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In the Midst of Battle	By : Oceanloversix Category: A through F > Eragon Views: 8768 -:- 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.

Chapter List
- 1-In the Midst of Battle
- 1
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Eragon couldn’t understand what was happening to him, how had this gotten so out of control? He had been fighting, and fighting well. He and Saphira had torn through the skies, scorching the enemy, bringing all opposition to dust and blood. Then that second rider . . . he had come out of no where. The young rider had never seen what hit him as he tumbled from his blue dragon’s back and hurtled towards the ground. Eragon watched as the scorched landscape rushed up to meet him, figuring that this was surely the end a single tear flew away from his eye into the endless air. The talons that snatched him from impending doom caused his whole body to jerk so violently that he nearly dropped the blood red sword clenched in his fist. His helmet came loose and continued to plummet until it met with the hardened earth below the metal denting inward from the impact. He raised his head to search the animal above him and met with blue scales. "Saphira?" His mind reached out to her as he began to climb up her scaly leg towards his saddle. Then suddenly the ruby dragon was on them once more. His head slammed into Saphira''s side and the collision caused Eragon to lose hold and the fall began again. They were close enough to the ground where Eragon escaped death but the pain that shot through his shoulder and back betrayed that he had not escaped injury. He attempted to raise his body balancing his entire weight on one forearm trying to focus his vision around him. His eyes were blurring from the shock of the impact and half of his battle armor was dented, pushing painfully into his skin. He searched the skies for a sign of the battle above, expecting to see the red and blue animals twirling in a dance of death behind the clouds.

When the dragons did not appear he reached out for his partner with his mind the only reply, a roar telling him that Saphira was far too busy to reach him. It was not long after that her large blue body shot over him followed closely by the larger red beast that was closing. He watched the fluid motions of the two adversaries carefully until a falling form grabbed his sight. The other rider had jumped from his dragon when he swooped close to the earth and now stood in front of him. The rider reached for his helm to remove it, while Eragon was searching desperately for Zarroc. The sword lay nearly ten full feet from where he lay reclining on his one good arm. He began to call upon all the magic that was held around him but his mind froze, followed by his body . . . he couldn’t move. He could only watch in fear and suspense as the taller rider placed both hands on his helm and lifted the metal covering. Dark hair flowed free to fall around the tanned rugged looking face. Eragon met the piercing eyes with disbelief and struggled to contain his emotions. He didn’t understand and felt as if all he wanted to do was cry; it had to be a lie, a cruel lie. “Murtagh?” His voice betrayed the shakiness and surprise that was racking his body and he struggled to move, to stand, to run, anything. Then it hit him that this would not be permitted. Murtagh was holding him in place, but how, he had never been this strong, he did not even know magic. Eragon shock those thoughts from his mind, it didn’t matter because Murtagh was dead. He had been thrown over the cliff into the pit by the Urgals . . . hadn’t he?

The grip on his mind held everything else at bay, the pain in his body was gone, Saphira’s roars were distant and dim, and everything was calm and gray. The young rider stared at his friend wanting answers, any kind of answer even if it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He watched unable to speak as the other approached slowly, the metal of his armor clanging slightly at the joints. He tried to move away but he was held firm, and his new enemy knelt beside him searching every inch of him with dark eyes. “Hello Eragon, you don’t seem well.” He had never felt afraid with Murtagh but now he was terrified, he wondered what the older male was planning as a calloused hand pushed his sandy hair from his eyes. He struggled to stay alert and fight of the fog in his mind as Murtagh poured into a story of capture, torture and training. The wounded youth on the ground clung to small pieces of the others story trying to understand but inside the only thing that was going through his mind was that his friend was alive. The one he had mourned for in secret, more than the others that had been lost was here, with him. It wasn’t the same though, this was not the same friend that had helped him escape Durza, protected him from slavers, or fought with him in the Varden’s keep. This wasn’t the same one who had been with him when Brom died, who had comforted him that night . . . the same friend that had kissed him and . . . Eragon fought against the older youth’s hold, he wanted to escape, to mount Saphira and fly far from Murtagh, he had changed, he was . . . darker now.

As if sensing his fear the older rider’s countenance changed almost instantly, he talked of a red dragon hatching for him . . . Thorn he called him. He spoke of being forced to swear allegiance to Galbatorix. The name of the evil king sent a wave a hate so strong through Eragon’s body that the fog cracked and Saphira’s roar ripped into his mind. Injuries forgotten the youth rolled from Murtagh grasping Zarroc''s hilt and came to stand on his feet. The blood rushed to his head and his body swayed uneasily but the older male stood calmly watching his young friend with interest. As if nothing had happened Murtagh continued, only now he was revealing something else, something new. Names poured into his mind. Morzan . . . Serena, what did Murtagh''s evil father have to do with his mother? Then it snapped and the shock allowed the fog to consume him yet again. Saphira faded as did the world around him. Morzan was his father . . . . Murtagh was, oh gods. The bile rose in his throat as he fought to hold composure, it was all a lie. He couldn’t allow himself to be deceived, he had to fight it. But inside, deep deep inside he knew, Murtagh’s words were true.

Eragon saw the magic forming in his friends hand but the hold kept him in place. He could only watch as the energy crackled towards him until it sent him back to the ground, his body sliding to rest against the side of a small boulder. He tried to lift his head and succeeded a little, his eyes drifting open to watch as the dark rider approached him. Murtagh stopped at his feet and stared down running a scarred hand through black hair he smirked. “I know how you feel; it’s not even the relation that’s a shock. You could handle being my brother; you could even handle being the son of that bastard.” He knelt, his eyes searching the younger''s with a cruel playing sympathy as he reached a hand to smear the blood from the cut on Eragon’s forehead. ‘It’s that night isn’t it? After the slavers?” He laughed lightly and reached for the top part of the young riders crushed armor. Eragon’s mind was racing as he fought to regain control of his body. He had to stop him, he knew what was coming, and it was all the same. But he didn’t want this, it was too much. He couldn’t resist as the pieces of his armor fell away to clink on the ground. He struggled to move, to run, to scream, anything, but all he could manage was to continue to listen to the deep satin voice caressing his thoughts. “I beheaded that man, remember? I killed him and you were angry, but you still surrendered to me that night. You were weak I suppose . . .” The young rider had just noticed now that he was crying as the cool tear slid down his hot skin to disappear at his neck line.

The older youth was taking of the chain mail now, the last separation between the calloused hands and Eragon''s scarred, toned skin. As the mail fell to the pile on the ground Murtagh’s hand began to roam. All Eragon had now, was his cloth breeches and boots and he tried desperately to protest. This wasn’t right, this was sick, he didn’t want this . . . not anymore. All that he managed to convey his unhappiness was a small whimper as he closed his eyes, but he couldn’t make his body move away like he wanted. Murtagh laughed lightly moving his face down and entering the others mind to make his eyes open again. Eragon submitted to the invading power and his blue eyes met with brown. The gaze he found there caused his body to shudder and Murtagh smiled, “I don’t regret it, you know.” He bent his head to meet with the skin of Eragon’s neck and sucked teasingly, allowing small bites here and there. Eragon moaned as his stomach flipped, he didn’t want this, he didn’t, but he couldn’t move. And to make it worse was how his body betrayed him, yearning to be released from the control so it could lean into the familiar touch.

The contrast of feelings threatened to rip him in two, his mind was disgusted but his body was aching to be filled with the other, and Murtagh knew this. Cool, rough lips traveled down his skin to dwell on his collar bone while the older rider’s hands began to unlatch his own armor. Eragon was in hell, he wanted Murtagh but at the same time he didn’t, he was his brother . . . that alone should be enough to make him stop. But it was more, the one touching him now wasn’t the one he had loved, the one he had mourned, the one pressed against his body now was someone else, someone dark and evil. Where was Saphira, he needed her, he wanted her to save him but he knew she was battling on her own. No doubt the red dragon . . . Thorn . . . was holding her at bay long enough for Murtagh to finish, whatever he was going to do. Eragon fought against the hold on his body but could not close his eyes; the other rider was fully stripped of armor as well now. His head fell to the side resting against the rock surface as his clouded eyes searched the desert landscape, no one was coming no one could help, and Zarroc was another seven feet away on the other side of Murtagh. He moaned and rolled his head back as a hardened hand dove beneath the fabric of his breeches to rub the hardening member there.

He watched helplessly as his brother closed the distance, capturing his lips forcefully with a deep kiss, pushing his tongue inside to explore every inch of him. This was too familiar and the battle of emotions swarmed again. He could neither pull away nor move towards the kiss and the older youth held him still even while his hips wanted to thrust into the firm hand that was holding him. The dark rider laughed against his mouth as if he could feel the torment that was going through the others body. “You still enjoy this I see; you remember it and you want it.” He broke off traveling his lips back down a trail to Eragon’s lower stomach one hand remaining to massage the hard muscles of the younger mans body. “N-no . . .” Murtagh shot his eyes forward as Eragon whimpered out the one word he could manage through the fog in his mind. The older youth did look slightly shocked that he had managed that but no matter he would continue, he would make sure that Eragon could never forget the way Murtagh had touched him. The young rider would never be able to be with another with out thinking of how much better it was with him, and that’s the way he wanted it.

He released the youths throbbing erection briefly to pull the loose cloth down over the others hips. The exposure of his bare skin and aching member to the harsh desert elements made him shudder, even more so when Murtagh’s mouth covered the head and sucked the organ all the way into his hot throat which constricted him almost to the point of release. He whimpered as a tear slid over his cheek, he ha to stop this, he couldn’t . . . but he wanted to so bad. He knew what it felt like to have the other male deep inside pulsing into him, and he wanted that, he had missed that when he had died . . . when he thought he had died. The hold was released slightly as Murtagh grew confident that the other could not resist him, and he was right. Murtagh swirled his tongue around the head of his brother’s member and pushed it into the slit at the top causing the younger male to cry out and thrust hard into the older rider’s mouth. He was quickly approaching his climax and wanted it finished. But Murtagh had other plans, he slowly pulled off of the erection that twitched in disapproval accompanied by the moans and whimpers of its owner as Eragon writhed on the ground beneath him. He smirked and returned to make contact with the soft kiss swollen lips as he pushed the cloth down over his own throbbing erection.

Eragon was not paying attention to what was happening but he jumped at the feel of the head of Murtagh’s member at his opening. The hold was lighter but it was still enough where he could not escape and he looked into Murtagh’s eyes, feeling a slight twinge of fear at what was to come. He should not have looked into those dark eyes, because what he saw there frightened him even more. He screamed as his brother entered him with out preparation, threatening to split the walls of the tight embrace that shuddered and contracted as Eragon’s arms were pinned to the sandy floor of the earth. Saphira’s roar ripped the sky as she too felt the sudden pain and fought ferociously to return to her rider, but Thorn held her in the sky as the battle between the dragons raged on. More tears leaked from the younger male’s eyes as the youth above him moaned at the heat of the tight embrace. He gave the other just enough time to adjust before a quick and forceful thrust was established and the hard erection pounded into the smaller body again, and again. With nothing to lubricate the way the friction of the two bodies sliding and slapping against and inside each other produced a heat that could rival the sun they laid under.

Murtagh’s eyes were closed now but the grip on Eragon’s wrists was harsh and firm telling him that there was no hope of escape. All the younger male could do was gasp and moan as his body was rocked back and forth at a quickening pace, the sand and stone rubbing his bare skin raw. The stinging was subsiding slightly as the sweat from there bodies served to make the thrusting easier. It was becoming slightly less painful as each time Murtagh’s thick organ brushed the soft spot of flesh that sent waves of pleasure to his mind. His moans were growing more and more from the pleasure and he gasp as a rough hand grasped his erection and began to match the thrusts of his brother’s hips with sure strokes. Eragon began alternating by pushing down on the invading member and thrusting into the waiting hand. It was not long before he had completed his release, the white liquid shooting across both youth’s stomachs and covering Murtagh’s hand. The spasm of muscles from the rider’s release caused his body to clench, squeezing the other rider’s organ and forcing him over the edge. The older youth pushed in as deeply as their bodies would allow and moaned his release as his hot seed spilled inside of the other as his hand clenched tighter forcing that last drops of Eragon''s essence from the slit at the tip.

He pulled out nearly collapsing on the smaller rider and noticed hat his brother had a blank look on his face. Eragon hated himself, trying to withdraw into his shell away from everything that happened. He hadn’t wanted it, at first. But he gave in, he always did, he gave in again and he was disgusted. He stared dully off into the scorching sky as the setting sun set the horizon the color of blood. The color that had been shed so much that day. It would cover the battle fields for months before the rain could completely wash it away. When he finally allowed himself to look around for his brother he noticed he was fully dressed again and was kneeling to lift the bloody sword that fell had been lying so close. He didn’t hear what Murtagh said as he held to the hilt of the blade, something about birthright. Eragon didn’t care, Eragon just wanted to die and a tear slid down his face as he turned to watch the fiery sphere disappearing in the surface again. Murtagh had reached out with his mind and it mere seconds the ground vibrated as a ruby claw grabbed him from the sky and Saphira crashed with an enraged roar next to her rider. She wanted to pursue them, she wanted to devour Murtagh whole and rip gaping wounds in the red dragon. But her rider deserved her attention now and she lay next to his bleeding, scraped, bruised body covering his exposure with a thin membranous curtain of sapphire blue. His wrist’s were swelling, his back was bleeding, there was warm fluid running from his body and coating his stomach, it was all that remained of his battle with his brother. All Eragon could do was cry, it was all he wanted . . . to just cry.

Murtagh circled on Thorn for a few moments, above the cloud break where Saphira could not see them. He reached out with his mind and felt his little brother recoil as the fog took over his subconscious once more. “Don’t die Eragon . . . . After this war is over and which ever side has one, I’m returning, for you.” Eragon whimpered and Saphira’s roar echoed into the fog shoving Murtagh violently from the raped rider’s thought. Thorn gave an annoyed rumble but whether it was from Saphira or Murtagh the rider did not know. He spoke to his red dragon and they turned, heading back to report to their king while their broken counterparts remained still in the desert sand. The sun went down, night invaded and Eragon cried himself to sleep with seething hatred for the world and him.
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In the Midst of Battle