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Pointless Angst-Smut	By : CrackerJack Category: A through F > Eragon Views: 8585 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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- 1-Pointless Angst-Smut
- 1
Okay folks. This is a self-edited, and quite sadistic story. Not for the faint of heart. It contains slash, incest, violence (including non-con), character (dragon) death, strong elements of OOC-ness, and a heavy AU vibe.

The AU and OOC vibe primarily comes from the fact that I have not read any of the Eragon books... Matter of fact, I''m not 100% certain there is more than one book. I have, however, pushed my way through enough fanfiction (both decent and horrendous), to pick out the recurring character/plot themes and feel I have a certain knowledge behind my fiction.

You may be wondering, now, why the hell anyone would want to read it? I''ll give you my reasons for writing it. There are actually just three of them. The first and main reason is that I''m on a Garrett Hedlund kick, and it''s difficult to find enjoyable stories about his characters. The second is that even though you can find Eragon/Murtagh stories, Eragon is usually on bottom, and I detest that. I choose my submissive character in a pairing for whatever reason, and nothing in the world could convince me that it shouldn''t be that way. It''s all I''ll read. And so the wide range of fics has been narrowed for me, dramatically, in that way. Finally, I like higher ratings. I don''t bother writing slash for the kissing and romance and mushiness, unless I''ve thoroughly tortured my characters first. Yes, I seem to be a bit sadomasochistic. No, I really don''t care if you have a problem with that.

SO! To summarize. If you want to read a high-rating story where Eragon tops Murtagh, and you don''t have a problem with (perhaps overdone) angst, and non-con... This is the story for you, although I wrote it for myself and decided to post it as an afterthought.

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. Don''t cry to me because Eragon is OOC. I know this.

Enjoy.

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Ungentle hands tangled in Murtagh’s hair, pulling the attached head back, and exposing his throat. And still, for all his discomfort, only one thought could be held. ''Thorn is dead…'' A sorrow that couldn’t be expressed seemed to catch in the dark-haired man’s throat, choking him. There were no words for this kind of pain. The man in front of him reflected a far different emotion. The once laughing- sweet- face of Eragon was gone, long since hardened by war and suffering. His eyes that before might have expressed the misery of having seen so many die, now blazed. Actual fire burned behind the orbs; a magic that could be no more explained than controlled.

Saphira was not far, her talons still wet with the blood of the older man''s dragon. As was that accursed sword. He couldn’t bear to look.

The dragon expressed all of her rider’s anger, smoke streaming thickly from her flaring nostrils, but she paced with a nervous edge. Clearly, she had never before witnessed this behavior from Eragon.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t finish the job with you.” The younger man- his own brother- demanded, air crackling with the magic-tinged anger in his voice. “One good reason why a traitor such as yourself shouldn’t be gutted. Why I shouldn’t carry your fucking skull with me as a reminder to all what should happen to traitors.” The hand in Murtagh’s hair tightened.

“Th- Thorn.” Murtagh finally whimpered, his cry of pain mirroring his broken heart. It was the first sound he’d managed since his dragon’s screams tore through his soul. Be damned if he would give Eragon words of supplication.

“WHY SHOULDN’T I KILL YOU?” Eragon bellowed, spittle hitting Murtagh’s cheek. The fury in that voice alone seemed to take the last of the elder brother’s remaining strength, and he crumpled in the fierce hold. But did not fall to the ground.

“I would never- never have killed Saphira.” He finally choked out, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, from the grip in his hair.

“LIAR!” Eragon accused, fury no more abated than it had been. “You would have seen both her and I slaughtered. You would have handed us over to- to-“ there seemed to be no word in the young man’s vocabulary to accurately portray just what he thought of Galbatorix.

“Era- You don’t understand. I can’t- I couldn’t- I didn’t have a choi-“ “I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses!” Pain (of the physical variety) spread across Murtagh’s cheek, from the sudden backhand; the force from the blow so strong that Eragon stumbled slightly when his grasp on the other’s hair didn’t lessen.

''Eragon…'' Saphira began timidly, entirely nervous now at this vicious display.

''QUIET! I will have this!'' The rider thought back, savagely, not knowing what ''this'' was. Death seemed almost too merciful now.

''I will be no part of this…'' The dragon whispered to his mind, and with her vow, she took to the sky, surveying the surrounding area. Miles in the distance, battle continued to rage on.

Neither man seemed to notice her absence.

“I fear that for you, brother,” Eragon spit the bitter word from his mouth “there is nothing you could say to convince me that you deserve to live after your treachery.”

“Then kill me.” Murtagh barked back, scratching at his kin’s hand to force it into releasing him. Eragon paid no mind to the scratches, nor the blood welling from them, but he did release the dark-haired man.

“Is that it, then? You think that because your dragon is dead- DEAD,” he repeated, to watch the bereaved wince it evoked. “that you have suffered? You will never know the suffering you have caused me. My own blood. And I would drain it from myself, that I could. To share such a bond with someone who could turn their back on me is more than I can stand. And I have withstood much, Murtagh son of Morzan.”

“I would never have killed Saphira!” the elder of the two shouted again, doubled over with his forehead on the forest ground. “I would never have harmed you, Eragon!” The kick to his side came as no great shock, but the pain was real. The dark-haired man rolled with it, staring up at the sky, blood-red from the sunset.

“So family means so fucking much to you, does it? But you chose to follow in your dead father’s footsteps, and betray your living blood!” Eragon could no more have thought of Morzan as his father, also, than he could have sprouted wings of his own and took Saphira flying on his back.

“I had no choice!” Murtagh bellowed, tears streaming down his dirty face in earnest now. He held his side where he’d been kicked.

“There’s always a choice!” Eragon dropped to his knees, hauling his older brother halfway to a sitting position by the front of his ripped shirt. “You chose to leave. You chose to fight for Galbotorix! You chose to betray everyone you’d swore you wanted to protect. And you know what hurts the most, you bastard? What makes me so angry? Is that while I barely knew you, ‘I’ trusted you! Against all warnings, against all fucking reason, I loved you. Without ever asking why you might deserve it. My whole life, I KNEW to my very soul that family was the thing most worth fighting for. But you spat on that and all my other beliefs. You broke my heart, and the pain from that is more agonizing than the thought of a thousand dragons dying!” Saphira’s roar of dismay echoed around the trees. Eragon ignored his own treachery to her.

Murtagh grasped at Eragon’s sleeves, tears mixing trails of mud across his face.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Era-“ with a disgusted sound, the blonde man dropped his prey. He turned his back on the prone figure, running dragon blood-stained fingers through his own dirty hair.

It was impossible for the younger rider to center his thoughts. Every time he tried to feel pity or understanding for his brother, memories of Arya’s death played again, fueling his own remorse. Even while fighting for different sides, he could not have imagined Murtagh would turn her over; that he was capable of that level of evil. Part of his heart warned that even still, he loved the red rider. While a larger part screamed for Arya’s revenge. And yet another fought for control to assuage his own pain at the blood treason.

“I thought- Thought I could help by joining. That I could attack Galb- That I could kill him if I got close enough. But he swore me to- forced me- I never stopped loving you, brother, but I was helpless against my treason.” Eragon barked out a bitter laugh, that made his brother’s hair stand on end.

“And so now I forgive you, and embrace you as a brother? I forgive all because you were ''helpless'' to stop what you did?” he mocked staring impassively at the brunette’s shaking shoulders. “YOU LOVE ME, and abandon me?” for a moment he took pause, noting the level of pain in his brother’s expression. A new sharp hurt that, if it were possible, was beyond the death of his dragon.

“You do love me…” the younger mused aloud, the revelation bringing no wonderment. His voice remained cold and calculating, in contrast to his countenance of disdain and disgust. “And not just as a brother.” Murtagh shut his eyes to try shielding his own shame. He’d never imagined Eragon discovering like this, or ever at all, if he were honest with himself.

Slowly, the blue rider’s fists clenched, his rage again building. “Then your betrayal is all the more detestable.”

He dropped to his knees once more, again yanking his unresisting prey forward. Unresisting until a hard mouth dropped to his; teeth and lips, and the punishing grip on his hair again, holding him in place. “This what you wanted, brother?" he hissed against the other''s ear. "Did you dream of it? Plan it while you worked against me?” Eragon forced the other’s head back more, as far as it could go. A dark cruelty seemed to be overtaking him. While watching a scene like the one playing out would have sickened him, actually implementing it filled him with joy. Black joy that fed off of the control he felt. Murtagh struggled, neck bent to its limit, as his lips bled. He pushed fruitlessly at his brother.

“You didn’t picture it like this, did you? How differently you must have imagined. Did you see me as I was when we met; still a boy fresh from the farm. Did you envision soft words and slow lovemaking?" Eragon had no expected a reply but was angered by the continued silence from his brother, none the less. "Any part of myself that you thought you knew is dead. At least to you. I’m no longer the naive boy I was then. He might have forgiven you. I never will.”

Eragon had not felt aroused by the situation for an instant. Not even on the most carnal level. All he knew was he wanted the other to hurt more than he did. Blood pumped through his body with an adrenaline rush he’d never known; roaring in his ears, and in the process he’d become hard. It was easy- too easy- to push the dark haired man back against the ground, to tear his clothing away, and yank his own breeches down to his knees.

Murtagh struggled again, genuine fear taking over his face. Eragon swore he could smell it. ‘Feel’ it in the air around them. It fueled his black joy. His right hand probed blindly, aligning himself, left hand adjusting or brushing aside uncooperative limbs.

''Eragon! NO!''

The dragon’s cry was ignored, though it pierced his fury-hazed mind like an arrow. A scream tore free from Murtagh’s throat, and the blonde rider spared a look down his nose at the contorted features below him. Murtagh’s ruined shirt rode up as he arched his back away from the sharp pain of being entered unprepared. The scar left by his father, ''their'' father, could be seen. Eragon felt it was only appropriate that he left his own mark, if only to his brother’s memories.

The blue rider forced the other further onto his shoulder blades as he rocked forward, struggling to keep a hold on the jerking legs. Murtagh keened repeatedly, as Eragon took up a punishing rhythm. Gradually the slide in and out was eased by blood and pre-come. He ignored the harsh begging from his brother, face impassive, as he pushed harder. Murtagh was balanced almost entirely on his shoulders now, and had stopped shoving at his tormentor, trying to ease the strain on his neck instead. At long last, the younger man found his release, and Murtagh sobbed weakly as semen and blood spilled over his thighs with Eragon’s withdrawal.

Savage satisfaction warred with nausea, and Eragon stumbled back as though drunk. Murtagh lay still on the forest floor, wheezing for breath. Writhing from a continued pain.

Eragon watched the man suffer for what seemed hours, neither speaking. Finally the blonde rider crouched near his brother, not reacting when Murtagh cringed away from his presence. “Waise Heill.” He finally spoke, healing the red rider’s torn skin. The magic had taken no effort at all.

Eragon stood easily, looking (for what he felt sure would not be the last time) at his closest family. “Your dragon is dead. As far as I’m concerned, so are you.”

''Come.'' Eragon ordered, and a moment later Saphira landed nearby. She did not look at the standing man, not even when he mounted her. Her eyes rested on the broken form of Murtagh, curled into himself, body wracking with silent sobs.

''Saphira!'' At the sharp warning, she took to the sky. For the first time, she felt no empathy for her rider’s pain.

END

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It gives you a warm and fuzzy feeling, doesn''t it? ^.^
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Pointless Angst-Smut