Work Text:
Galbatorix’s touch could be cruel, but it wasn’t always – not anymore.
When he’d first fallen under the mad king’s power, lured to his doom by his own heroic delusions, there had been only violence. Every word had cut, every touch had bruised, every kiss had savaged, and every rape had left him sobbing with anguish and fear and rage and shame. Poisoned as he had been by the idealism of youth, he had refused to bend – and so, instead, he had been broken.
He had put up a good fight. Of that, at least he could be proud – or he might have been, had he any pride left. For half a year had he endured the attentions of the king’s chief mindbreakers, most skilled torturers, and the man’s own twisted lust before all hope had been lost. He had fallen into a dark place, then, all sense of self buried so deep within his ravaged mind that even Saphira could not reach him. Had any part of himself truly been alive, he might have yearned for death, but he was already well beyond that. Life? Death? What did these things matter to one who was already fading into blessed oblivion? There was a strange sort of peace in the heart of insanity.
And then Murtagh arrived.
Eragon had not seen his former friend – brother? – since before his capture. The Red Rider, Galbatorix had insisted, was needed elsewhere, though even he, in his worst moments, had recognized the lie: the man feared Murtagh – feared to let him witness the full extent of his wickedness, feared what he would do. At first, this had given Eragon no pleasure, just a faint sense of incredulity that the traitor might be offended on his behalf when he had made it more than clear that they would never again be anything but bitter enemies; however, it was not long before he was clinging to the barest shred of hope that the king was right to be afraid, that Murtagh did care for him just a little – that he would come storming through the doors of his gilded cage and save him from this hell, because it was obvious that nobody else would. But fantasy was not reality.
“You didn’t come,” he’d mumbled through bloodied lips, voice raspy from screaming. The king had taken his leave some time before (minutes? hours? days? they all blurred together) to give him respite, but as he drifted into awareness his wounds ached anew. The strange tickling sensation at the back of his mind had returned, whispering insistently, but he shook it away, barely acknowledging the familiar dull throb that followed. The dark-haired figure wavered before his eyes as his vision swam. He blinked blearily. Was what he seeing even real? Sometimes he saw things that weren’t there, things he wished to see – and he had so desperately wished to see Murtagh… “You’re not real,” he decided sadly. “I was waiting for you, but you never came. You’re never going to come for me, are you?”
“Oh, Eragon,” the vision-that-was-not-Murtagh sighed, the horrified sorrow in his expression so real that he wished he could take back his words. Still, the warm body that gently pressed up against him, wrapping him in a protective embrace caught him off guard. He stiffened, a reaction born of instinct, breath catching in his throat in momentary panic, before he remembered that this man was not the king – he was nothing more than a phantasm, the lingering shadow of a dream. What harm could a figment of his imagination do him? And, besides, it had been so long since someone had touched him like this: as if he mattered. Couldn’t he keep this small illusion of sweetness? Just for a little while? Slowly, tentatively, he relaxed, knotting his fingers in not-Murtagh’s tunic and burying his face in his chest with a contented sigh. His fantasies were becoming more realistic. He could even smell him – the scent of harsh soap and sweat and drago–
His mind went blank.
“Pömnuria jierda wiol ono,” not-Murtagh was murmuring, the foreign words sending a startled thrill down his spine. Had he heard that deliciously strange language before? Oh, but it wasn’t really a language, was it? It was just his mind conjuring up nonsense again. Still, it sounded nice. Beautiful, even. He nuzzled further into the comfort of the dream, lulled by the soothing tones of that most welcome voice. “I didn’t know,” not-Muratagh said thickly, switching to the Common Tongue. “You have to believe I didn’t know. No one told me you had been captured. There were rumors, of course, but there are always rumors. I didn’t know – not until I ran into Arya.”
Eragon whimpered. The arms around him tightened.
“That was three months ago. I wanted to come sooner, I swear it, but that bastard refused to permit it. He swore to me you were safe. That no harm had come to you.” A choked sob and Eragon felt wetness on his cheeks. Was he crying? He’d thought all his tears had dried up long ago. Rubbing his eyes, he found them dry. Curiously, he pulled back, peering upward, and took in the desolate face of the illusion. Noting the salty tear-tracks on the other boys face, he frowned. That wasn’t right. Murtagh didn’t cry – he’d never even imagined it was possible.
“What?”
Heedless of the younger boy’s growing alarm, the-one-who-called-himself-Murtagh continued: “I believed him, Eragon. I had to, because the alternative was simply unthinkable. And he was so convincing. Charming, even, like he was when I was younger – when I still thought there was some good in him.” The body against his was shaking. Eragon shook too. “I didn’t know.” That mantra again. “I didn’t know. If I had known, if there had been even an inkling that he had taken things this far…”
Entranced, trembling, Eragon reached out to touch one wet cheek with an uncertain hand.
“What am I saying? I’m a fool and I’ve failed you.”
A larger, more calloused hand covered his own and the other boy leaned into his touch, eyes like smoldering ribbons of darkness. His breath hitched.
“And I’m going to fail you again, because I’m weak.” With a sudden jerk of desperation, the older boy reached out for him, pulling him into his arms once more. “But, Eragon, I swear that it won’t always be this way. For you, I’ll find a way to change my name. I’ll save you. I’ll kill that abomination and make sure no one ever hurts you again!”
Eragon’s heart was pounding against his chest, matching the erratic rhythm of the other’s. The words filtered through his shattered thoughts and, finally, something clicked. “Mur-tagh?” he tried, throat constricting painfully. Was it possible? Could it be? “It really is you?”
The boy-who-really-was-Murtagh pulled back just enough to craddle Eragon’s face beteen two tender hands and lean in to press chaste lips against a fevered brow. “Yes,” he smiled, something like relief washing over him. “Yes, it’s me. Murtagh. You know me?”
Softly, innocently: “How could I forget? I dream of you every day. But you’re better than a dream.”
“Rider–”
“Eragon,” he corrected with a shy blush, “I like it when you call me by name.”
“Of course. Eragon, then,” Murtagh repeated patiently. Then, hesitantly: “You know you’re – not well?”
“Crazy,” he nodded. “Crazy as a loon.” Though, some moments were more lucid than others. Like now. Somehow, as he looked into those troubled eyes, it was like a veil was being pulled away. He could see himself more clearly: the damaged, wretched creature he had become. He didn’t like it. “Demented,” he babbled, anxiety bubbling. “Deranged. Insane. Nuts. Off my rocker. A few geese short of a gaggle–”
“Enough, Eragon!” the other boy cried, looking strained – and a little frightening.
He sniffled. “Murtagh is angry? Do you want to hurt me?”
“No!” came the hurried assurance. “No, I’m not angry. Not with you. Never with you. And I won’t hurt you. I couldn’t.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” Murtagh sighed, dropping another kiss to his forehead. Eragon purred. “I need you to stay with me. I’m going to get you away from that monster, but I need you alive and aware in order to do so. Do you think you can manage that? Do you think you could try?”
“I think I… Yes. Yes, whatever you ask me to.” Anything if Murtagh would kiss him again.
“You trust me?”
“Yes.” Who else could he trust in this horrid place? If there was one thing he had learned over the past six months it was that Murtagh was not evil – not in the way of the king and his loyal followers. Murtagh did what he had to in order to survive. Eragon could respect that now, in a way he never could have before.
“Then I need you to do something for me. Something distasteful. Something you’re not going to like.”
“Anything.”
Then came the words that changed everything: “Accept the king’s affections freely and without complaint.”
He’d hated Murtagh in that moment.
Now, looking back, he understood that what he’d perceived as a betrayal had actually saved both his life and what had remained of his dubious sanity. Though privy neither to the king’s secrets nor the goings-on in the bedroom, Murtagh was no stranger to the man’s desire to dominate and control those around him. Eragon’s rejection of his wishes had ever inflamed the king’s wrath, which led to pain and humiliation, which in turn made Eragon – even in his worst moments – more determined than ever to defy him. They were trapped in a vicious cycle, one that would have surely destroyed every last trace of his humanity had one of them not bowed to the other. The king bowed to no one.
Yes, Eragon had been broken. But not by Galbatorix.
It had been easier than he’d expected – to shed the tattered vestiges of his pride. He’d kneeled at the king’s feet, imagining another man in his place, and haltingly begged pardon for his foolishness, vowing to serve humbly ever after. “Your Majesty’s pleasure is my own now,” he’d whispered, remembering Murtagh’s pleading expression, his fear. “Do with me as you will.”
The anniversary of his captivity had come and gone since that day.
Rape was still rape, but the king was gentler now. So pleased was he with Eragon’s absolute subservience that he had even promised to discontinue the “sessions” in the dungeons – a promise he’d actually kept. Wounds had faded into scars – the lash marks across his back and thighs ached sometimes and the thick scar tissue around his wrists had healed too tight, limiting some movement, but such annoyances were nothing to the constant agony he had once endured. His body was recovering. His mind – well, there were good days and bad days and days he did not remember at all. But it was getting better, he supposed, though he still tried not to think of Saphira and most adamantly refused to reopen their link (can’t let her see, mustn’t let her see!) – a fact that troubled his would-be savior, though the other boy had ceased pestering him about it: “When you’re ready,” he’d said, “you know where she’ll be. We both care for you too much to force you into anything.”
Murtagh was good to him.
They didn’t see each other often. Although Galbatorix had forgiven Murtagh’s initial invasion into his “favored” captive’s private chambers in consideration for the positive results (there was a story there, Eragon sensed, but he didn’t ask and his friend didn’t offer), he was still wary of permitting regular encounters. Conversations were limited to stolen moments when Eragon managed a bumbling escape from his caretakers on those rare occasions when the king magnanimously allowed him to wander the castle grounds. It wasn’t enough, but it kept him hopeful.
He cherished those moments. The king’s touch left him cold and wanting. Murtagh’s touch warmed him, made him feel a little closer to human. And his kiss?
His kiss made him whole again. For a moment.
Eragon just wished Murtagh would kiss him on the mouth. If the touch of those lips to his temple, his cheek, the crown of his head could make him tingle and swoon, then what might it be like to share a proper kiss? Would he taste of peppermint – like the leaves he so often chewed? Or maybe like the brandy he kept in the flask at his belt? Would he start off deliciously slow or passionately hard?
A little more than a year ago, Eragon wouldn’t have dared wonder such things, but now he couldn’t stop. He was defiled enough as it was. Incest didn’t really concern him that much anymore. Somehow he didn’t think it had ever concerned Murtagh. He wanted him back, and whatever the reason for his teasing hesitance, it wasn’t that. Eragon may be slightly mentally unstable, but he wasn’t stupid.
Ah, well. They had time. Murtagh would come around eventually.
Presuming he had the chance. “Soon,” Murtagh had whispered urgently in passing that morning. “Soon.” All Eragon could do was wait and wonder, nerves knotting. He was in a zone, giddy and terrified by turns. So much so that he didn’t even notice when Galbatorix arrived for his nightly “visitation” until two cold hands were slithering up his shirt.
With a startled jerk Eragon returned to reality to find himself in the king’s lap, the evidence of arousal firm and persistent against his bottom. Strange. Usually it took some careful attention to get him … suitably worked up for such activities. Puzzled, he leaned back to rest his head against a solid shoulder, tilting his head up to meet the king’s amused expression.
“So, you’ve decided to join me after all?”
Eragon blinked slowly. “Sire?”
“You were drifting,” the king said, expression somehow … soft. Fond, even. “Fey creature. Is there nothing that could hold you to this world?” Eragon only smiled, stretched languidly and accidentally on purpose rubbed against his master in all the right places. The king’s breath hitched. His smile widened. Eragon was feeling generous this evening. Nostalgic, almost. This might well be their last encounter. Why not give the man a little thrill?
Eragon turned to straddle the king’s lap and leaned in for a kiss with a kittenish mewl. The king was still for a moment before opening to him, taking over the kiss with a fierce tongue, rough hands rising to grasp the back of his head, holding him in place. Ungroomed whiskers tickled his face – a common irritation – and Eragon wondered if Murtagh would shave more often if he asked him to, because the sensation make his skin itch and crawl... He moaned helplessly.
“Eager are we, my pet?” the king chuckled, placing one last kiss to his swollen lips before trailing his lips downward to that special spot at the crook of his neck and sank his teeth into sensitive flesh hard. Eragon arched and groaned, panting softly as the sweet wave of pleasure-pain washed through him. His groin throbbed.
Would Murtagh be disgusted with him for enjoying this? For needing this? It wasn’t normal – he knew it wasn’t – but pain was a drug to him now. He wasn’t sure he could even bring himself off without it anymore. How sick was he, that he could delight in his own rape? “Oh, please,” he whined, exactly the way his bed-fellow liked it, “more.”
“I’ll give you more,” Galbatorix swore lowly, “but you’re going to earn it, aren’t you pet?”
Moments later found Eragon divested of his clothes, crouching between his lord’s legs, the king’s hands guiding his face towards the exposed erection peeking out from parted robes. This was nothing new, of course: for whatever reason the man never undressed completely. Maybe he derived some sort of perverse thrill out of seeing his lover stripped vulnerably bare whilst he remained politely covered – a dominance thing. Or maybe he was body-shy. Whatever the reason, Eragon was grateful. Shared nudity was one intimacy, at least, that had not been made a perversion.
“What are you waiting for?” A warning tug at his hair, nails digging into his scalp. “Suck!”
Eragon obeyed, parting his lips to take in the engorged member in one practiced swallow. Galbatorix let out a guttural cry, thrusting lustfully. His throat burned and the taste of the king’s liquid pleasure was bitter on his tongue, but he didn’t gag. Experience had proven that choking would do him no good. Instead, he closed his mind and drifted, working on skillful instinct. If he was good, it wouldn’t last long.
He sucked harder, humming provocatively.
Soon, Murtagh had said. Soon.
Would Murtagh ask to fuck his mouth like this too?
Galbatorix was on the verge of release when he pushed Eragon back with a growl: “On your hands and knees.”
He assumed the position with a thrill of trepidation. When the king touched him, he closed his eyes and imagined someone else – anyone else – was touching him. It was easier now that Galbatorix did not ravage him in anger. Tonight, of course, his thoughts drifted back to the man breeching him and for the first time felt pity. This man would die having never known real love.
Later, when they were both spent and panting, Eragon pressed a chaste kiss to one careworn cheek, pulling back with a guileless smile. Galbatorix blinked slowly, raising his hand in shock to cover the place his lips had caressed. He made as if to respond, but Eragon would never know what he might have said for that was the moment the captain of the castle guard burst through the door.
“Your Majesty,” came the breathless warning, the man’s gaze hesitating on Eragon’s nude form before jerking to his lord, “a plot is afoot!”
Eragon’s heart studdered.
Galbatorix, however, was unimpressed. With an infuriated scowl he jumped to his feet, pulling his rumpled robes back into place as he stalked toward the intruder. “Did I or did I not state that I was not to be disturbed?” The captain’s head flew back with a shocking smack when the king’s open hand met his cheek.
The captain took only a moment to recollect himself, voice raising an octave: “But, Your Majesty–! There seems to be some sort of riot!”
Silence. The calm before the storm.
“Who would dare?” the king cried, storming out the door, the captain following pitifully after. The door closed with an audible click, locking Eragon in and the rest of the world out.
Shaking with apprehension, dread coiling in his belly, he rose to his feet and washed himself in the basin. A chill settled into his bones that had nothing to do with the temperature of the water. Once clothed, he pulled the coverlet tightly around him and crouched on the bed with his back to the headboard, trying desperately to ignore the way the shadows flickered mockingly in the candlelight, whispering their dark premonitions.
There would be no sleep for him that night.
By the time the door creaked open the next morning, Eragon was an emotional wreck. He didn’t look up when his savior slipped into the room. He didn’t move when the bed sagged under the weight of the man settling down beside him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t cry.
“It’s over,” Murtagh said, entwining their fingers and squeezing gently.
“No,” Eragon said, licking his lips nervously, meeting Murtagh’s concerned gaze. “It’s just beginning.” This time he was the one pressing his lips to his brother’s cheek.
Murtagh grinned crookedly. “You’re free now, Eragon. You can leave anytime you want – go wherever you want, when you want. No doors will be barred to you.”
Wait. What?
“Don’t you mean we?”
“Ah,” Murtagh chuckled, expression flickering briefly before his carefree mask settled back into place, “that’s the rub. I’m afraid the uprising I inspired has had some … unexpected results.” He blushed. “For some reason I’ve kind of become the … de facto ruler.”
“King Murtagh, eh?” Eragon said, arching an amused brow. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.
“Ridiculous, isn’t it? But you can see why I won’t be going anywhere for a while.”
“It’s not ridiculous at all! Your followers have good taste.” He shrugged. “I’m not really that eager to leave anyway.”
“You mean – you’ll stay?”
“Idiot,” Eragon snorted. “Did you think I would be so eager to leave you? There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than by your side.”
“But–”
“I love you, okay? I love you and I’m staying.” He faltered, fall falling as a thought struck him with a mighty blow. “Unless you don’t want me here? Was I wrong to think that, maybe, you … wanted me too? I thought… I mean, I’d hoped… But I’m damaged goods, aren’t I?”
“No!” Murtagh shouted, grabbing his shoulders tightly. “No, you’ve got it all wrong! You’re not damanged! You’re – you’re perfect. It’s just that–” He sighed, face lost and uncertain. Eragon fell in love all over again. “Why would you want a guy like me? I’m a piss-poor friend, a worse brother, and a pathetic excuse for a knight in shining armor. Heaven only knows how badly I’m going to botch up this ‘king’ business–”
“Yes,” Eragon interrupted, “yes, I know: no sane person this side of the Spine would dare love you.” He smirked. “Luckily for you, I’m crazy, remember?”
“I–” Murtagh started, but all arguments collapsed in light of Eragon’s determination. “Yeah, that’s right,” he agreed at last, smiling wryly. “Crazy like a fox.” And this time Murtagh kissed Eragon full on the mouth.
Love tasted even better than he had imagined.