Dedicated to the pantheon of fanfiction deities (check out my profile). Warning: er…slash, mentions of rape, torture…yeah. If any of this stuff offends do click the back button. (Hint: it's the arrow pointing to the left.)

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"Eragon?"

He struggled to consciousness at the sound of the voice, a dull headache pounding at the base of his skull. Opening his eyes just a slit, he could see a blurry, brown-haired figure in front of him, a hand reached out to touch his face. Adrenaline jolted through him, and Eragon sat up with a gasp, pulling away from Murtagh's touch. "Get away," he choked out. "Don't—touch—me—"

He closed his eyes as if to physically force back the memory of pain, of blood and sweat and violation. Fear paralyzed him, and he found himself unable to move as Murtagh's hand brushed his cheek gently, just the lightest of touches. The other man's eyes were gentle; overwhelming after days—weeks— months?—in the dark and silence.

Then Murtagh withdrew, his hands returning chastely to his side as he moved away a few crucial inches. Eragon began to breathe again, relaxing by a tiny fraction as Murtagh said softly, "It's not pretty, I know, but you're safe here."

"Here?" Eragon whispered, his voice choked.

Murtagh indicated the room with a small jerk of his head. Eragon's eyes flitted around the room, taking it in—it was dingy and small, illuminated by some unknown light source as there were no windows. There were four doors in each of the four walls, and the walls themselves were covered in some kind of gray mold. There was a frayed rug underneath him, but it felt overwhelmingly soft after his former bed of straw and sand.

"Where am I?" Eragon asked finally, hugging his arms to himself. "And—Saphira—?"

He shut his eyes, exhaling painfully as he tried to reach for his life's partner, the other half of his soul. The link was dead, as it had been for so long—gone, empty, lifeless.

"She hasn't given in," Murtagh said softly. "And neither have you."

Eragon closed his eyes, a shudder sweeping through him. The thought was strangely gratifying, the knowledge and tiny hint of pride that somewhere out there, Saphira still resisted. If she refused to give in, then he had no right to surrender either.

He got to his feet, wobbly and unstable, shrugging away Murtagh's hand as the other tried to help him stand. "Where am I?" he repeated, looking at the older man. "If I haven't—given in—then where is this place?" He tried to smile, trying to hide the unstable pang of fear that suddenly shot through him. What if Galbatorix had sent Murtagh to torture him now? What if the king had gotten bored of doing his own dirty work, had sent his half brother to—

"No," Murtagh said firmly, and Eragon looked at him, startled. "You're safe here," Murtagh repeated sternly. A bitter smile touched his lips, and Murtagh added, "He hasn't let me see you. Not since I brought you in. He thinks that you might…ah…try to change my true name and break my bonds."

"How did you…?" Eragon whispered.

Murtagh shrugged lightly. "You can't hide from me, not here." He paused. "And the other way around, of course."

He looked away as he said that, and Eragon felt a distinct sense of discomfort roiling in his stomach. Studying Murtagh's face, Eragon stepped back deliberately, realizing with a shock that the discomfort wasn't his own—it was Murtagh's.

"I'm feeling your emotions," Eragon said slowly. "And you can hear my thoughts—what I'm thinking." He closed his eyes convulsively. "So you—you can read my memory. And—and all I've been trying to protect; it was useless after all, wasn't it? Because you're in my mind, and Galbatorix has won."

He spoke in a quiet, dead voice that contrasted with the growing wave of rage and despair in him. It took him a few seconds to realize that the rage wasn't his; the emotion belonged to the brown-haired man in front of him, whose arms were crossed and eyes were dark with growing fury. "You twit," Murtagh said, sounding furious. "You've been fighting for so long, for so hard—don't you dare curse yourself for weakness, you hear me? It would have broken anyone, what they're doing—did—"

"You lied!" Eragon screamed. "You said that—I hadn't given in—and I—" He broke off, panting and feeling absurdly childish for nitpicking for such a minor point. Murtagh had killed and slaughtered and tortured, and Eragon was angry at him because he lied? What kind of logic was that? And yet—

"Let me out," he said desperately, groping for the polished wood of the door behind him. Behind him, he could hear Murtagh's alarmed shout but ignored it, grabbing the doorknob with frantic hands and twisting it open, fleeing into the corridor—

Pain. Eragon screamed as agony bit into every nerve, eating away any rational thought. He was aware of the sadistic presence of the torturers as they practiced their art, aided by the worst spells that Galbatorix could conjure. Fire and ice burned him simultaneously, even as they grabbed his arms and slammed him against the wall, pulling threadbare trousers down.

Someone—maybe him, he didn't know anymore—was crying, wailing, begging, but at the same time no sound came out. But still, somebody was screaming, shouting his name over and over as the pain came, a terrible, unwanted heat grating against him.

And then it was over, and he was lying on the threadbare rug again, his fists clenched in the frayed fibers. Overwhelming fear hummed in his veins, and he was aware of Murtagh's presence next to him, Murtagh's hand on his shoulder.

"You shouldn't have done that," Murtagh said harshly, but Eragon could feel his emotions: the fear wasn't just his own. He opened his eyes blearily, staring up as the other's features swam into focus. Murtagh's jaw was tightly clenched, his free hand—the one not on Eragon's shoulder—clenched so hard the knuckles were white.

Abruptly, Murtagh looked away, and the wave of fear abated as he closed his eyes, visibly struggling to control himself. Eragon lay huddled in the carpet, every muscle still twitching at the remembered pain.

"What—?" he croaked, his throat dry.

"It didn't matter anyway," Murtagh said, and his voice was quiet, defeated. "Galbatorix never cared about espionage or information—the only important thing that he found out was where you hid Arya and the green dragon—but there was never any hope anyway, so in the long run nothing changed." He snorted. "But Saphira still resists, Eragon—she hasn't been seen, but I'm certain—well, almost certain—that she's still alive."

"That makes me feel a whole lot better," Eragon whispered. His words were muffled by the carpet, but Murtagh caught them anyway and let out a rough bark of laughter.

"I'm sure it does," he said, shaking his head. "Everything else has only been getting worse."

Eragon forced himself to roll over, sitting up with watery muscles. He leaned away from the door behind him, not wanting to accidentally open it and let in the pain again, staring up at Murtagh. "If Galbatorix doesn't let you see me," he said finally, "how come you're here now?"

When Murtagh didn't reply, Eragon went on, "And where is this place? Where have you brought me?"

Murtagh sighed, raking his fingers through his hair. "Persistent little bugger," he muttered under his breath, then looked at Eragon. "You're…safe," he said, exasperation clear in his voice. "I—ah—I made this place. A while ago. It's…uh…" he shrugged, spreading his hands. "I'm sure if Galbatorix really wanted to, he could get in here, but he'd have to face a few unpleasant things first." A smirk spread over Murtagh's face. "Not, I'm sure, that it would affect the heartless bastard. But fortunately for both of us, he's away on business. Crushing your Varden. Cheers."

"Ah, no," Eragon breathed as the last part of Murtagh's words sank in. "The Varden." Memory flickered, and he shook his head. "Arya? And—Eridor?" The name tasted foreign on his tongue, but then again, he'd only known the green dragon for a few days before he'd been captured.

Murtagh regarded him with hooded eyes, and the truth sank in like a terrible blow. Eragon closed his eyes, rocking back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around him. "I'm sorry," Murtagh said quietly. "If it helps, it was very quick. They committed suicide rather than be captured."

Eragon gave a tired snort, burying his face in his arms. "Unlike me," he said bitterly. "At least they got a quick way out of this mess." He flinched as he remembered that he was talking to the man who had brought him to Uru'baen in the first place—under Galbatorix's orders, to be sure, but still his captor. "And you—" he began quickly, then stopped.

Murtagh shrugged. "I don't need your forgiveness, your pity makes me want to retch, and your hate is unoriginal and frankly rather boring." He paused, then said in a quieter voice, "If it makes you feel any better, Eragon, I can't read your memory. Oh, yes," he said in response to Eragon's questioning look, "Galbatorix broke you. He spilled out your memory and read it like a bloody book. But as for me, right now? I only know what you're thinking right now, what passes through your mind at any particular moment."

"What spell are you using?" Eragon croaked as his mind immediately began to catalogue all the things he didn't want Murtagh to know. A wave of hysterical amusement filled him, and a tiny smile quirked Murtagh's lips. Thankfully, the older man didn't comment as Eragon stared up at the ceiling and determinedly filled his mind with thoughts about bricks.

"Not using a spell," Murtagh said, and Eragon glanced at him, distracted. "You asked what spell I was using," Murtagh reminded him. "I'm not using anything. It's just this place. A side effect, I guess. I don't know how to stop it." Looking suddenly awkward, he added softly, "I've never brought anyone else here before."

"And where exactly is here?" Eragon murmured.

He wrapped his fingers around a fringe in the rug, letting himself rest against the wall. The pain door was to his right; he inched away from it slightly and looked up at Murtagh through lidded eyes.

Odd, that he should feel safe here. As the thought crossed his mind, a wave of warmth filled him and was gone just as quickly as Murtagh looked away, clearly uncomfortable. Eragon swallowed, letting his gaze drop to the design on the frayed carpet. The other man looked—felt—far more vulnerable than Eragon had ever known him in real life, even during their harrowed escape from Gil'ead, even during the last battle, when Murtagh had captured him and brought him back to Uru'baen…

"How long has it been?" he asked when Murtagh didn't reply. "I mean—how long have I been here—"

Murtagh glanced at him, his eyes dark. "You mean in Galbatorix's dungeons?" He exhaled slowly, then shook his head. "Six days."

Eragon stared at him incredulously, then let out a bitter laugh. Six days. That was all it'd taken to break him? And he thought himself to be the mighty Eragon Shadeslayer, Argetlam, Hope of the Varden…six days! That was all?

"Galbatorix's art has improved," Murtagh said quietly. "He dedicated himself to the task with a vigor I haven't seen in quite a while." A bitter smile touched his lips. "The bastard still has rise in him, it seems, when it comes to the task of destroying children."

"I am not a child," Eragon whispered.

"Compared to him, you might as well be," Murtagh answered. "At least Arya never—well." He broke off and exhaled deeply.

Eragon closed his eyes slowly, memories of Arya surfacing in his mind. He swallowed, hating himself for the tears that threatened to fall, cursing his weakness and idiocy. Murtagh could see these, damnit, and despite everything Eragon had no way of knowing whether or not he could be trusted—

One night. That was all they'd had together, discovering something that Eragon had only seen, never experienced. One painful, exhilarating, joyful night, when Arya finally let him through in every single way, giving herself to him without reserve.

So you fucked the elf girl; what does it matter? I can do more to you, make you scream for me, you slut…

No. Eragon flinched involuntarily, a soft cry escaping him. Galbatorix had taken his memories of Arya, perverted them, turned them into some sort of horrendous, neverending nightmare. The memory of their love was twisted into animal lust, joy into hate, ecstacy into pain as they forced him onto the ground, cheek pressed against the filthy rushes, bile rising in his throat as he fought against the pervasive heat, no no nonononoNONONONONO…

"Stop," a voice cried, and Eragon's eyes snapped open to find themselves blinded by a veil of tears, tears that he hadn't known were falling. "Stop," Murtagh pleaded, his voice an entreaty, quiet but desperate. "I tried. Gods, I swear I tried. You're not there anymore, are you? You're safe here, I promise, safe—"

Eragon clung onto him, hating himself for this weakness but unable to resist. Six days, six weeks, six months…all that mattered was that he was tired and Murtagh was here, offering something that he had no choice to accept despite the hate and suspicion and anger that still resided between them.

"Shhh," Murtagh whispered, his voice soft and soothing, rocking him back and forth. "It's okay now. You're safe. It's over."

"No, it's not," Eragon whispered.

Murtagh was quiet for a long moment, and a rush of misery flooded Eragon as Murtagh's arms tightened around him. "No," Murtagh said finally, his voice dull. "It's not."

"Am I your prisoner?" Eragon asked, pulling away slightly from the embrace. He stared up at Murtagh's face, afraid of breaking the fragile peace but determined to know. "Is this some new sort of—of pain, of punishment—"

"You can always go back," Murtagh said softly, brushing sweaty locks of hair away from Eragon's face. "All you need is to go out that door."

"Door?" Eragon whispered.

Murtagh indicated the door behind them with a jerk of his head, the door that had led to the pain. Eragon stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Go back?

"Where am I?" he repeated slowly.

Murtagh inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slowly. "I had a lot of time to think," he said finally. "When I was—when I first came to Uru'baen. It was slower for me, and I didn't have Thorn then and so…well, I—"

He hesitated. "I came here a lot during those days," he said slowly. "It's not an actual, physical place; it's more of a—thought, a collection of memory—"

"You brought my mind into yours," Eragon breathed softly.

"Well—your consciousness, really," Murtagh said, and discomfort roiled in Eragon's stomach. Eragon looked away as Murtagh closed his eyes, visibly struggling to control himself. "You were—are—still in Galbatorix's dungeons, Eragon. Your physical body is still there, and through the door behind you, you can go back." He smiled humorlessly. "But I wouldn't suggest it. Stronger men have been driven mad by torture before."

"Including you?" Eragon whispered, studying Murtagh's face.

The older man shrugged casually. "I'm flattered that you consider me to be stronger. Obviously, I was not driven insane, judging by the fact that I wasn't rocking back and forth and drooling in a corner when Thorn hatched for me. But you—you—"

He broke off. As if suddenly aware of Eragon's body pressed against his, Murtagh dropped his arms and backed away a few steps. The tight ball of emotion pressing against Eragon's stomach suddenly vanished, replaced by calm equinamity.

"And the other doors?" Eragon inquired, casting about for a safe topic, trying anything to break the sudden ice that had coalesced between them. His ploy failed; Murtagh seemed more uncomfortable than ever, and the uneasiness returned.

"Memories," he said shortly.

"Yours or mine?" Eragon asked softly.

"Mine," Murtagh grunted. "Consciousness isn't the same thing as mind."

The silence stretched between them, the air vibrating with tension. Eragon stood slowly; Murtagh's eyes followed his moment but he did nothing to stop Eragon as the younger man walked to the door directly to his right, a nondescript door made out of some sort of polished oak.

"No," Murtagh said, but his voice was just a whisper as Eragon wrapped his hand around the doorknob and swung the door open.

Darkness engulfed him, swallowing him whole. Eragon gasped as voices sounded in the distance, far-off and indistinct, the words blending into a meaningless wave of sound that grew louder and louder, light and warmth playing across his skin for just the briefest of moments.

And the light vanished as pain seared across his back; Eragon cried out in agony, but the sensation was gone in another flash. Then there was nothing but darkness as sound and light and feeling died out, leaving him alone in the dark. Alone, ignored, unseen by nothing but ghosts.

There was no ground under his feet, no light, nothing. Eragon called out into the emptiness, but no sound came out—it was instantly swallowed by the covering darkness, lost to the void. There was nothing under his feet; when he tried to touch his own face for the comfort of touch, he could feel nothing but empty darkness. No light, no touch, no sound, no feeling—nobody knew who he was, where he was, how he was, and worst of all, nobody cared…

"I think that's enough for now," Murtagh said quietly from nowhere, and Eragon almost cried with relief as sensation returned, the light pressure of Murtagh's hand on his arm, pulling him back towards the dingy room of before. The light was overwhelming and the soft rustle of Murtagh's breathing was painful as his senses returned, restoring to him a sense of self. Eragon buried his face in his hands, reveling in the sensation of the scratchy wool beneath him and the firm pressure of skin on skin, shuddering as he recalled the empty void.

"What was that?" he said after a moment, wincing as his voice struck his ears.

"My childhood," Murtagh's voice said, seemingly from a great distance away. Eragon rolled over to look at him, at his carefully guarded face and eyes. "Exciting early years, but after that I was mostly ignored." He shrugged, elaborately casual. "It could have been worse, I suppose."

What would it been like, growing up like that? Alone, unwanted…knowing that you were cursed from birth, just for the sin of having the wrong father?

"Don't," Murtagh snapped, and Eragon winced at the anger in his words. "I said don't pity me—it makes me sick."

Rage, anxiety, worry, confusion danced across Eragon in a confusing medley until he could no longer distinguish one from another—closing his eyes, Eragon struggled to control the onslaught of Murtagh's emotions, separating out which ones were his and which were Murtagh's. It took him a long moment to get himself under control, to compartmentalize the feelings accordingly.

Involuntarily, his eyes were drawn to the door just ahead of him. This one was made out of iron, with a deadbolt keeping it locked. He glanced at Murtagh, who watched him with brooding eyes—when the crossed Eragon's mind, Murtagh scowled and shifted to protect the door. "Just because you're in my head doesn't mean you get to poke around," he growled. "Stay out of my memories, or I'll kick you back to your physical body."

"What's in there?' Eragon asked. "It can't be any worse than the torture I'm going through—well, my body is, anyway—right now, can it?" he added reasonably.

Murtagh snorted. "Worse is a relative term. At any rate, it doesn't concern you." He studied Eragon for a moment longer, then laughed grudgingly, a tickle of amusement sweeping through Eragon. "No matter how—how—Shadeslayer—you've gotten, you're still the same nosy kid…"

"And you?" Eragon asked quietly.

The smile vanished from Murtagh's face. "I don't know and don't care to judge," he said shortly.

"Are you afraid of discovering what you've become?" Eragon asked, pushing what he knew to be a sore point—Murtagh's eyes darkened, and rage trickled into Eragon as he continued relentlessly, "Of what you've done, and what kind of thing it's turned you into?"

Murtagh recoiled as if he had been struck; a muscle ticked in his jaw as his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. Instinctively, he knew that despite the other's earlier threat he didn't have to be afraid of Murtagh shoving him back into the physical world—no matter how angry he was, Murtagh wouldn't do that. At the same time, he might just punch Eragon in the jaw, and Eragon shifted into a defensive position accordingly.

"You want to know who I am? What I am?" Murtagh said harshly. His hand shot out with a snakelike speed and pulled Eragon to his feet until they were face to face, chocolate eyes meeting hazel. "Or more accurately, what I've become?"

Murtagh spun around and slammed back the bolt on the iron door with his hand. With a single fluid moment, he jerked open the door and shoved Eragon inside, sprawling him onto a filthy dungeon floor, not unlike Eragon's former prison. Eragon turned back to call for Murtagh, but the door was gone, replaced by a length of impenetrable dungeon wall.

And then his arm jerked up, controlled by something that wasn't him anymore, his body no longer his to control. A man was crying, begging; Eragon slaughtered him without a second glance, his eyes forced to target after target, all directed by the black king in the shadows. Ice formed on the walls around him, but he didn't stop even as a pool of red blood began to puddle around his bare feet, seeping into his skin.

Faces he recognized flashed before him—Lady Lorana, as he forcibly swore her to obedience, himself controlled by his own true name—humans, villages, children, slain at the empire's whim—Oromis, and the terrifying sensation of someone looking through his eyes, controlling even his voice…

Green exploded in his vision, followed just as quickly with a wash of blue. With a jolt, Eragon recognized himself, knocked unconscious by a blow across the head. Next to him lay Arya, still alive, blood oozing sluggishly from a cut across her forehead. Her eyes flickered open in an expression of hate even as he reached out for her, and with a startlingly fast movement, she pressed the blade of her dagger into her throat. It hit an artery, and blood sprayed across him, coating his face.

He couldn't cry. He could not cry, even as his lover and friend bled to death on the empty field of Murtagh's memory, even as Murtagh's hands dragged him back into the antechamber and let him drop once again onto the carpet, misery tight in his chest. His arms his own again, Eragon wrapped them tightly around his chest, feeling as if he would shatter at the slightest touch.

"You killed her," he whispered, his voice raw with unheard screams.

"She killed herself," Murtagh said flatly.

"You—you watched her die—"

"Would you rather I brought her back to Uru'baen?" Murtagh said acidly. "A pretty elf maiden—if you think what they did to you was sadistic, that's nothing to what they would have done to Arya." He stopped, breathing hard. "And now you know. You know what I did, who I am, and you can just—" he broke off.

Eragon wanted to scream. He wanted to rip Murtagh apart, scream for Saphira, drive Brisingr into Galbatorix's chest and watch the son of a bitch burn…only he couldn't, because he was trapped inside Murtagh's mind, and the only way out into the physical world lay in pain. Pain that would have been inflicted upon Arya had she not killed herself, but the injustice, the rage, the unfairness of it all—

"She didn't deserve to die," Eragon whispered.

Murtagh didn't reply, and Eragon glanced at him. He was inscrutable and emotionless, but Eragon knew that the rage churning inside him wasn't entirely his own. Exhaling, Eragon closed his eyes. Screaming and raging would not help; he wasn't a child. Temper tantrums would not bring Arya back to life.

Control. Control.

"I'm sorry," Eragon said at last, and was proud of how calm his voice was. Murtagh's eyes watched him as Eragon pushed himself into a sitting position, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

"Everyone's entitled to a breakdown every now and then," was Murtagh's quiet reply.

Eragon studied him, the clenched fists, the flatness of his eyes. He'd known Arya as well, Eragon recalled suddenly—perhaps not as well as Eragon had, but he had known her. "And you?" he asked.

Murtagh's eyes flickered to him, and away. "I'm fine."

"You didn't want to," Eragon said softly, the words certain even as he pronounced them.

Murtagh snorted. "Did that matter?"

"It does to me," Eragon said.

Murtagh looked at him for a long moment before turning away. "I said that I didn't want your pity."

"I'm not pitying you," Eragon said sharply, ignoring Murtagh's sarcastic laugh. "I'm—apologizing. For—"

"I don't want your apology either," Murtagh growled.

"Well, I need to give it," Eragon said. "For all the misconceptions I've held about you, and the words I've said."

"I'm no saint, Eragon," Murtagh snapped, rocking back on his heels. "Don't go around thinking that I'm some sort of martyr, that I did everything just because Galbatorix ordered me to or because of my cursed heritage. My life may have been no picnic, but still, I chose."

"That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?" Eragon said, recalling the terrible feeling of loss inherent in both rooms—loss of control, loss of self. "Losing control?"

"If I were so afraid of losing control, I wouldn't have brought you here," Murtagh sighed. "There's so much of my—" he shrugged, then waved a hand around vaguely to indicate the room. "Control is not something I can afford to lose. Not here."

"So you impose discipline in your mind, to make up for your loss in regards to your actions," Eragon said with calm certainty and was rewarded by a narrowed stare. He braced himself for a sarcastic reply, but Murtagh seemed to be more calculating than angry.

"What's in the last room, Murtagh?" Eragon asked finally, indicating the room to his left.

"You always have to know, don't you," Murtagh said, shaking his head. "You always have to pry…"

"I haven't changed in that respect," Eragon agreed with a watery laugh. "Just like you haven't changed—not where it matters."

Murtagh exhaled, closing his eyes. When he reopened them, he stood up, offering Eragon a hand. The younger man accepted it and stood, placing his hand on the cool brass doorknob with a sense of finality. The last room into Murtagh's mind—memory—life.

He shut his eyes as the door swung open, bracing himself for some horror to leap out of the shadows. When none came, he opened his eyes just a slit as warmth filled him, the warmth of the desert kept long into the night.

"The Hadarac Desert?" he whispered, confused, glancing behind him. Murtagh was a step behind him, his eyes giving nothing away as he stood casually against the doorway, hands in his pockets. Jerkily, he nodded.

A fire was crackling merrily, the flames giving a cozy air to the warm night. With a sense of detached shock, Eragon stepped past the flames to see a figure huddled in the blankets, hair touseled, lips slightly parted. Leaning forward, he saw himself—the younger, completely human version of himself, fast asleep.

A horse whickered, and Eragon turned around to see a shadowy figure standing next to Murtagh's stallion—Tornac and his namesake. The man winked at Eragon and pointed over his shoulder; Eragon turned to look and found himself staring at unreadable hazel eyes.

"This…" Eragon began, then stopped helplessly. He swiveled back to look for Tornac but both man and horse had vanished, leaving only empty desert behind.

"I'm a sentimentalist," Murtagh said with a self-deprecating shrug.

"Where is this place?" Eragon asked, his voice cracking.

Murtagh smiled lightly and sat down, patting the desert sand next to him. Dazed, Eragon followed suit, staring into the flames to avoid Murtagh's gaze. "This is where I keep the memories I treasure most," Murtagh said at last.

"What about Thorn?" Eragon whispered.

"Thorn doesn't need a memory," Murtagh said, smiling. "Thorn is always there when he's not busy or asleep; I don't need some reincarnation of him to remind me of—" he hesitated, then said, "different times." Murtagh cleared his throat. "I've always wondered if—well, never mind."

"If what?" Eragon asked, ignoring Murtagh's tone of voice.

Murtagh glanced down at him, and Eragon felt that peculiar quirk of amusement again, coming from the man sitting next to him. "You always have to know everything, don't you, Shadeslayer?" he said gently, and Eragon's stomach did a flip as he heard the faint teasing tone of Murtagh's voice.

Eragon nodded wordlessly. Murtagh studied him for a long moment, then seemed to come to a decision. Slowly, tentatively, he slid an arm around Eragon's shoulders, giving the other every chance to pull away. Eragon allowed the embrace, closing his eyes as Murtagh's hand brushed his cheek.

"I'm—"

He stopped as the faintest bloom of tenderness welled in his chest, gasping softly as he realized that this, more than anything, was Murtagh. This light touch of joy and hesitation.

Arya.

"I'm not ready," Eragon whispered, afraid to crush the feeling, but unsure of what else to say. "I can't—Arya," he finished, his voice pleading.

"I know," Murtagh said softly. "It's a fool's game, anyway, when I'm locked in oath to Galbatorix and you might as well be, if Saphira gives in—and even if she doesn't." He sighed, resting his chin against Eragon's head, his warm breath rustling Eragon's hair. "But I couldn't—I can't—"

He stopped. Eragon pulled back, watching Murtagh's eyes, the rare, open expression of hope and pain on his face. He hesitated, knowing that in this moment, at this time, he had the power to break Murtagh more than anything else Galbatorix had ever done.

The slightest of movements, the gentlest of touches. Wordlessly, Eragon nodded, and Murtagh's lips brushed his for a gentle kiss.

And for now, in the endless desert around them, it was enough.

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-is dead-

I wrote this in four hours flat. And didn't even stop to check it. Whoo. I'm so proud of myself. FINALLY, I've written EraMur! (And a bonus Eragon/Arya pairing, which I swore I'd never do, but oh well, promises are made to be broken eh?)

REVIEW PLEASE. My back hurts. I should really get a new chair…-mutters-