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Over his many years, Brom had played more parts than even he would care to admit.

The wide-eyed student, then proud Rider Brom, and his loyal dragon Saphira. Then Brom, survivor; Rider of nothing and more vengeful ghost than man. Brom, founder of the Varden. Brom, master of many things and yet unable to fill the void left behind the day he lost his other half.

What made it worse was that the only ones remaining who could understand his pain were the very people responsible for causing it, and tearing the world down in the first place besides.

Brom found little room in his heart for empathy towards the child Morzan hid away. It was easy to trace the flow of goods and people, for no matter how paranoid the other Rider was he could never fool Brom. Not when they were younger, not when they were Riders, and certainly not now. Age had only made the last Forsworn more predictable, worsening where a better man would have learned to correct and compensate. Donning the guise of a gardener was even easier than Brom would have guessed — for all of Morzan's secrecy, those responsible for vetting his staff were simple to hoodwink.

The boy, Murtagh, was very young and had more of his father than Brom would have hoped. His hair was dark, his gray eyes piercing, and Brom grimaced the first time he saw his face. Poor boy, he would never be able to escape the truth of his parentage. And as for his mother…

Selena was nothing like what Brom expected. 

He'd expected The Black Hand to be cunning, her wit matched only by the keen edge of her resolve. She was indeed that, but he found her to be much more. Her steadfast nature and sharp tongue made quick work of the walls he'd long kept high around his heart. If one of Brom's agents had been in his place, he would have considered them thoroughly compromised.

As it was, he allowed himself a small bit of grace.

What he hadn't expected was for the love the two of them shared to change so much, freeing Selena from the bonds that once tied her to Morzan. But that was his mistake, thinking that the rules of the world were rigid and uncompromising when he especially ought to know better.

Brom was not aware of the fruit their union had borne until he heard word that The Black Hand had attempted to flee, been pursued by Morzan, caught and returned to the grounds — for she was with child. His heart contracted, icy dread flooding his veins even as he kept his expression schooled into a careful mask of disinterest.

He plied the servant whom had given him the information with an illicit bottle of spirits, and then made his way carefully towards the wing where he knew Selena's rooms were.

Just in time, he rounded a corner and heard the cry of a babe pierce the air. A whisper was all it took for Brom to conceal himself, shadows rising to cloak him from the sight of men and monster alike as he stole closer and closer. The next time the door opened, he swept in after the fretting form of Morzan's son as if he were no more than smoke, and beheld his love exhausted and pale.

She was surrounded by a midwife and several others who attended to her while she attempted to catch her breath, but she paid them no mind. Using all of the remaining strength she had, she kept herself upright. There was a hint of blood in the air, copper in Brom's nose as he stood and watched.

Selena beckoned her first child forward, and Murtagh obeyed. The boy seemed overwhelmed, elated at finally being allowed to see his mother again and at the same time worried for her and the new sibling she'd birthed.

"Come, Murtagh— come, we won't bite," she said, voice brittle but unbroken. "Hold him— like that, yes, support his head."

Murtagh did as instructed, glancing furtively between her and the babe. His face was pale, eyes two watery pools. Did he recognize the shakiness of her limbs, the anxious glances the servants shared, and know what it meant? Brom hoped not. It was the first kind thought he'd had involving the boy.

"Murtagh," Selena said, finally allowing herself to lay back against the fine sheets and pillows, "this is your brother. You'll take care of him, won't you?"

You will not allow your father to lay a finger on him. The unspoken words passed between mother and son. Murtagh's trembling chin set, his expression steeling in a manner so very much like his mother that it made Brom's chest ache.

"Yes," the boy said, glancing down at the sniffling newborn. "Mother— what is his name?"

"Eragon," Selena breathed, fighting to keep her eyes open. "You two… stay safe, you hear me?"

"Miss," the midwife began, "please, you're not well—"

"Silence!" Selena barked, and then turned her waxen gaze on her children once more. "I am more proud of you than any wrong you could ever do — you repeat this until you know it, and you be sure Eragon learns it as well."

Murtagh nodded, eyes glistening with tears that did not fall. He was strong, Brom thought — of course he was, to survive the physical and mental scars Morzan had inflicted on him.

"Yes," he breathed, "Mother, I— I swear I will."

He glanced down at the child in his arms, and Brom recognized the hardening of his stormy gaze. It reminded him of the manner with which Morzan looked at Selena; covetous and protective in a way that a child who was not yet four shouldn't have been capable of feeling, let alone expressing. Despite the joy that coursed through him at the knowledge that he had a son, in the wake of the birth Brom felt only unease.

Trapped, that's what he was. Forced to watch as Selena withered away, spending her last days with her children. It was as if Brom blinked; one evening she was there, and the next all the halls were hushed and a new emptiness yawned wide in his chest. The funeral was a distant and impersonal affair for all but a few souls.

Perhaps this was what he deserved for not being able to stop Galbatorix and the Forsworn, but not his son, never his son. He could only hope he would be able to protect Eragon in his own way, for he knew if he laid a hand on the child that Morzan would spare no effort in returning the son he thought was his.

The injustice of it made Brom grit his teeth, but he was used to indignity. It was an old friend.

Brom watched from afar as Murtagh buried and mourned Selena. Eragon was too young to understand, and with no mother he clung to Murtagh instead. It was troubling, not being able to raise him. Murtagh fed him, taught him to walk, spoke of their mother to him, and with no one else about who was close in age the boys took to one another like weeds. But there was nothing Brom could do except wait.

His plans finally bore fruit after a year had passed. From his web of spies came word that they'd been successful, amazingly so.

Two dragon eggs liberated from the king's clutches, leaving only one remaining. One day, little one.

Brom departed under cover of night, recovering the thief turncoat and his precious cargo without issue.

The trouble came afterwards in the form of Morzan and his crimson blade.

He spat insults at Brom as the two traded blows, bragged of his progeny and his wealth and the assassin he'd fooled into absolute servitude, and Brom held his tongue. He'd never been the gloating sort, content with the knowledge that the Forsworn would remain a fool until he fell and breathed his last.

And fall he did beneath Brom's quiet rage, slumping to the ground as his hands went slack around the hilt of the sword that Brom so hated.

I've done it, Saphira. I've avenged you.

He stared at the awful weapon where it lay, bloodstained and glinting in the moonlight, and found he felt no better. Killing the one who took his dragon from him had done nothing to soothe his wounded soul. Though he knew it was his own mind playing tricks, he could swear the sword was laughing at him.

I'm sorry I cannot do more, he thought and reached for the accursed thing.

It would never harm another innocent soul.

It took some time for Brom to put things in place, but his previous plans held true. The eggs he gave to the Varden, brilliant blue and striking red. He only paused once as he prepared them for travel, gaze settling on the ruby shade of the second egg. Brom wished its color didn't give him misgivings, didn't make his gut twist and bubble with apprehension. A Rider's intuition was rarely ever wrong. For a split-second, he wished that the red egg were left behind in Galbatorix's hands and the other egg had taken its place. He swept the thought aside with ease — what was another transgression when he was guilty of so much already?

Though he would never tell another soul, he sent a silent prayer as he finished wrapping the eggs. He hoped the red one would hatch for an elf, someone he would never have to meet, or if he did it would only be to congratulate the Rider on their victory over the Empire.

Brom should have known then that he was sealing his own fate.

He returned to the grounds still abuzz with the news of Morzan's passing. The atmosphere felt lighter, as if the knowledge that no one would have to suffer the Forsworn's presence ever again had lifted the spirits of even the most rotten and wicked souls. The mood would fall again, Brom knew, once the staff realized whose direct rule they would be under going forward.

By all accounts, Brom should leave; pack his things and return to the task of sowing the seeds that would one day bring the Empire crashing down. But he couldn't; not with his son still in its clutches.

To everyone but him, the boy was Eragon Morzansson, and if he were to go missing so soon after his fathers' death Brom doubted he could keep him hidden long enough to prove adequate training and means to defend himself from the king and his forces. And Brom was tired, a deep ache in his bones that only grew heavier when he chanced upon the boys one day not long after his return.

The evening light gave Selena's gardens an ethereal quality, turning them into a place untouched by the ravages of the world where the two children could play.

Murtagh's face when he laughed was a deadly combination of his mother's wholehearted manner and his father's clumsy chuckles. Brom's heart squeezed. Had he really forgotten their days as Riders, how Morzan seemed almost afraid to express his own joy, flinching away from every raised hand as though all the world was his enemy?

It was the same skittish energy his eldest now displayed, like a beaten foal separated from its mother long before it was proper. Yes, Brom had been right to do what he had; no matter how Morzan may have acted before, he had ultimately left scars that would never heal. Eragon's dirty blond hair was beginning to darken at the roots, his peals of laughter all Selena as he weaved between bushes with Murtagh on his heels. The elder was moving slower on purpose, his shoulders unburdened now that Morzan was no longer haunting the grounds.

He had been a dead man walking, Brom thought as he watched their sons play. It was an act of kindness in the end, like putting down a mad dog. Like recognized like, after all; if he were not careful, one day another would do the same to him.

For now, he would wait and bide his borrowed time.

Within another cycle of the seasons, the estate was engulfed once more in low morale, though the reason this time was entirely different.

Regret.

Brom knew the bitter taste well, saw its sting on the face of every servant who passed through, in the eyes of every one who looked at or shared words with the sons of Morzan. Each one, no matter how ill or well-intentioned, kept a careful distance from the boys.

It was the same manner with which new farmers tried to avoid growing too attached to their animals. A lamb, no matter how fine or gentle, was sometimes born destined for the knife. On some level, the staff knew they were raising the children for slaughter.

Galbatorix was not a kind man — he was not a man at all if Brom were to be frank, though thankfully no one asked him for his opinion — and even if the two survived the king's clutches, there were much worse things than simple death at his hands.

If Morzan was a mad dog, then Galbatorix was a shambling corpse. The man he once was died long ago, departing the world when his dragon perished. What remained was fueled by guilt, grief, and denial; an overgrown child who'd made a mistake with horrible consequences and spent every moment of his time shrieking Give it back! Give it back! into the void. He couldn't accept that his own choices had caused his misery, and thus the world had to be at fault. It was his undoing, and the undoing of those Riders who became the Forsworn. The king was worse than a shade; a walking dead man trying desperately to regain what he'd squandered to the detriment of the dragon he'd forcibly bound to him and every other living thing to which his influence extended.

Brom understood intimately how he felt, and it only made his hate for the man that much deeper. For dooming so many, he would pay. Even if it took Brom's life. If it took his death, as he suspected it would, then that suited him just as well. But not yet. No, Brom had more work to do.

As a result of everyone holding them at arm's length — even Eragon's own wet nurse — the boys were rarely seen apart. Murtagh, tall and serious with Morzan's looks becoming more prominent the older he grew; Eragon, his brown hair and warm eyes all Selena. Both children displayed an obvious talent for swordplay, with a man by the name of Tornaq serving as their tutor. Under his guidance, they flourished, and often could be found trading blows in their mother's garden when they wanted a bit of privacy.

Brom was not inclined to allow them much of it, given how hands-off every responsible figure in their lives had taken to being. Someone had to keep an eye on them.

He did not like the way they walked so close to each other, how they circled in sync with their swords in hand, and especially how Murtagh's gaze always seemed to devour the sight of Eragon like he was the only water in a barren desert. He liked even less that Eragon looked back, how he seemed unconsciously able to tell when Murtagh had ceased looking at him; his shoulders would tense and he would glance around in poorly-veiled anxiety, only relaxing once the familiar weight of those eyes returned.

It began as usual, a shared "Are you ready, Eragon?" followed by an excited "Are you?" before the two of them tensed in preparation and rushed forward.

The clang of metal rang out in the morning air, dew still clinging to the grass beneath Brom's feet as he watched the duel. There was a ferocity in their movements that didn't suit their ages but matched the glint of the real blades they wielded. Back and forth they went, step by step, and Murtagh grew visibly frustrated at how well his younger brother was able to hold out against him.

Perhaps it was Eragon's lack of experience, the three years he lacked in comparison to Murtagh made all the more apparent by the difference in their heights, that made what happened next inescapable. A learned swordsman was a much safer opponent than someone new to the sport; foes with experience were predictable, while those without it were inclined to rely on their undeveloped instincts and take risks even the most accomplished warriors could not account for.

Brom watched as Eragon dove under Murtagh's textbook swing, his movement liquid and the weapon in his hand a ripple of deadly silver. Because it was a shortsword and not something longer, it would not take out an eye. Brom told himself that was the reason why he did not move to prevent what followed.

The shriek Murtagh let out when the blade bit into his face was more animal than man. Yet even as he dropped to his knees with one hand pressed to his cheek, he did not let go of his sword, and Brom felt a sliver of respect for the boy. He would be a formidable swordsman one day.

"I cut you!" Eragon shrieked, dropping his own sword and diving to kneel before his brother, hands dancing inches away from the harm he'd accidentally done, "Murtagh, I'm so sorry— I did not mean to hurt you—"

"It doesn't," Murtagh gritted out, as though blood were not dripping down his face and onto the fine fabric of his shirt, "hurt. This is— nothing, brother."

In pain, he sounded much like Morzan, yet there was an iron will in his words: he believed them to be true. So he cared not for the fact that his own flesh and blood could have maimed or killed him? That sort of unwavering devotion was dangerous, Selena's nature shining through the smile her oldest directed at Eragon. It would not do.

Brom got to his feet, making no attempt to hide his approach.

The way Eragon stood and put himself between them did not escape Brom's notice, but he pretended it didn't concern him. He was a mere servant, after all; an old gardener with a few secrets.

"And I suppose your teacher knows you took those?" He asked by way of greeting, inclining his head and giving them his best withering look from beneath his brows. "That is quite the nasty blow you've dealt, young master."

Eragon flinched, guilt coloring his brown eyes as he glanced over his shoulder.

"I—" He began, "I didn't mean to—"

"Nonetheless," Brom said, striding to stand before him, "you did. Now, will the young master allow me to heal him, or shall we wait for someone to discover exactly where that yell came from?"

Eragon bit his lip, staring at him the same way his mother had upon realizing he was more than he seemed, suspicion laced with curiosity all tangled in his gaze. But he was not Selena, just as Brom was nothing to him apart from a cranky old man.

"Brother," came Murtagh's rasp, "it's alright — I recognize him. He's been here since before you were born, I think— did you know our mother?"

Brom nodded once.

"I owe the late lady my life," he said, choosing to speak only the truth, or as close to it as he dared. "I now repay my debt to her in your service."

The two boys exchanged a glance, silent communication in a language Brom realized he would never be able to fully comprehend, and then Eragon stepped aside. To separate them would be difficult, but he would have to attempt it while they were still young and untested. Later, he told himself, there would be time to plan later. For the moment, there was a child whose twisted expression of pain made his heart keen in recognition.

Brom knelt, murmuring words of power and holding his hidden palm over Murtagh's wound, watching as both of the boys gasped in shock and surprise.

"How can you perform such feats?" Murtagh asked, flexing his jaw as he trailed his fingers over the scar-free skin, and then spoke again as if he knew Brom would not answer his question. "Is it a skill that can be learned?"

"Perhaps."

"Could you teach us?" Eragon said, kneeling in the damp grass and grabbing for Murtagh's hand. It was still bloody, staining both their fingers as Eragon stroked his thumb across the back of Murtagh's knuckles.

Dread pitched in Brom's gut like a stone hitting water, but he ignored it.

"I might, young masters. I might."

Being a teacher was not a role Brom ever thought he would fill.

Yet he'd missed magic, missed the flow and feel of it on his tongue. It made his life sweeter, fended off the despair caused by his primary goal as a torch did the darkness.

Separating the sons of Morzan was proving to be a monumental task.

In the early days of being their tutor, he told them he would only give them one-on-one lessons to ensure they each learned at their own pace.

And they agreed for a time, long enough that Brom watched them grow from children into teenagers as their grasp of the Ancient Language grew in tandem.

Murtagh's face remained sharp, the last of his boyhood softness vanishing without a trace. He had a cunning edge to his gray eyes, his cleverness an amalgamation of both his parents' heritage, yet his spirit was unbroken as his mother's before she became entangled in his father's web. He despised Morzan with a resolve that challenged even Brom's, a loathing matched only by the adoration he so obviously felt towards his younger brother. Even Murtagh's love for Selena fell short of the fire that blazed in his gaze whenever someone took Eragon's attention from him, and few escaped his ire in times when the two were apart for more than a day.

Eragon meanwhile, was every inch Selena's son. His brown hair grew longer and longer, not shaggy in the same manner as his elder brother's; instead, he pinned it back out of his face and ensured that it was well kempt. His eyes often flashed in the same way that his mother's once had — such as upon encountering difficulty in his lessons — and he displayed a surprising talent for deception by technicality. The latter was a trait inherited from Brom, something for which he felt no small amount of satisfaction.

Yet it made the way Eragon stubbornly held to the bond between he and Murtagh all the more cause for despair.

Unnatural, Brom wanted to say of the closeness between them, This will only cause you misery, can't you see that? Stop this madness.

But he knew it was pointless. Good sense meant nothing to him when he was their age, had done less than nothing to stop Selena. Why would their son be any different?

Even if Eragon was unaware of his true parentage, he was so wholly theirs that it made Brom's chest ache so much it kept him awake on particularly cold nights. My son, he thought, the words never leaving his lips. My son is the very reason I'm doing this. I will stay strong for him.

For all they were isolated, the servants and even those above still had plenty of gossip concerning the sons of Morzan.

Tall, dark, and mysterious they called Murtagh. Polite and noble, yet cold.

Firey and spirited, they said of Eragon. Driven and honorable, the sun to his brother's moon.

Each acted as the other's shadow depending on the day and their moods, which were severely changeable in the face of court atmosphere and their own rapidly shifting bodies.

Though he had no love for Murtagh and likely never would, Brom could admit that his own memories of puberty were not pleasant. In a word, he would describe them as uncomfortable or even mortifying. For a time, Murtagh was gangly and unsteady on his feet, outgrowing his clothes at a ridiculous pace. But he did not return to the fawn-like shyness that had marked him as a child, weathering the discomfort with Selena's stubborness until his body began to fill out to better suit his new height.

Eragon grew in leaps and bounds, lithely strong like his mother even when rendered awkward by his changing body. Though he had access to a full wardrobe befitting his status at all times, he showed obvious preference for comfort and function over aesthetic appearances and defaulted to Murtagh's tastes more often than not. He displayed more raw talent than his brother for the Ancient Language, but Murtagh was the more gifted of the two when it came to mental shielding.

Far too many times, Brom tested the surface of the younger boy's mind and came away burned.

He knew more than he would have liked. For example, he knew that Eragon made a habit of stealing Murtagh's old clothes regardless of whether the garments were washed or unwashed; he knew that whenever there was gossip about a potential betrothal Eragon spent days afterward in a perpetual bad mood that only Murtagh could alleviate; he knew that Eragon didn't much care whether his hair was short or long and his current act of allowing it to grow out was purely because Murtagh said he liked it.

If Brom weren't already long past graying, having to deal with watching his son grow more and more dependent on Morzan's kin would have finished the job.

By the time Eragon was thirteen years of age, Brom admitted defeat and began to teach them at the same time. He suspected they were discussing the content of his tutelage in agonizing detail and would continue to do so regardless, and at this stage in their training it was more important to check and ensure they were not developing bad habits than it was to preserve his own machinations.

Eragon in particular struggled to not be ruled by his emotions, and more than once Brom had to reprimand him for behavior that would get him killed if he ever managed to properly cast — in this Murtagh was, for once, his ally, as both of them expressing their disappointment seemed to finally get the lesson through the younger boy's head.

The question of whether or not the sons of Morzan could survive separation was one that Brom didn't dare answer. When — not if, but when — life or the king called them to separate duties, he shuddered to think of the consequences.

Watching the two of them grow up together reminded Brom of trapped animals, the way they looked at those of staff and noble standing not unlike a fox deciding how far into the brush a trap extended.

Eragon was kind and warm to even the lowest of servants, but Murtagh could sway him with an ease that made Brom frown at the mere memory of it. He knew the boy wasn't his father, and yet… and yet.

It was difficult not to hold him at arm's length, not to scour his actions for any and all resemblance to Morzan, not to flinch when those actions that gave him pause were so often tempered by echoes of Selena and he was reminded that something had drawn her to the last Forsworn long before either child was anything more than a glint in her eyes.

Murtagh for his part never treated Brom with anything but respect, yet his gray eyes never softened around him. Whenever Brom spoke harshly to Eragon, those eyes would flash and remain fixed until Brom left his line of sight.

Were Brom a lesser man, he would have taken drastic measures to properly separate the boys as they continued to grow. Murtagh, always looking at Eragon; Eragon, beginning to look back. Always standing too close, spending too much time together, sparring and wrestling and sneaking off whenever they could get away with it. They were shadows entwined, two figures clothed in black that haunted the grounds in place of their parents.

His son didn't belong here, the cold that permeated every inch of the stone walls wouldn't leave him untouched forever. Fourteen years was a stoke of luck under the Empire, and the closer he got to fifteen the more it seemed to Brom that he was tempting fate.

He already believed himself to be Eragon Morzansson, how many more days did he have before the same sickness that was in Murtagh grew too deeply rooted in him to be removed?

The injustice of it was enough to make Brom grind his teeth.

News from the Varden was sparse for both his protection and theirs. To ensure no one could be caught with incriminating intel in their possession or even within their minds, he had to periodically venture out and into one of the nearer villages. There, he would be able to retrieve any urgent messages and acquire any materials he needed from the world beyond the Empire's influence.

As he made his way towards the estate's main exit, Brom passed a servant. His eyes caught on the letter in her hand, noted the wax seal bearing the king's crest. That did not bode well. He would have stopped and turned around, but the sight of Tornaq following her quelled the wave of disquiet that threatened to rise in his chest.

The swordmaster inclined his head, eyes softening the tiniest bit at the corners. Brom returned a nod of his own, then quickened his pace.

He would return as quickly as time would allow, and then all would be well. In addition to picking up a few things, he intended to set Eragon's escape in motion during his time in the world outside.

By the time Brom reached his destination, the news that awaited him was both welcome and terrible.

First and more welcome was the face that neither of the eggs had hatched for anyone, elf or human.

Second, much more recent and enough to make Brom's mind empty itself with grief, was thus:

The king had summoned both of Morzan's sons to Urû'baen. They had no choice but to obey. The last anyone saw of them, the two boys were entering the great city accompanied by Tornaq.

And then they'd vanished without a trace.

Eragon held tight to the reins as he urged his horse onward. Though they had long since lost sight of Urû'baen, he wouldn't feel content until there was as much distance between them and the accursed city as was physically possible.

Even then, he doubted he would ever feel truly safe again.

The image of Tornaq sprang unbidden to the forefront of his mind and he flinched, eyes stinging. Their swordmaster was a good man, would remain thus even in death, and if he had any family still living then Eragon would see to it that they learned his last act was one of a true hero.

Eragon hadn't met the king, that apparent honor fell to Murtagh first. Eragon had been forced to wait, his heart crushed in fate's clenched fist as Tornaq did his best to quiet the waves of anxiety that rose up to claw at his youngest pupil. Evil, the whole city felt diseased and left a bad taste on Eragon's tongue. When Murtagh finally reappeared, Eragon forgot for a moment that the two of them were not alone and raced across the room to check his pale face for wounds, fingers caressing his cheeks as if to reassure Eragon that he was not a figment of his imagination. Thankfully, Tornaq had bid the elder tell them what their next move would be, reminding Eragon to put space between the two of them even as his fingers curled in a silent bid for purchase in Murtagh's clothing.

He had never seen his brother so terrified; not even when he spoke of the rages their late father was prone to — not even when he finally allowed Eragon to see the scar left behind by the man. Yet he still didn't know what Galbatorix had said to make Murtagh quail so, only that it was bad enough to send them fleeing into the night, their teacher falling behind them to ensure their escape.

A murmur of his name was enough to break him out of his thoughts and he lifted his head, meeting familiar gray.

"What is it?" He asked, watching as Murtagh brought his own horse up beside him.

"I said," Murtagh began, his brow creased in the same way it did whenever he asked whether or not he'd gotten enough to eat, "if you need to rest, we should find a place to stop for an hour or two—"

"No!" Eragon barked, suddenly wide awake. "If we slow down, if we stop at all, we'll be caught."

You know this, he wanted to say, you know it very well, I can see the panic in your eyes. But you're willing to risk it for me. I can't allow that.

Murtagh nodded.

"Aye, but what good are we if we run ourselves ragged?" He turned, glancing at their surroundings. "I'll offer you a compromise, then. Ride and rest with me, and I will wake you when I need. That way, we only need stop for our mounts."

Eragon considered the offer, turning a critical eye on his brother after a moment of thought.

"And you swear you'll take your turn?"

Murtagh clicked his tongue, stopping both of their horses, and gestured for Eragon to dismount and join him.

"Yes," he said, taking Eragon's hand and helping him climb up to sit on his gray horse. "I promise."

Eragon nodded, suddenly aware of how heavy his eyelids felt as he looped his arms around Murtagh's middle. As he sank into an exhausted sleep, and his last thought was of how like this he could almost say he felt safe.

For weeks, the two of them stopped only long enough to let their horses rest. It was grueling work, but the world itself seemed to be on their side. Rain fell, washing away any marks they left upon the land, and on the rare occasion that news reached their ears it it tended to involve the Empire struggling with one setback or another. Revolts in outer villages, storms decimating coastal trade outposts, and not a single bit of reliable intel involving the lost sons of Morzan.

Eragon had grown up hearing stories of their parents. Time and time again he'd been told he looked so like their mother, with Murtagh often being compared to their father. They were a matched set, Eragon thought. Yet when he tried to recall memories of their parents, he always came up empty. Murtagh was the only family he'd ever known — the only one he needed. When Eragon thought of his mother, Murtagh came to mind.

He raised Eragon, welcomed him when everyone else withdrew. He taught him to walk; to hold a sword; to ride a horse. When Eragon fell, he was always there to extend a hand. When he made mistakes, Murtagh was there to reassure him. In the midst of the drab and dull tapestry that was Eragon's life, he was the warmth and goodness. Without him, Eragon shuddered to think of what his existence would be like.

But for all that he resembled their mother, Eragon worried that he had inherited something of equal and opposite value from their father; that whatever had been wrong in Morzan was in him too, an affliction that he could never hope to escape or cure.

He remembered seeing a portrait of their parents, the ice-cold realization that the way his father stared at his mother reflected the same horrid weave of possessiveness in his own heart. He felt it down to his bones, an ugly thing that snarled and snapped its teeth with every rumor of betrothal, every reminder that their time together was fleeting. Murtagh must not have noticed the rot, for he remained Eragon's constant and only companion, never wavering or flinching even when the old gardener began his not-so-subtle attempts at keeping them apart. The man must have known, had to have seen the sickness in Eragon's eyes. Why else would he glare at Murtagh so often?

More than once, Eragon had contemplated throwing himself on the ground and begging for forgiveness.

Don't hate him, hate me; it's me, it's my fault — please, cut this out of me before he sees it.

He never acted on those thoughts, and every time his gaze lingered on Murtagh the guilt that would follow became easier to manage.

The howling void inside him was soothed by their life now. Despite the exhaustion they were in constant recovery from, they were together. Their mounts were warhorses, fine beasts bred for stamina and speed alike. Murtagh's gray stallion, named Tornaq for their former mentor, was as constant as the stars in the sky. Eragon's own horse was never far behind. A black mare he'd taken to calling Sable, she kept pace easily and more than once had roused them from a nap with her ears alert; a signal that they needed to be on the move lest they be caught unawares by strangers.

It was a much different life than either were used to, but Eragon didn't mind. As long as he had his brother, he was certain he could endure any hardship.

"We may need to start entering villages soon," Eragon said one day, sitting on a moss-covered rock while he checked their supplies. "See if we might trade some coin for a bow and arrows."

Murtagh grunted from where he stood, bent over his various knives and other weapons as he examined them for rust and wear. Eragon allowed himself to stare, enjoying the sight of his brother devoting himself wholly to the task at hand. His brother had checked Eragon's first, a relatively easy affair since between the two of them Eragon carried a smaller number of weapons.

"Aye, you may be right." Murtagh paused to test the sharpness of the last one before beginning to replace the various hidden blades he kept on his person at all times. "Do you think it would be wise for us to go together? I don't doubt word of us has spread to even the farthest reaches."

Eragon pursed his lips. Murtagh knew he hated being apart, felt it just as keenly like an itch under the skin. No one else knew or trusted him; to any other soul, Eragon Morzansson was nothing but a noble whelp whose only worth stemmed from his pedigree and his proximity to his fugitive brother. How high could the bounty be that the Empire had doubtless placed on their heads? Was it worth risking their freedom?

"I have an idea," he said, getting to his feet. "They'll be looking for us as we are now."

"And you have a solution?"

Rather than reply, Eragon walked further into the trees. He knew Murtagh was following, yet still glanced over his shoulder. Satisfaction curled like a serpent in his chest at the sight of Murtagh's gaze fixed upon him, the guilt that followed an old friend. He allowed a slight smile to cross his face, turning his attention back to the trees in front of him and resisting the urge to pepper a skip into his pace.

Once he'd reached a bush, Eragon paused to pick the dark berries he'd spotted yesterday; they grew in heavy clusters and would have stained his skin were he not wearing gloves.

"We'll use these to color my hair," he said. "And I'll cut yours."

Murtagh's eyes widened, "They have orders to apprehend us based on appearance— brilliant, brother."

Eragon flushed with pride. Together, the two of them crushed handfuls of the berries to make a dark paste. After stripping his outer layers off, Eragon did his best to sit still while Murtagh pressed the makeshift dye into his hair in layer upon layer. While they waited for it to take effect, Eragon used a smaller knife to trim Murtagh's overgrown mane.

It was just as well, Eragon thought, that he had next to no skill when it came to this; he rather liked Murtagh's hair shaggy. It gave his brother a rugged edge that complimented his quiet, keen nature.

"There," he said once satisfied with his work, "you look much better."

Suddenly aware of the intimate silence that stretched between them, Eragon withdrew his hands and stowed his knife.

"I should wash this out." He gestured to his head. "I'll be right back—"

"Wait," Murtagh said, catching the end of his sleeve and rising to walk after him. "Let me help. Knowing your luck, I'd have to come and rescue you from the water."

Eragon twisted his mouth in a pout, but the warmth in Murtagh's voice took the sting from his words. And it was true — Eragon had a tendency to get himself into trouble when left unsupervised. There was a pond nearby that would do nicely, and they were far enough away from civilization and people that the possible need to make a small fire for warming themselves afterwards wouldn't be an issue.

Eragon knelt by the shallows and closed his eyes. He allowed Murtagh to rinse his hair without so much as flinching at the coldness of the water. As a matter of fact, he was grateful for the rather unpleasant sensation making it difficult for him to focus on the heavenly feel of Murtagh's fingers on his scalp.

His enjoyment of the touch wasn't new, but the ravenous hunger he felt in response had taken on an edge that was; it burned in his chest and gut and made him ball his hands into fists as he resisted the urge to grab and touch Murtagh in return.

"Did it work?" Eragon asked when the splashing ceased, keeping his eyes firmly closed.

"Yes, I think so," Murtagh murmured.

His hands, bare and cold yet somehow warm at the same time, tenderly brushed some hair behind Eragon's ear and dabbed cold drops from his face. The tips of his fingers, calloused from holding a blade, were soft on Eragon's skin.

"It's today, isn't it?" Murtagh whispered. "Fifteen years, to the hour this eve. I wish mother could see you."

Eragon opened his eyes, and the reflection that stared back at him in the pond's surface finally aligned with what he knew of himself. Their mother would not have liked it, but to Eragon it felt right. The boy he saw had dark hair like Morzan, brown eyes like Selena, and behind him wringing water from his hair was his brother.

Now, he had to say something now, had to know if the ache in his heart was returned or not.

He opened his mouth and the world exploded.

A bolt of lightning unlike anything he'd ever seen split the sky in half, striking up from the ground rather than down through the air. The blast had Eragon scrambling back from the pond's edge while Murtagh curled himself around him like a wild cat protecting its kit. The two of them fell into a ball on the damp grass and lay still. Eragon hardly dared to breathe more than once, filling his lungs with the smell of his brother: leather and something else that was uniquely Murtagh.

But there were no more strikes, not even a rumble of distant thunder. Instead there was only silence, a faint smell of ozone, and the tickle of petrichor that betrayed oncoming rain.

With a pang of regret, Eragon pushed himself free of Murtagh's arms, squeezing his shoulder once in thanks and clambering unsteady to his feet. He could see steam rising just across the pond and broke into a run, reaching the other side and skidding to a stop.

A perfect circle of dried mud had been engraved into what was shallow water mere seconds before, and in the center of it rested two large stones: one the purest sapphire and the other a striking vermilion. He heard Murtagh's footsteps behind him, but ignored his call for him to wait and sprang into action.

Something was pulling him towards the stones like a fish on a hook. He walked forward and knelt, but before he could touch the nearest one a hand caught his wrist.

"They could be cursed," Murtagh was saying. "Or bewitched, a trap to draw us in—"

"Very well." Eragon leaned back, gesturing to the stones. "You're better at this. Do you sense any magic?"

He watched as Murtagh's brow creased in concentration, his body coiled tense like a predator anticipating a fight. He circled the stones and Eragon both, gray eyes never wavering, and finally his shoulders relaxed minutely.

"See?" Eragon said, reaching forward to put a palm to the blue stone. "Ah— it's cold!"

He beckoned to his brother, and together they pressed their hands to each of the stones' impossibly smooth surfaces. With a hum, Murtagh pulled out one of his throwing knives and tapped the blunt handle on the crimson stone, drawing forth a low and reverberating sound.

"Hollow?" Murtagh whispered, glancing up at Eragon. "I don't like this."

Eragon shrugged, scooping both of the stones into his arms. They had an empty saddlebag; it would be foolish of them to leave anything that could be valuable behind. If the stones were not bewitched, then Eragon saw no reason why they should leave them behind to be engulfed again by the pond when the incoming storm arrived.

No matter how much he protested Murtagh would eventually give in. For Eragon, he always did.

After spending so long on the run, entering towns and villages was oddly refreshing. Eragon and Murtagh decided not to sell the stones just yet; anyone appearing with items of value such as that would be easily traceable and the last thing they wanted was to draw attention to themselves.

The two of them took to doing odd jobs for coin, food, and lodgings. They hunted when they were able, sold what they couldn't eat, and Eragon found himself quite content with their new life. It was a far cry from the way he was raised, but he wouldn't trade comfort — or anything — for Murtagh's company.

They went by different names in every place they stopped, their story changing; here they were brothers, there they were just two friends who happened to be traveling together.

Most recently they had spun the tale that they were brothers in search of distant relatives. The family who manned the large farm where they'd be staying had offered them a food and a roof over their heads for the night in exchange for aid. Eragon and Murtagh had spent the day helping the farmers and their two children with shearing and herding their sheep.

"It might have a leak or two," the family's eldest daughter said, showing them to the old barn they were to have for shelter. "But it's quite warm, even on the coldest nights."

"Thank you." Murtagh nodded, taking the reins of both their horses and starting towards the open doors.

Left behind, Eragon turned to take the large basket of food from the girl with a murmur of his own thanks. It had been days since he'd eaten anything warm, and he was salivating at the mere thought of fresh food that he would not have to first hunt and cook.

"Tell me," she said once Murtagh was beyond the point where he could hear them, "are you really brothers?"

Eragon flinched, caught off-guard by the question, and to his horror he felt heat filling his face.

"I— of course we are," he sputtered, "why would you think any different?"

The girl lifted a hand to her mouth, hardly muffling her giggles as her eyes shone. But there was no disgust in her green eyes, only curiosity.

"Don't worry," she whispered, "I won't tell — my special friend and I pretend to be siblings too, when we're traveling."

With a wink, she turned and raced back for the house, waving as she went and leaving Eragon staring dumbfounded after her. He wasn't used to people not jumping to turn others in at the first toe out of line, even a hint of otherness spelling dishonor at best and death at worst.

He would have to be more careful with how long he stared at Murtagh, and where he looked at him. No lingering on his shoulders or the angle of his face; at least not while they were around others.

"You took your time," Murtagh said, deceptively bland as he watched Eragon close the heavy barn door behind him. "What did she want? Was she propositioning you?"

Eragon rolled his eyes, turning and crossing to offer his brother the basket. Murtagh seemed certain that every person who treated him with even a crumb of genuine care had ulterior motives — and Eragon would be lying if he claimed he didn't both enjoy and find it the smallest bit insulting.

"No," he said firmly.

He watched Murtagh remove the heavy cloth cover and reveal the baskets' contents: fresh baked bread, cheese, slices of cured meat, several apples, and even a large jar of milk. From his expression it was obvious his brother didn't believe his claims, a frown remaining fixed firmly on his handsome brow despite the veritable feast they'd been given for their earlier efforts.

"Besides," Eragon said, kneeling and grabbing for a piece of bread, "I wouldn't be interested."

Murtagh looked up at him from beneath his bangs.

"And if the son had offered?"

Eragon chewed his lip, shaking his head.

"No… I mean, maybe if things were different. Very different, but— no."

"Why not?" Murtagh said.

"You know why," Eragon bit out, directing his gaze downward. "Would you accept a proposition from the son?"

For a moment, there was only silence. Eragon held his tongue, fighting the urge to lift his head.

A hand on his cheek was enough to make him startle, look up, and meet Murtagh's molten gaze. There was danger in his eyes, something he wanted to say but would not or could not. Not yet. He stared at Eragon, indecision and an unnamed thing warring before the fragile moment passed.

"No," he said at last, running his fingers through Eragon's hair. "I don't need anyone else."

After eating, they spread a worn blanket over one of the hay piles and lay down. They slept in a tangled pile, a creature with eight limbs and two hearts; the way it was supposed to be. Eragon remembered all the times they had snuck into each-other's chambers while growing up. At first it was because Eragon wouldn't stop crying whenever his brother vanished from his sight, forcing Murtagh to sleep in his room. Then Eragon found he woke poorly rested without him, and from then on they slept in the same bed more often than not.

"Unnatural," he'd heard one member of staff say, sympathy and pity curdling in her voice, "and terribly stunted. Poor things."

He didn't care what the servants thought, and neither had Murtagh.

They were Morzan's sons, what did the opinions of others matter? For all the indifference and hatered they felt towards the man, a bit of his indomitable spirit — and that of their mother — ran in their veins.

No one was brave enough to stop them. They could do as they wished, press at and test the boundaries of their social standing as they grew. And so they had, each with the other to ensure he never strayed too far.

Eragon was roused from sleep by a loud metallic clang and a sharp whinny. He groaned, pressing his cheek further into Murtagh's chest before reluctantly tearing himself away.

"Sable," he managed, rubbing his eyes and swaying to his feet. "What is—"

There was another clang, and he realized the sound was coming from his saddlebag; the one in which he had taken to keeping the stones. The bag which he saw was now moving.

He dove for it, undoing the clasp and stumbling back as the stones tumbled free of the leather and onto the barn floor, where they began to rock vigorously.

"E'r'gon?" Murtagh was always easily roused when Eragon left his side.

He rushed to his brother and tugged him upright, dragging him by the hand over to the stones.

Back and forth, back and forth.

Then, with a loud snap, cracks webbed across each surface. First the blue, then the red, and from within came muffled pitiful chirps.

Eragon watched, mystified by the sight of two tiny snouts pushing their way out of the eggs. His blood rushed in his ears, elation filling his head. Not stones, of course, how could neither of them have seen it?

Dragons! They were the sons of a Rider, after all. Why wouldn't they be destined for it?

Even Murtagh was stunned, his usual suspicion blunted by the hatching. Together, they watched the little dragons pull themselves free, eyes a bit too big for their heads as they swayed on clawed feet and gangly legs.

Eragon knelt, extending a hand to the sapphire dragon at the same time that his brother did the same for the crimson beast. It sniffed at his flesh before nuzzling, and pain exploded through him. He fell to the ground, Murtagh's shout of alarm echoing the discomfort he felt.

It radiated out from his palm, filling his veins and tearing open a part of him he hadn't been able to sense before. A new awareness flooded his senses, stinging like a thousand nettles and making him squirm.

Murtagh, was his only thought, Murtagh!

I'm here, came the answer from within Eragon's own mind, I won't leave.

With a grunt of effort, Eragon heard more than he saw his brother move his arm, loosely aligning their burning palms. That was right, he was never alone; they were together, in this and in all things. As it should be, Eragon thought, and allowed himself to drift into unconsciousness once more.

They woke early, packing and fleeing into the forest. Silvery spirals were hidden beneath leather gloves, chirping dragons stowed in the same saddlebag they'd been in as eggs.

Of course the beasts didn't remain there for long. The red dragon emerged and leapt through the air to latch onto Murtagh's arm, climbing up to ride on his shoulder. The blue dragon poked its snout out of the bag and watched Eragon, eyes glinting with an intelligence he'd never seen another beast display.

"They're cute," Eragon remarked, passing an apple to his brother around midday.

Murtagh only hummed, shrugging and taking a bite of the fruit. Eragon watched a drop of juice trail down from a corner of his mouth with no short amount of envy.

"I suppose so," Murtagh said, then sighed, "We should name them, shouldn't we?"

He offered the half-eaten apple to Eragon, who accepted and bit into it without hesitation. His stomach leapt when he realized Murtagh was watching him eat, his gaze intent as Eragon pressed his tongue into the marks left behind by his brother's teeth and licked his lips once he'd finished. But he pretended to be none the wiser.

As they traveled, the two traded names they knew from their studies. The blue dragon snorted and hissed at each one, finally shaking her head with a screech and bursting from her riding place to bound off into the forest.

"Well," Murtagh said, watching his own dragon race after her, "I supposed they can feed themselves. We should make camp."

Eragon agreed.

The dragons ate and grew at an alarming pace. Rarely did Eragon and Murtagh have meat to trade now; any leftovers they didn't care to consume their beasts fell upon with a ravenous energy that unsettled the horses.

Eragon began to tell stories of those who came before them, most of which had come from the strange gardener who'd taught them. In the midst of a tale of a blue dragon, his own let out a trill, to which Murtagh laughed and proclaimed "Suppose she's chosen Saphira, then!"; not long after that, Murtagh named his own dragon.

Eragon was speaking about their latest escapade, where they'd successfully entered and exited a village full of soldiers without being noticed. He called them "thorns in the Empire's side" and Murtagh's dragon spread his wings with a cry. Eragon grinned at his brother, who shook his head and declared with no small amount of fondness that Thorn suited the creature quite well.

Being a Rider wasn't at all what Eragon had been expecting. He felt as if he'd gained a seventh sense, an expansion of his mind he never would have imagined in his wildest fantasies. It was strange, not quite like shielding yet not exactly unlike it — if he didn't have Murtagh, he would be utterly lost.

With practice they were able to communicate not only with their dragons, but with their horses and any other animal as well. Using this new skill, the two found they were able to calm their mounts, and soon the beasts grew used to the new members of their band.

The Ancient Language they had grown up learning soon also gained a purpose as they tested the boundaries of their energy with the utmost care, always keeping each other in check. Eragon brought forth fresh water from the soil under their feat, and Murtagh coaxed greenery to hide their tracks.

Best of all was the discovery that they could now communicate without words, a sort of closeness that was deeper than skin-tight. It was addictive to be able to always know where the other was and what he was feeling, and sometimes they went days without speaking.

Saphira was an amazing creature. Like Thorn, she grew in leaps and bounds, and she accepted even the ugliest parts of Eragon's soul. He could hide nothing from her. She was the other half of his spirit and as fiercely protective of him as Murtagh himself.

Even if she did call Eragon a silly fool every time she caught him staring at the other Rider. Thorn was no better, with a mischievous streak that Eragon couldn't help but admire, and the two dragons were thick as thieves.

They were still able to make some coin by selling pelts, herbs, and information. Venturing into places with other people was always risky, but well worth it in Eragon's opinion. Together, the two of them entered the market and traded away all they'd brought, leaving the village with their coin purse significantly heavier.

Your hair is turning brown again, Murtagh's voice said in Eragon's mind, as he twined a loose lock of it around his finger and tugged. I— We could color it.

They'd done so several times, Eragon's hair growing longer and longer with each one.

Yes, Eragon thought, ducking his head in a nod to hide his flushed face. After we eat?

Murtagh nodded. No more words were exchanged for the rest of the outing, aloud or in their minds. They greeted their dragons upon returning to camp, ate, and then spent the afternoon foraging for berries and re-applying the dye to Eragon's hair.

It smelled sweet and sour all at once. The two of them sat in a patch of sunlight while Murtagh braided Eragon's hair, the latter dozing in and out of sleep. It reminded him of simpler days; afternoons spent in their mother's gardens asleep in Murtagh's lap or leaning against his shoulder while he read. When Eragon dreamed of fairy tales, it was Murtagh's voice that followed him and wove the story around him in the same way he had when they were children.

He was roused from his daze by a warning thought from Thorn, one that had them jumping to their feet and grabbing their swords.

But it was not soldiers as they'd feared. Instead, a figure he never believed he'd see again emerged from the nearby treeline.

"You," Murtagh growled.

Brom raised a brow, not the least bit intimidated by the blades raised toward him or the din of wings approaching.

"Me."

Saphira and Thorn arrived mere moments later, but to Eragon's shock the old man dispelled much of their ire with nothing more than a glance between the two creatures. What exactly he said to them Eragon didn't know — the man's mind was remarkably shielded, but the beasts soon stopped their snarling and crossed to take their places at their respective Rider's sides.

Brom watched each move with a critical eye.

"A bit lean," he murmured, and Saphira snorted. "You should be feeding them more."

Eragon frowned, taking a step forward. Neither he nor Murtagh lowered their swords.

"How did you find us?" he asked, and Brom only let out a bark of bitter laughter.

"You can hide from the Empire, young master," he said, a glint of something Eragon couldn't decipher in his blue eyes, "but not from me."

"Are you going to turn us in?" Murtagh asked, and then spoke to Eragon alone. Be ready to attack.

Brom didn't bother to hide the ice in his glare.

"Put the sword down, boy," he said, "Do you have any idea how many assassins were slain while your brother was still in his crib?"

"And that should make us trust you?" Murtagh said. "Enlighten me. Why should we believe you mean us no harm?"

Brom sighed.

"Because I have no love for the Empire." He reached behind him and drew a blade that Eragon thought at first was covered in blood — but no, he realized with a lurch that the sword itself was crimson red.

Brom tossed the sword onto the ground between them.

"Because I killed your father," he said, "and I've been waiting for those eggs to hatch so that I could teach their Riders."

He speaks truth, came Thorn's voice. Saphira rumbled her agreement, her mind equal parts sympathetic and soothing.

Eragon and Murtagh passed the situation between themselves silently, and with every second Eragon was sure Brom could see just how deeply they were entwined. His face twisted like he'd swallowed something sour as he stared at Eragon's hair, and a cavernous pit of shame tore open in Eragon's gut. He had not missed the feeling, and did his best to steel himself against it.

"Very well," Murtagh said, sheathing his sword and putting a hand on Eragon's shoulder to prompt him to do the same. "Train us."

Brom was an even tougher mentor than Eragon remembered.

He found fault in everything; their stances, the care they provided their dragons, their use of the Ancient Language. Everything was subpar; everything needed to be improved upon.

He tasked them with physical and mental exercises, pushed them until their bodies ached, and quizzed them on material he'd taught them when they were children — even when they were in the midst of other activities he'd assigned to them.

He expected them to memorize political dynamics between not only human factions, but others as well, and he seemed to despise them speaking to one another in thoughts rather than aloud. No matter how many times Brom claimed it was because he wanted them to become fluent in the Ancient Language, Eragon suspected that was nothing more than a convenient half-truth.

Still, Eragon didn't hate it. He had Saphira, Murtagh, and Thorn, and their horses were now joined by Brom's brown mount.

Weeks passed, then months.

Visits to settlements became few and far between. To celebrate him reaching sixteen years, Murtagh brought him a blue ribbon and braided it into his hair — which he'd allowed to turn brown again — and Brom's thunderous expression when he saw it the next morning made Eragon bite back a laugh.

The man attempted to talk to Eragon about his family only once. It was while Eragon was in the midst of constructing a saddle for Saphira, Murtagh having already finished his and departed on Thorn's back. For a time, there was silence between them; one watching while the other worked.

"It was admirable of you to change your appearance," Brom finally said, watching as Eragon arranged the sections of leather, "but… you must know, it's not a sin that you look so much like your mother."

Eragon began to bind the pieces together, grunting in response because he didn't care to divide his concentration by carrying on a proper conversation. Brom either did not realize his desire to not engage with the subject or simply ignored it.

"Whatever you believe Morzan may have done, his actions do not have to affect you."

That did make Eragon freeze and lift his gaze.

"And Murtagh?" He asked. "He's done nothing wrong, but you still look at him like you'd rather he weren't alive, let alone a Rider."

Brom shook his head.

"That's not the same—"

"It IS!" Eragon bolted to his feet. "Morzan is our father; his blood runs in my veins just as it does in Murtagh's. He's my only family, you have no right to treat him as you have, no right—"

He felt Saphira's mind prod his, curiosity and faint concern making him pause and take a breath.

"Whatever you hate him for," he began, kneeling to resume work on the saddle again, "you can either move past it or divide that hate between us."

His finger stung where he'd nicked the skin, but he ignored the small wound until he was finished. Sitting back, he brushed hair out of his eyes and gestured with his stained hand to the constructed saddle. It was not as well made as Murtagh's, but it was still servicable in Eragon's own opinion.

"Very well," Brom said quietly, a finality in it that he'd never heard before, "Eragon Morzansson."

True to his word, the man began to treat Murtagh more fairly. Traveling together was almost pleasant, getting to watch their dragons grow in size and ability while they also began to come into their own as Riders.

Eragon felt more at home in the air than he did on the ground, and took every opportunity to fly with Saphira. When he and Murtagh were both awing, he could feel himself practically burst at the seams with joy. Murtagh in turn seemed more alive in the air than he ever had on the ground, and Eragon soon had many memories of his brother's smiling face carefully tucked away in the corners of his mind.

Brom received messages on occasion, and had one such roll of parchment in his hand when Eragon and Murtagh returned from their day of flying.

"Who is that from?" Murtagh asked, squinting at the messenger bird perched in a nearby tree.

"An ally," Brom said, taking a bite of the small bread loaf in his other hand. "One who owes me a life debt and is repaying it by watching our backs."

Eragon opened his mouth to ask how this mysterious someone had ended up in such a position, but was prevented from voicing his curiosity by Brom scolding Thorn. The red dragon had begun to slink towards the bird in a manner that resembled a very very large cat.

It was rather ridiculous, and Eragon smiled as the chastized dragon snorted and retreated into the forest with Saphira on his heels. The dragons seemed restless lately; Eragon had witnessed them polish off an entire school of fish on their recent trip to a nearby river. Murtagh fell into step beside him, the two of them approaching the camp and putting together a meal's worth of food from their supplies.

"Are you leaving?" Eragon asked, gaze catching on Brom's horse and its packed saddlebags.

"For a time," Brom said. "I've left instructions with your dragons which they can relay to you."

He mounted his brown stallion, fixing them both with his usual stare.

"We will be waiting for you there. Don't be late."

With that, he flicked the reins and vanished into the trees with a fading drum of hooves.

He's gone to draw our tail away, Saphira said when Eragon expressed his concern. He is more than you know; he'll be fine.

We're to head for the Beor Mountains, Thorn said, shaking needles and leaves from his back. We can tell you more the closer we get.

Does he expect us to go through the desert, or around it? Murtagh interjected. In Brom's absence, he saw no reason as to why they shouldn't fall into old habits.

Eragon watched their dragons share a look that he couldn't read.

Around would be best, Saphira finally said.

Murtagh,Thorn complained. there's sap on my wing.

Traveling around the Hadarac Desert turned out to indeed be in their best interests.

Eragon was certain their dragons had to be sick. The creatures were irritable, snapping at anything bigger than a fly and lashing their tails at nothing. They were also strangely grounded, spending more time walking ahead of Tornaq and Sable than Eragon was used to.

It unsettled him, filled his mind with worries that somehow he'd been an inadequate Rider. Murtagh was able to talk some sense into him, though Eragon knew his brother shared his concern for both of their dragons.

After a fortnight had passed, Eragon realized with horror that they were contracting the same ill mood. He and Murtagh didn't fight; or at least they never fought with such frequency before this. They bickered over anything and everything; their food, where to get water, and even when to make camp or who would be taking the first watch.

"What's happening to us?" Eragon asked, huddled close to the fire they'd built in a cave to avoid the cold wind outside. His voice was rough from disuse.

"I don't know," Murtagh admitted from where he sat next to him.

He hesitated before leaning his shoulder against Eragon's, whose heart squeezed in his chest. Murtagh had never thought twice about touching him. This had to stop, had to before either of them said something they couldn't take back. If Murtagh were to distance himself from him because of this unusual dragon-born ill will, Eragon would die. That was all there was to it.

"Maybe we should see if we can find some medicinal herbs," Eragon said. It was a foolish plan, but what better option did they have?

Murtagh nodded with a hum, and then suddenly turned to face him. Eragon froze, hardly daring to breathe as his brother pressed a kiss to his forehead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "We'll figure this out, I promise."

Neither of them slept well that night. Eragon went to sleep feeling cold, then woke sweating and stifled. He wracked his brain yet again, trying to recall if he'd ever heard stories of dragons falling ill, and came up empty.

He hated this.

There was a crash from outside their cave, followed by sharp whinnies from the horses. Jolted into awareness, Eragon pulled himself up and raced out to see what caused the loud noise.

It was the dragons.

Saphira and Thorn circled each other, growls thrumming low in their chests. Neither of them were baring their teeth, and their body language brought to mind two cats play-fighting, but there was another edge to their behavior that made him nervous.

Eragon watched them as they walked, moving slower and slower before coming to a complete stop. Saphira tensed, and Thorn mirrored her. Even the birds and bugs were silent, as if the forest were holding its breath.

Then, Saphira launched herself into the air. She moved faster than Eragon had ever seen, rocketing upwards. Thorn was a streak of blood in the morning sky behind her. Eragon took a step forward, head craned back to watch their fading shapes, and he opened his mind to Saphira's to ask her what was going on—

And then he was her, his body on fire; everywhere, in his veins and heart and mind. He was the fastest thing in the sky, faster than any other creature alive. No one could catch him. From behind and below, there was a roar.

Eragon.

If the red dragon wanted to fly them—her, he would have to prove himself first.

Eragon!

Eragon gasped, stumbling and shaking his head as he found himself back in his body. His skin felt tight and hot, lips parted as he panted for breath.

Murtagh's palm was cool on his forehead, his mind pressing to Eragon's and then reaching for Thorn's as he tried to ascertain what had happened.

As Eragon watched Murtagh's eyes go distant, his shoulders swaying, he acted on the dual instincts racing through his bloodstream.

He shoved his brother, making him stumble and fall, and then he ran.

He ran, a desperation he'd never felt before flooding his veins — if he was worthy, he would catch him — no, what was he thinking? He wasn't Saphira, Murtagh wasn't Thorn, and he had to put as much distance between them before the animal desire rising in his mind made him act on the feelings he'd been harboring for so long. Not like this, he silently begged to anything that might have been listening. Please, not like this.

He closed his mind as he moved, erecting shields around his thoughts as best as he was able. He couldn't block Saphira out, but he could hide himself from Murtagh.

And he very much needed to, for when he dove behind a tree to catch his breath, he heard the loud crunch of brush underfoot.

"Eragon!" Murtagh called, voice rough with disuse and something else he dared not name. "Eragon? Where are you?"

Eragon pressed his lips together, slowing his breathing and leaning back against the trunk behind him.

One beat of his heart. Two. Three.

"I know… you're there," came Murtagh's low whisper, and Eragon realized too late he must have been spotted.

He took off again, felt a tug at the fabric of his shirt and pulled himself free. Murtagh was hot on his heels, stabs of uncoordinated intent assaulting his mental shields at the same time. It was almost impressive; no, it was impressive.

Good, he was strong and fast— no, he didn't want this. Eragon had to escape.

The trees blurred around him, and he contemplated using magic to restrain Murtagh. It would exhaust him, but what other option did he have? Even if he resisted, Eragon doubted he would be able to outrun him.

"Kev—" he began, wheeling on his heel and directing his intent at the nearest tree.

A weight slammed into his side and sent him tumbling, a hand clapping over his mouth.

"Why" Murtagh managed, wrestling him to the ground, "are you running? Do you hate me?"

Eragon shook his head.

"Do I disgust you?"

What? Eragon wanted to ask, opened his mind without thinking.

Fire clawed at his thoughts, ripping into his rationality and leaving him in the animal thrall that engulfed all four of their minds. He was torn between two places at once, soaring and diving to evade the dragon pursuing him and yet trapped beneath Murtagh's weight.

A hand pressed to his face, clumsy tenderness in the action even as Murtagh gave him a smile that was all teeth.

See? he cooed, fingers combing through Eragon's bangs. I caught you fair and square — I'm worthy, aren't I?

Eragon blinked, trying to organize the chaos of his thoughts. Murtagh pressed him further into the ground, but he barely felt the discomfort of twins and needles beneath his body. His mind was a disorganized beehive. Worthy? Of course Murtagh was, why did he feel the need to ask?

And then he remembered Murtagh wasn't himself. With his hands restrained and his energy for casting in doubt, Eragon had no other choice.

Murtagh howled when he bit him, his grip loosening enough for Eragon to throw him off and scramble to his feet.

He broke into a run, his gait unsteady and desperate. After attempting to close his mind once more, he gave up and poured all of his energy into fleeing. His mouth tasted of metal, and as he ran his tongue over the blood on his teeth he hoped he hadn't wounded Murtagh too badly.

For a stretch, Eragon believed he might have done it. His chest heaved, his legs shaking and his fingers slipping on the trunk of a tree when he finally stopped.

Everything was spinning, the whole world — he was a dragon and a human all at once, his body too small and too big and empty and alone and he knew the other Rider wasn't worth his time if he couldn't even withstand the fight he was putting up now—

Eragon put a hand to his head, shaking it from side to side as if he could dislodge himself from the endless loop of want-heat-want with sheer willpower alone.

And then a hand clamped down on his shoulder, shoving him face-first into rough bark as Murtagh crowded him against the tree.

Are you finished? he asked, out of breath yet satisfied. I caught you. You're mine.

Eragon shuddered, shaking his head. No matter how much he wanted to give in, he couldn't.

Why? I did everything right. Murtagh grabbed him, spinning him around, and Eragon winced at the sight of his bloodied lip. You're MINE. Say it.

No. Eragon shook his head again. You don't— you're not thinking clearly. I won't force you!

Force me? Murtagh's voice was tinger with disbelieving laughter. You can't force me. I've been so patient.

He lunged forward, teeth sinking into the side of Eragon's neck and making him yell, the fight leaving his body as he went limp. When Murtagh lifted his head, his mouth was stained red with both of their blood.

Eragon wished the sight didn't make the fire in his gut burn hotter, neck throbbing where he'd been marked in time with his racing heart and the heat gathering between his legs.

You feel the same, you have to, Murtagh swayed, fingers digging painfully into Eragon's skin. The king tried to offer you to me, but you weren't his to give— mother gave you to me first, you're mine— you always have been, and you know that, don't you?

Oh, Eragon thought faintly as he stared into gray eyes that reflected the same madness he had been fighting against for his whole life. The next second, the last fragment of his resistance crumbled into nothing.

He leaned forward, pressing their mouths together in a clumsy kiss. At first it tasted of blood and sweat, the sound Murtagh made in response more dragon than man before he kissed back.

He tasted faintly of the apple and meat they'd had for dinner the previous day, tongue overwhelming Eragon's as he grabbed for Murtagh's shirt to ground himself. He pressed his own tongue into the raw spot where his teeth had torn Murtagh's lip, then found his body siezed by an urge to further mark the other Rider. He ripped at Murtagh's shirt, fabric giving way under his desperate efforts to expose the bare flesh beneath. Eragon clamped his mouth to the place where neck flowed into the arch of Murtagh's shoulder, felt the muscles flex and relax under his tongue. How many times had he stared at Murtagh, ached to lick sweat from his brow or cling to him and beg for him to do something to soothe the desire lurking just under the surface?

His teeth broke skin, Murtagh's praise sweet like honey in his mind as blood flowed into his mouth and down his throat.

Their blood, shared between them, his brother his, the only one worthy of him—

Eragon whined around the flesh in his mouth, want curling tighter between his legs and overwhelming his senses. He arched his back, seeking out friction that he was being denied by his own desire to remain in his current position. Making the decision for him, Murtagh grabbed his braid and pulled until Eragon released the flesh in his mouth, lifting his head until their eyes met.

Messy, Murtagh said, his free hand gripping Eragon's chin, thumb smearing his own blood across his face. Ever since you were a babe. Come now, up, up.

Eragon stood, following him on the unsteady legs of a newborn fawn. He felt horribly ruffled and messy and obviously deviant, the facade he'd ept firmly in place for all his life thoroughly demolished.

But the way Murtagh looked at him made his shame worth it; made the desire in his middle burn hotter.

His brother tugged him down into soft leaves and went for his shirt. Their fumbling with one-another's clothing quickly devolved into something that resembled the wrestlibg they'd done in their boyhood, though this time they occasionally paused to press their groins together before one of them pushed the other away. The irregular rutting drove Eragon half out of his mind. Murtagh was warm against him, hard muscle and soft skin and everything he'd ever wanted.

Eragon was floating, half inside his body and half up in the sky, where their dragons were circling higher and higher, closer and closer.

Someone's shirt was ripped and hanging off — Murtagh's — and his own had vanished. Murtagh bit him several more times; on his shoulder and collarbone and even on his chest, hard and deep enough that Eragon let out a wail and spilled untouched into his undergarments. The bites stung, and he hoped they would scar. Delight colored their conjoined minds, bleeding from Murtagh to Eragon's like watercolors as the eldest caught the fleeting thought.

Mortification and desire mingled in Eragon's mind, Murtagh lavishing him with praise while they worked desperately to shed what little remained of their clothing.

Eragon was thoroughly unbalanced, the blood and sweat cooling on his skin doing nothing to calm the heat raging in him; in them. He was here, and yet also above with Saphira. The dragons cut close circles in the thin air, claws locking and tails lashing as if to tie their great bodies together.

Below, Murtagh rid them of the last of their garments, and Eragon clung to him with a boldness he hadn't allowed himself to express since he was younger. There was no time or effort to be wasted on embarrassment, only pleasure. With a ferocity that ripped all higher thought to ribbons, Eragon wanted.

He wanted — Murtagh pressed them together, using Eragon's spend to slick his hand before he curled it around Eragon's length, the warmth of his calloused skin making Eragon's thoughts stutter. He glanced down, staring at Murtagh's palm, silver spiral rendered even brighter where Eragon's eagerness was leaking onto the skin. It seemed almost blasphemous. Eragon wanted more.

He wanted— he wanted this contact to be more than skin on skin. He wanted to crack Murtagh's ribs open and bite into his heart. He wanted Murtagh to do the same to him. Warmth suffused his mind, the other Rider delighting in his desires once again.

Murtagh coaxed him to sit up until Eragon was practically in his lap. He took Eragon's dominant hand and spat into his palm, blood tinging the spiral under his own skin faintly red and slicking the way as he guided Eragon to wrap his fingers about Murtagh's hardness so that their positions were the same.

Eragon was pinned in place, helpless to do anything but watch and obey. He copied Murtagh's movements, a rhythmic stroke that made him flinch and shy away one second and lean into it the next. The slick sounds of their movements made his face burn with shame and arousal, eyes darting between the bites he'd left behind and the way Murtagh's abdominal muscles jumped with every one of Eragon's upstrokes, the mess he was making of Eragon's Rider mark.

Now that he'd gotten a taste of what having him was like, Eragon knew he was doomed. He would want this again, crave it in a way that would override any sense of shame or self-doubt.

The dragons fell, dropping out of the sky in a tight embrace, elation and gratification making the pleasure between them mount. Down, down, down, the howl of the wind around them and then a sheer pitch in his stomach marking the sharp pull upwards taken by the now-linked beasts. With a meager degree of separation remaining between dragon and Rider, it was impossible to discern specifics beyond feral gratification and a deep-seated loneliness now soothed. Eragon let out a whine in the back of his throat, utterly overwhelmed by the pleasure he felt from without and within.

What had they done?

"Shh," Murtagh breathed, stroking his cheek and quickening his pace. This was meant to happen.

Yes. Yes, he was right.

He'd wanted something from Eragon, but Eragon couldn't remember what— and then he did.

"Yours," he gasped, into the space of their conjoined minds and the air between them and then he was tumbling over the edge along with Murtagh, the two of them painting their stomachs with their release.

Eragon collapsed against him, the world spinning briefly as Murtagh fell back. His heart thumped frantically in Eragon's ear, mirroring the rapid pace of Eragon's own. For a moment, he could have sworn that both of their hearts were beating in perfect sync.

In the light of the noontime sun, Murtagh took him into his arms and held him as close as he physically could.

And Eragon knew the two of them were home. It had never been the frigid estate where they'd grown up, surrounded by the ghosts of their parents and people who saw them as nothing but sacrificial lambs. Even now, Brom sought to use them for his own ends; they had no idea what his true motives and those of his allies were, nor if he intended to separate them after he deemed their training completed — or perhaps even before, should he discover just how close they truly were.

Home was here, in the bond they shared. It could not be dismantled by physical distance or at the whim of others. The presence of Murtagh's mind, thoughts interwoven with his own, made Eragon finally feel safe.

In that moment, his resolve crystallized. The king had sought to use them in the same manner he'd used their father, would have caged them and forced them to do horrible things to stay together.

For that, Eragon would see him fall.

It was only fitting for the sons of Morzan to be the ones who would cut him down.

Murtagh hummed, wordless agreement coloring their minds, and Eragon smiled. He knew Murtagh would try to talk him out of a direct confrontation once their higher faculties had recovered, but he was confident they could overcome even the most impossible of odds. So long as they were together, nothing and no one could stand in their way.

For his brother, he would burn Galbatorix's kingdom until only ash remained.