea. Murtagh would know what I wanted, he would know what I needed. Murtagh, my beauty, my love.
"Patience," Murtagh chided with a smile, and a quick kiss to my lips.
My hands grasped at his shoulder length hair wishing for this moment to never fade.
"I waited so long," he whispered in my ear. "Too long. Who knew my innocent foundling had such desires in his heart." He stripped his vest off.
"Murtagh! Please!" It was too slow. It was too fast. It was everything in one split second.
He gently kissed my brow as our hearts thudded against each other, chest to chest, unable to stop his hips from rocking against mine. Can I admit now, months later, the memory of that night still makes me want to feel him again.
"Shh, Rider, you don't have to be strong here. Let me take care of you."
And that was the night I trusted someone completely. I gave myself to Murtagh and, for once in my life, I felt completely fulfilled. I felt that every need I had ever had was filled.
That was the night I learned what passion felt like when it sizzled on your skin and tore moans from your lips. That was the night, Saphira, my beloved Saphira understood that she couldn't fill every desire I had. That was the night Saphira accepted my lover. That was the night before the morning that I understood the price I would pay for ... beauty.
But the present comes rushing back to me, along with the pain from the bruises and wounds. I know I must have looked foolish, laying flat on my back, staring up at him, blinking repeatedly staring at what could only explain as a miracle. The man I thought was dead and the man I knew I loved, was standing before me with that smile on his face. He circled his sword as he stared down at me, taunting me, teasing me. Murtagh, I thought you were dead, and a rider no less. Saphira paused in her heated battle as did the blood red she fought.
I suppose that during the battle he had entered my mind. I tried to put it all together as I felt Murtagh fill in the gaping holes of this story. He was alive. He rode Thorn, the blood red dragon. And we had more problems than I was sure we could conquer together.
But then I remembered the heat as he kissed me. The memories were still so fresh, for both of us. He offered his hand and he gave me the rest of the information. I don't know whether I stumbled from smacking my head so hard, or from the information my ... brother had imparted.
I was Morzan's son, and so was he. Brothers in the truest sense but so very different from others. I had never known him as anything but my lover, my friend. The concept just wouldn't sink in. He held my hand and pulled me close, our armor touching. Saphira and Thorn circled the skies, not knowing whether to attack or land. We hugged and it was almost too much.
We were brothers. I had believed he was dead. And yet here he is, Murtagh, standing here now. In armor worn by those loyal to Galbatorix. The only thing I can do is stare. He is still beautiful, and his eyes are still burning.
"Murtagh," I whisper, reaching out to touch him. "What happened?"
He's standing in front of me, Zarroc at his side, and Thorn tearing through the skies. . . with my Saphira.
I can do nothing but stare as he stands here.
My savior.
My friend.
My lover.
... Murtagh. What price will I pay for my beauty now?