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Eragon is strong for his age. Tall, too. And certainly determined. But he is still younger, and it is nothing but Murtagh’s own willingness that allows Eragon to press him back against the wall and keep him there. Eragon’s face is set in a stubborn frown, as if he knows Murtagh could break free as soon as he likes, as though he knows this is merely another indulgence granted him by an overly fond brother.
“You can bed me,” Eragon says.
It is blunt—brutal, even—but there is no mistaking the sincerity beneath it. Murtagh feels a sudden rush of heat that sweeps over him at the offer. He has not allowed himself to think of this before. He has not dared.
It is one thing to trade lessons in kissing; another to lose themselves in deserted wings and empty cellars, taking each other in hand and mouth until they are both flushed and breathless. But to finally take him to one’s bed... that was another thing altogether.
This is his brother. His brother, who only months ago stood on the opposing side of the war. His brother who is not Nasuada. His brother, whom Murtagh is meant to guide, to set an example for, to lead away from the rebellious ways of the Varden.
His brother, with the bruise at his eye faded now to the sickly hue of a rotting apple, his tunic hanging loose and askew after he struck down a guard who had tried to drag him to the whipping post for yet another act of defiance against the king.
Murtagh can only stare at him. Eragon leans against him, looking up into his face, as if held up only by the hand Murtagh has cupping the back of his head, fingers tangled in his hair. The whole lean weight of Eragon's body is on him, and Murtagh can feel how warm he is, how his muscles twitch as Murtagh shifts, his knee still wedged between Eragon's thighs.
"You—can—bed—me," Eragon says, speaking slowly as if to an idiot, his head tilting with each word. "I would let you."
When Murtagh only continues to stare, Eragon stretches upward and pushes his tongue between Murtagh's lips, kissing him hard. Murtagh’s eyes drift shut. Eragon’s mouth tastes of raspberry mead and the mint leaves he is prone to chew after supper. It would be so easy to lose himself.
He pushes Eragon back a step and presses his lips together. His hands on Eragon's shoulders are as much about hiding their trembling as they are about keeping Eragon from taking matters into his own hands, as he so often does.
"Eragon… we shouldn’t."
"That did not seem to trouble you before."
Eragon tries to kiss him again, lips parting, face tilting, and Murtagh has to tighten his grip on the boy's shoulders. He closes his eyes for a second, gathering his reserves and summoning the memory of Nasuada’s braided hair and proud profile. It does nothing for him.
“Those were lapses in judgment. If we were to be caught..."
One eyebrow quirks upward. Even amidst his helplessness and lust, Murtagh wonders how many women in the Varden—or here at court—have swooned when that look was directed at them.
"You were quite eager on those occasions." Eragon’s mouth sets stubbornly. "You are not fooling anyone, least of all yourself."
He is so certain—so convinced he will get what he desires, consequences be damned. Murtagh always tells him he never knows when to give up. They have argued about it many times over.
"Oh, come now, Murtagh. Is it not time we settled this? Is this not what all of this has been for?"
Eragon’s tone is cajoling, as if he knows he has already won. Once again, Eragon will have his way because he is too stubborn a bastard to have it otherwise.
So it is with no small sense of satisfaction that Murtagh spins him about and slams him up against the wall. Eragon makes a soft grunt as the breath is knocked from him. His eyes narrow into a scowl as Murtagh leans in close. Even in his fury, Murtagh feels the illicit thrill of their proximity. He watches Eragon's chest rise and fall with each sharp breath.
"So, what is the plan, Eragon? You turn around and brace yourself against the wall, I pull down your leggings, and take you? Is that how you want it? And then the same again next time? We keep doing this every time we meet, against walls and over tables, until eventually we are caught? And what of the King? When he finds out—as you know he will—have you planned what you will tell him?"
For a moment, he thinks he has reached him. There is an unreadable set to Eragon’s face that suggests Murtagh has finally driven sense into that hard head. He almost hates himself for it.
Then Eragon raises that eyebrow again and wriggles until he can free an arm to prod Murtagh in the chest.
"And that is the only option, is it? Here or not at all?" He gives a snort, defiance coloring his voice. "Meet me in your chambers, Murtagh. And stop your fretting—I will worry about the rest."
Nothing gets through to Eragon, especially not pure reason. And Murtagh loves him a little for it. He smoothes the pad of his thumb along the bruised skin beneath Eragon's eye, watching his lips curl into a grin. He loves him more than a little for it.
* * *
Away from Eragon's intoxicating presence, away from his poor influence, Murtagh begins to remember why this is madness. He sits on the edge of his neatly turned-down bed and considers that he shall soon reach his majority, inherit their father’s estates, and live out his life serving as the King’s right hand. Tornac did not beat common sense into him so he could risk it all for a stubborn boy who makes him abandon all good judgement.
Eragon has a faulty sense of danger, just like his cousin before him, or so Murtagh observed on the Burning Plains. He follows a long line of men unable to differentiate between sensible risks and suicidal ones. He is meant to have more rational people to gently point out when he is being foolhardy. Murtagh is meant to be one of those people.
“Let me guess. This is wrong and foul, and that I should even suggest it proves how deeply the King’s tortures have damaged me?”
In typical fashion, Eragon has chosen to climb through the balcony rather than use the door. Murtagh hurries over to haul him over the ledge. Eragon tumbles to the floor and grins up at him. His tunic is stained with dust from the masonry, and his arm is scraped red and raw from the climb.
"I am right, am I not?" Eragon asks. "You are thinking right now of how you shall run away to a monastery and become a monk. You know they do not wear smallclothes, don't you?"
Murtagh smiles despite himself. He stands back to let Eragon rise, folding his arms to resist the urge to touch him. "How do you know the ways of monks?"
The bed creaks shrilly as Eragon throws himself upon it, testing the bedding before kicking off his boots. He brushes hair from his eyes and glances up.
"I once visited them in Tarnag. The Celbedeil is the greatest temple of the dwarves, and the Dûrgrimst Quan most certainly do not trouble themselves with something as mundane as smallclothes."
A woolen sock flies across the room, quickly followed by another. Eragon pulls off his tunic, and Murtagh finds himself momentarily transfixed by the hollows and angles of his chest. In the fading sunlight, Eragon's skin shines like sun-warmed gold. Murtagh’s breath catches at the sight.
Murtagh crosses to him and takes the tunic from his grasp. The fabric smells of Eragon, and Murtagh hesitates a heartbeat before setting it aside. Eragon looks up at him, his face a study of open curiosity.
Galbatorix complains of Eragon often. He bewails his own misjudgment in ever deeming the boy fit for service, for he has proven both rebellious and bothersome, always seeking loopholes in orders. Eragon has already been sent to the whipping post more times in the few months he has been here than Murtagh has in all his years in Urû’baen. Yet there is always a note of grudging admiration in the King's voice. Eragon’s natural aptitude for magic and skill with a blade attract attention everywhere he goes; Murtagh has seen the way people watch them when they enter the training grounds together.
Eragon has always been beloved. The Varden’s shining hero, their mother’s favored son. Sometimes it grates more than he cares to admit. Sometimes Murtagh wonders what Eragon could possibly see in him in return.
"Have you done this before?" says Murtagh.
Eragon frowns. His cheeks flush, but his voice stays level. "No. Does it matter?"
He reaches for the ties of his leggings, but Murtagh catches his wrists, feeling the bird-flutter pulse of Eragon's blood beat against his thumb. Eragon's face is bare inches from his own, lips parted in surprise. Biting the inside of his cheek to ease the dryness of his mouth, Murtagh raises an eyebrow.
"Does it matter if, perhaps, I am not interested?"
A smile tugs at the corner of Eragon's mouth as soon as the words are said. Something sparks in his eyes, and he makes a visible effort to keep a straight face. He tilts his head to one side, looking thoughtful.
"You do not look disinterested."
Startled, Murtagh releases his wrists and steps back. Eragon sprawls backward onto the bed, legs falling apart, the grin finally breaking free. Wondering if this is another of Eragon’s jibes meant to nettle him, Murtagh frowns.
"What are you talking about?" he demands.
"When you are sucking on my tongue or pressing your hand between my legs... you do not look disinterested then."
The silence that opens up between them is long and ugly. Heat flushes through Murtagh’s cheeks, and he is not sure whether it is the effect of the mental images Eragon places in his mind or the ever-present nudges of guilt and shame. His breath catches, and he looks away toward the sprawling landscape beyond the window, rubbing a hand over his face.
Everyone would be repulsed if they knew. The King would kill them—or worse, parade them around in humiliation first before killing them. Nasuada would never look at him again. Whatever fragile courtship he had offered her in Tronjheim would prove hollow, undone the moment he brought Eragon back to Urû’baen and succumbed to desire.
Self-loathing washes over him, greasy and hot. It must show, for Eragon rises to his knees and reaches out, catching Murtagh by the front of his doublet to drag him closer.
“I am sorry. I did not… I did not mean it like that." Eragon is always awkward when he is truly repentant. Murtagh has heard him give many smooth, eloquent apologies in court, but he only becomes tongue-tied when he means it. He risks a glance and sees Eragon watching him earnestly. "I am only being difficult because I want this—I want you, Murtagh.”
"Eragon…"
Eragon's fists clench the fabric, and Murtagh sways helplessly toward him. His voice is a fierce whisper. “There is no point in denying ourselves. We are trapped under the King; we may as well live. I want my first to be with someone I care for, not a quick tumble with a serving girl or someone who only sees the Shadeslayer."
Murtagh stares at him, at the dust of freckles along his nose, at the glistening curve of his lips and the light of something desperate in his eyes. With a trembling hand, Murtagh reaches out to touch the subtle dip between Eragon's collarbones. A delicate tremble goes through Eragon's body but he hides it quickly with a grin, as bright and insolent as the day Murtagh first looked at him and thought bad thoughts.
"You know you desire it too," Eragon says, and it is the same tone he has always used to lure Murtagh into yet more trouble.
"If we do this, you shall have to do as I say," Murtagh tells him. He is surprised at how level his voice remains. He is not surprised by how quickly he hardens now that he has given in to the prospect of bedding Eragon. He has never been able to deny him, and there is no use attempting now.
Eragon nods, unable to suppress a smile, and pushes down his leggings with clear satisfaction at having gotten his way. Murtagh begins to undress, eyes fixed on the dresser across the room. In the mirror, he catches a sliver of Eragon’s reflection—naked and sprawled out on the bed, waiting for him.
A hush settles over Eragon, as if seeing Murtagh properly bared seems to finally drive home the immensity of what they are about to do. When Murtagh turns back, the smile is gone from Eragon's face. He sees Eragon's gaze drop, appraising him with curious, wide eyes.
"You might still change your mind," Murtagh says gently. "We do not have to do this now."
Eragon glances up and pulls a face. "Oh, you are not that large. Do not flatter yourself.”
Murtagh gives a sharp laugh. Below, the distant sound of a dropped tray and raised voices filters through the floorboards. He checks the bolt on the door one last time, murmurs a spell to ward against eavesdroppers, and climbs onto the bed.
Eragon falls onto his back as Murtagh moves over him, watching with warm brown eyes, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He is lithe and well-made, all angles and smoothness. The king had seen to it that his wounds were properly tended after his last whipping, leaving no visible scarring, though Murtagh is well aware that some wounds leave no trace upon the surface. Eragon fidgets slightly under Murtagh's scrutiny, but the smile is always waiting to return.
They have never been this naked together. The one time Eragon had dared slip into his room and crawl into Murtagh's bed, seeking more soft, harmless touching and exploring, he had still been in his nightclothes. The fabric was worn thin enough that Murtagh could feel the warmth of Eragon's body through it, but it had not been anything like this.
The slide of skin against skin sends a strange hum through Murtagh’s blood. Perhaps it is only that he is not permitted to lay his hands on Eragon. Perhaps it is something else altogether.
He props himself up on his forearms, bracketing Eragon's face. He settles heavily enough for Eragon's eyes to widen as their bodies meet. Tentatively, Eragon reaches up to skim his fingertips through the mass of dark hair on Murtagh's chest.
"First time seeing a real man?" Murtagh teases softly, watching for the spark of annoyance that will tighten Eragon's lips.
"As if your various spells have nothing to do with it."
Murtagh laughs. "I am not the one altered by magic." He ducks his head to swirl his tongue against Eragon's nipple, feeling the shudder through his chest. "I do not glow as you do."
“Oh, do forgive me,” Eragon says. “I forget how blinded you are by my radiance.”
Murtagh laughs again. “Oh, do be quiet.”
"You started it—" Eragon begins, but Murtagh suckles hard until he makes a soft, throaty noise and falls silent.
All of Murtagh’s resistance to the whole affair ebbs away as he lavishes attention over Eragon's bare skin. Eragon's length brushes against Murtagh's, the damp head of it bobbing against Murtagh's belly. Murtagh directs his caresses everywhere in response to the soft, breathy sounds Eragon makes. He grazes Eragon’s collarbone with his teeth as his hand slips lower, stroking Eragon’s thighs apart. When his fingers reach the tightness of the boy's heat, he feels a sudden, faint thrum of tension in him.
A rush of tender affection washes over him. Though this had all been Eragon’s idea, Murtagh makes a soft, soothing sound in his throat and kisses him. He parts Eragon’s lips with his tongue and covers his mouth with his own, the kiss shifting quickly from reassuring to hungry. He forces himself to pull away before he becomes too frantic for more.
Eragon has chosen him as his first, and Murtagh is determined he will never want to choose anyone else as his second. Eragon must be treated with care and gentleness. For all his bravado, he is still young and untried, and Murtagh will ensure this remains about what Eragon wants, not Murtagh.
“I am no maiden,” Eragon mutters, as if reading Murtagh’s mind. His voice is unsteady. "You need to put your fingers in me, do you not?" He jerks his hips, offering himself. "I read up on it."
"You read up on—?"
"I would not ask you to do something if I were not certain what it entailed." Eragon wets his lips. "You must use oil... or spit... to ready me."
There is a note of forced nonchalance in his voice, as if they were discussing sword maintenance. But Murtagh can see the frantic rise and fall of his chest.
“Spit?” Murtagh says. “What have you been reading, Eragon? That might serve if your body were accustomed to this, but I should rather like you to be able to walk tomorrow. I do not care to have you shrieking as I take you.”
He grins at the flush in Eragon’s cheeks, surprised that Eragon does not protest that he would never shriek. Compliance from Eragon is both unsettling and surprisingly arousing. Murtagh would not, at present, admit to him the fantasy that sometimes crosses his mind of Eragon kneeling for him, nor that a part of him took satisfaction in his obedience now.
Reaching for the oil on his bedside table, Murtagh keeps his movements slow. He kisses along Eragon’s neck and trails cool fingers along his inner thigh, feeling goosebumps rise in their wake.
“Was it much the same when you bedded Ilenna?”
Murtagh’s mouth twists. “I never bedded Ilenna.”
“Truly? She makes little effort to hide her interest in court. I thought you would have indulged her.”
“No. Apparently, I have a fondness for what is difficult.” Murtagh moves to kiss him, savoring the taste of his mouth, before easing his fingers inside.
“That does not hurt, does it?”
Eragon’s breath comes in short pants, but he shakes his head. The sound of those ragged gasps breaks Murtagh’s last bit of control. He pushes his fingers deeper, feeling the heat as Eragon’s body arches to meet him, tight and yielding all at once.
“Gods… Eragon, that’s…” He barely recognizes his own voice; it is strained and hoarse with desire.
“Strange,” Eragon grinds out.”…but good. I think.”
He rolls his hips, taking the fingers deeper. A flash of discomfort crosses his face, and Murtagh slides them out instantly. His fingers emerge glistening. Eragon’s breath escapes in a sound that is half-relief, half-want. Abruptly, Murtagh feels monstrous for wanting this so much. He touches a finger to Eragon’s damp cheekbone. Eragon’s gaze snaps to him, eyes half-hooded but fierce.
“If you even think of stopping—” Eragon warns, and Murtagh raises his hands in surrender, huffing with laughter.
“All right! I only wished to be certain. I would not give you cause to—”
“I want this,” Eragon says firmly. “And you do, too. So, come on.”
Nothing in his dealings with Nasuada, Ilenna, or anyone at court has ever left him feeling this complicated. Nothing affects him quite like Eragon does. For a moment, Murtagh only wants to look at him—the disheveled hair, the sweet flush on his throat. Eragon smiles at Murtagh, yet there is a vulnerability in his gaze that makes Murtagh’s heart beat harder in his chest. He grips Eragon’s thighs, pushing them up toward his chest.
Slowly, he guides himself between Eragon’s spread buttocks. He presses against the opening, not using the force of his hips yet, just nudging him. One look at Eragon’s face—muscles straining in his neck, lip caught between his teeth—convinces Murtagh to push harder.
At first, it seems impossible. The heat is unyielding, the fit too small. But he continues with careful determination, his own breath sticky in his throat, until he feels the sudden give. A jolt of his hips, a startled gasp from Eragon, and then the dizzying clench of his body around Murtagh. Murtagh knew he would be tight, but the actual sensation of Eragon’s body is something else entirely, hot and clinging and fluttering as Eragon instinctively resists.
“Is this all right?” Murtagh rasps. He wants to lose himself, to pound Eragon mercilessly into the bedding. There is an almost feverish tremble going through him with how much he wants this. But he knows he needs to give Eragon time to adjust. Perhaps next time, he tells himself, which is the most dangerous thing he could think.
“S’good,” Eragon says, his voice shaky. The panicked fluttering of his muscles begins to ease. He tries to grip his own thighs to give Murtagh better access, but his hands are slick with sweat.
“Put your legs up on my shoulders,” Murtagh says, and when Eragon obeys, it tilts his hips up to him so perfectly that Murtagh has to screw his eyes closed for a moment and breathe.
With Eragon’s heels digging into him, Murtagh curves his fingers around his hips and tries a slow thrust. It draws another gasp, but Eragon braces himself and pushes back, taking Murtagh deeper. There is no innocence in how quickly Eragon learns to work his muscles around him. He squeezes once, and Murtagh snarls, reflexively driving into him. Eragon laughs, a sound of pure pleasure.
“Surely you can do better than that.”
Tightening his hold, Murtagh pins him to the bed and thrusts into him with short, shallow strokes that set Eragon to writhing beneath him. Sweat pools in the small of his back as he drives into Eragon over and over again, hot and slippery. The wet rhythm of their bodies meeting is obscene to Murtagh’s ears, as are the high gasps spilling from Eragon’s lips. Eragon knots his fingers into the sheets, his body sliding toward the headboard with the force of Murtagh’s thrusts.
Murtagh tries to rein himself in—this is Eragon’s first time, and he should not even be doing this—but each time he slows or seeks gentleness, Eragon’s body tightens around him, drawing him deeper still.
“Careful, Eragon,” Murtagh mutters, pushing his sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. “I would not hurt you.”
Eragon’s expression deepens into something serious. He stares up at Murtagh, his expression shifting with each thrust, but there is something enduring in his eyes. He reaches for Murtagh’s shoulders but falters, his fingers tightening uselessly in the air before he swallows and draws a sharp breath.
“I love you.”
It is said fiercely, as if he expects Murtagh to mock him. When the rhythm of Murtagh’s hips stutters, he says it again. “I love you, Murtagh.”
I am in love with Nasuada, Murtagh wants to tell him, and You are only starved for kindness, broken as you are by the king. But he cannot say either thing, because one is not true, and he cannot bear the other to be. Instead, he curls his body over Eragon’s and kisses him as brutally as Eragon made his declaration, answering with everything he cannot put into words. When he finds the bruise beneath Eragon’s eye, his mouth gentles, and he presses a careful kiss there, pouring all his tenderness into it, even as he bitterly loathes himself for bringing him to Urû’baen—for all the suffering that followed, for what it has made of Eragon.
“Please,” Eragon breathes, clutching him closer, and Murtagh understands, resolving to give him everything he has. Murtagh can feel the burn in his own muscles as he ruthlessly rides him into the bedding. He is certain now he is not causing pain, but this is the coupling he did not think he dared take from Eragon his first time—and Eragon simply takes all of him. Murtagh cannot help but wonder, against all reason, how much further he might push him a second time, and a third, once he has had more practice.
It is Eragon’s name on his lips when he finally breaks. He pulls free just in time, his release splattering across Eragon’s belly, and he lunges forward to catch Eragon’s mouth again as the sensation crashes over him. Eragon cries out, his fingers entwining with Murtagh’s as his body shudders from his own release.
When they are both boneless and sated, Murtagh smoothes the damp hair from Eragon’s forehead. He is only dimly aware that he is murmuring soothing, senseless endearments at him, or trying to, his voice little more than a rasp. Eragon pants beneath him, his skin faintly luminous with sweat, so beautiful Murtagh can hardly bear to look.
The sheets are ruined, but Murtagh is too shattered to care. As the noise from the rooms below filters back in, he draws Eragon into a tight embrace. He presses soft kisses to his hair, breathing him in, and a strange sort of contentment rises through the endless guilt and shame.
“I have heard it said, at court, that our mother was with our father because she had no freedom to refuse him—not because it was what she truly wanted.”
Murtagh is stunned into silence. It is not as though he has not already deduced as much—Morzan’s cruelty is painfully familiar to him. But he has never heard it spoken within his hearing, and he certainly had not expected to hear it from Eragon of all people. Eragon only watches him as Murtagh struggles to school his features into composure. Eragon’s mouth has a tendency to run away with itself, and Murtagh does not want to test Galbatorix’s limits by encouraging Eragon to use that piece of information in the next argument he has with him.
“These are not matters to be spoken of in court.”
It is the best response Murtagh can manage—made stronger for being true. He finds himself wondering when anyone had the chance to say such a thing to Eragon. It is not the sort of remark offered lightly, nor in the hearing of others, and Murtagh does not like to dwell on what courtier might have found cause to speak so to him in private. He makes a silent note of it all the same. He will learn, soon enough, who had dared presume such familiarity with his brother.
Eragon only shrugs dismissively.
“It makes no difference. The point is this: I know who I want, and I intend to have them. I will not be as our mother was.”
Murtagh does not miss the note of challenge in his voice.
Stupidsleep Wed 01 Apr 2026 03:18PM UTC
Last Edited Wed 01 Apr 2026 03:31PM UTC
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