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The bathwater was so hot it nearly burned the soles of his feet. Eragon hissed, withdrew one foot fully, then shoved it back in with a determined flinch. Every scratch along his leg protested at once. He wobbled, gripped the edge of the tub, and eased his other leg into the water with a groan.
“Is all to your liking, Ebrithil?” his attendant asked, fussing over the crumpled pile of Eragon’s clothes, wadded and muddy on the floor.
“Well enough,” Eragon said, staring down at his feet, pinking from the heat. He added silently, But for how I feel as if a hundred Urgals had been set upon me with clubs.
The boy nodded nervously, fingers tightening around the fabric of his tunic. He was so new Eragon didn’t even know his name; if he had to endure Eragon’s foul mood, he’d scarcely last a day.
“You may go,” Eragon said firmly.
“But your hair,” the boy said, voice high and hesitant. “Blödhgarm said—I always, that is—shall I wash it first?”
Eragon’s patience, worn thin over the past few weeks, was nearly gone, but he gathered what kindness he could and tried for a gentle smile. “Please,” he said, baring his teeth. He knew it could hardly be called a smile. “Go.”
The boy bobbed a hurried, awkward bow and fled. Eragon waited until the door had shut before forcing the rest of his body into the water. Alone, he made no effort to stifle the cry that escaped him. The pitiful sound was quickly swallowed by the wash of water against the tub and the drip as he raised his hand to rub his face.
The heat offered little relief for his aches; it felt as though his entire body had become nothing but bruises. He splashed a palmful of water across the dried blood smeared over his upper arm before resting his head against the beaten copper side of the tub.
Soap sat on the wooden stool beside the tub, as requested for his private chamber. It was the same fine, milky soap from Ilirea that Murtagh favored, with its rich, herbal scent. And gods, he knew it would sting when he used it.
“A kingdom for some real soap,” Eragon muttered to himself.
The dwarven kingdom, of course—because if anyone ought to deliver supplies on time, it was the people who lived close enough to deliver in weeks but were stubborn enough to take seasons. The bars themselves had come from Nasuada, who was never late with her monthly shipments. It was not for lack of skill in Arngor, but because every scrap of fat they could render was set aside for food and lamps, leaving nothing for soap yet. Arngor was still building the herds, stores, and rhythms of supply that would one day make such small comforts routine.
Eragon sniffed the soap and grimaced. Nothing worked half so well for scouring grit from the skin as the thick, yellow blocks of tallow soap made in Carvahall—meant to scrub the body the same way one scrubbed the floor—but it would do.
He selected one of the linen lengths laid out for him, soft to the touch and loosely woven. Wetting it through, he proceeded cautiously, working it across the torn skin on his knee.
“Barzûl,” Eragon hissed, dropping the rag into the water. It seemed absurd that the ache from such a punishing day could bring tears to his eyes, yet it did. With a sharp exhale, he clenched a fist and rubbed them away.
Washing could wait. He lay back in the water, breathing in and out in careful rhythm until the ache in his throat loosened.
When someone knocked on his door, slow and hesitant, as if unsure of the welcome they’d find, Eragon thought about simply sinking beneath the water and holding his breath until they went away.
And then Murtagh said through the heavy oak, “Eragon?” so softly, coaxing, it might have been a bird he was calling from a bush to perch on his hand.
“Yes, come in,” he called without thinking—for anything else went against every instinct. He wanted comfort with Saphira away, and here was Murtagh at his door, as if he had sensed it from halfway across the dragonhold.
Eragon tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling again, watching the flickering shadows cast by fire and candles. He tried very hard not to dwell on why he wanted Murtagh.
He couldn’t see him past the sheet the boy had tacked up around the tub, but he heard the heavy steps slow and stop just inside the door.
“Pardon,” Murtagh said, surprised and a little embarrassed. “I didn’t know you were bathing. I’ll just come back, shall I?”
Frustration clawed at his throat. That was the last thing he wanted.
“There’s a sheet up,” Eragon said irritably, rolling over in the water and sending little waves sloshing over the tubside onto the floor. “You can hardly see anything.”
“It isn’t proper,” Murtagh said, voice tight, and Eragon was certain his sword hand was clenched at his side. He suppressed an eyeroll. He was used to bathing with the men of Carvahall; nudity among brothers had never been a concern. But Murtagh—raised in court, with its endless rules about decorum and what was “proper”—seemed to see impropriety in every little thing.
“Then it’ll have to wait until tomorrow, whatever you want,” he called out. He frowned at Murtagh’s shadow lingering beyond the sheet. “I’m going to bed after this,” he said sullenly. “And if sitting several feet away behind a screen while I wash is too much for you, the sheer stress of being entertained while I’m in a robe might kill you.”
“Your japes have not improved while you were away,” Murtagh said flatly, and Eragon was sure, for a moment, that he would leave.
He heard the door shut and the latch click into place. But Murtagh remained on this side of it, setting down the heavy bar with steady, even breathing. Eragon listened as he removed his swordbelt—the clink of the buckle, the low whistle of air as it landed on the bed, then the rustle of leather as he knelt to take off his boots.
The soap was no more palatable now than it had been a quarter watch ago. Eragon gritted his teeth and worked it into a lather, rubbing it carefully into his knees.
Beyond the curtain, Murtagh made a slow circle of the room and stopped just at the table. He appeared as a dark silhouette through the sheet in the weak candlelight, studying the goblet set out with meticulous care.
“Do you often take wine in the evenings?” he asked.
“No,” Eragon said, “but that doesn’t seem to stop the servants from setting it out.”
Murtagh laughed, pouring wine into the cup with a splash. He felt a distant satisfaction that his brother would get some use of it. Eragon himself hardly ever drank it, preferring Mûnnvlorss mead or ale.
He might like some mead now, after flying twenty feet into the air and landing on the sharpest rock imaginable in such a way that he’d be limping for days, wards be damned.
“Did you want something?” he asked, trying to distract himself as he scrubbed sand from his skin.
“Yes,” Murtagh said, and then nothing more.
His knees were as clean as they were going to get. He’d heal it properly later to keep the scabs from tearing with every step when he had more energy. “Helpful,” he said dryly to Murtagh. “Is this a game? Some new fashion in Hoarspike while I was away? Must I guess?”
He heard the vibrating drag of wood on stone as Murtagh pulled a chair closer to the curtain. “Shouldn’t be that hard,” he said. “Why do I always come and find you?”
Eragon snorted. “Which dwarf are you hiding from this time?” Gods, but only a few words from him were better than any balm. “Only, I haven’t the habit of bathing in skirts. If you want to hide behind them, you’ll need to come back tomorrow anyway.”
Murtagh laughed, a big, surprised bark. “They’re a formidable defense,” he said. “But no. Try again, Ebrithil.”
There was a teasing note in his voice, the kind of ease Eragon hadn’t thought he’d ever hear from Murtagh. It was a small victory—a sign that Murtagh could use the title now, even if in jest, instead of nursing his resentment like a poisoned chalice.
The cut on his hip throbbed, bruised deep into the muscle even after he’d sealed it with magic. It wasn’t enough to reopen, but the ache and tenderness reminded him that sealing it didn’t erase the internal trauma, and he was too exhausted to soothe it further.
“I haven’t the head for it right now,” Eragon admitted. “I’m too—”
“Tired, yes,” Murtagh said knowingly.
“A fine guess,” he said back, a touch sour. “I might have said happy, or busy, or any other number of things.”
“I can hear it in your voice,” Murtagh said. “Saphira told me you pushed hard coming back.”
“Did she also say it rained every day?” Eragon asked, prodding the wound on his hip. “And sleeted twice, with no tent, sleeping on the muddy ground?”
“No,” Murtagh said. “But I managed a guess based on her state. She seemed very eager for the hot springs, more so than usual.”
“No one’s prying her out before tomorrow,” Eragon said, leaning back. “By then, she’ll be thoroughly relaxed, and Thorn will get what he’s waited a month for—if she’s in the mood to be… persuaded.”
“Yes, because she thinks mating with him is such a trial,” Murtagh drawled, and Eragon could hear the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. He took a swallow of wine. “I’m here for the same reason I always am,” Murtagh went on, unhurried. “And like as not the same reason Thorn came flying out of his nest to greet Saphira.”
“To drown me in my bathwater?” Eragon guessed, leaving his hip alone. “If so, you’ve picked a fine time for it; I haven’t a single weapon on me. Aye, I’d say come and try your luck.”
Murtagh laughed, and just the sound of it warmed him better than the water. “Drown you!” he said. “It’s because I missed you, you little fool.”
The water was very hot, the steam curling around him, making him pink from his hairline down across his chest. Eragon scrunched the rag in his hand and said carefully, “A month is hardly the longest we’ve been apart.”
“A day is too long,” Murtagh said firmly. “An hour is yet too long.”
Eragon swallowed and turned his attention to tending his elbows, which was sure to keep the silly grin off his face. “You hardly need a nursemaid,” he said.
“No, but I’ve missed my brother,” Murtagh said. “Who else can I trust to subdue the dwarves? And give me reasonable advice when I’m surrounded by fools, and take away my dinner knife every time Lord Fenwick comes up to the dais to interrupt my meal?”
“Surely I’d have heard if Lord Fenwick had left us yet,” Eragon called. “There’d be feasting in the hall, so I’ll wager he survived my absence.”
“Barely,” Murtagh said, and sounded like he was sulking over it.
Sometimes, around Eragon, he reverted to that boyish noble—the indulgent companion from the road to Gil’ead—while Eragon alone remained witness to his petulant silences and ill temper. There was an ache in knowing they were still laid so bare to one another, just as they had been in their youth.
But it wasn’t the only part of him that ached. There was no more putting it off, not with the rest of his soreness attended to. Eragon scrubbed the flaked blood off his hip with the rag and swallowed a low groan at the deep bruising beneath.
Only a thin sheet kept them apart, and Murtagh knew him too well. His breath had hitched, and Murtagh heard it, sitting not four feet away. His goblet came down on the stone floor with a loud clack, and he demanded, “Are you well?”
“Only a little mishap,” Eragon lied. “Just now when I arrived. An accident in the courtyard.”
“An accident,” Murtagh repeated, and Eragon caught a wealth of disbelief in his voice.
“Yes,” Eragon said. He rinsed his hand clean and glowered at the soap. “I fell from Saphira’s saddle.”
Murtagh was silent. Then his chair scraped across the stone again as he came closer to the curtain. Eragon heard the low whisper of his bare feet against the rush mats. He peered up at Murtagh’s shadow, watched his profile as he ran a hand over his hair.
“And who caused this accident?” Murtagh demanded, his voice cold enough to make him shiver.
“No one,” Eragon said out of habit, wincing the instant the words left him.
“No one,” Murtagh said, thick with scornful sarcasm. “You—who vaulted from Saphira in midair while fighting Thorn and me, and landed without a misstep—now fell for no reason?” All the hair on the back of Eragon’s neck rose at how coldly he said it.
“No one!” Murtagh exclaimed, plain disgust in his tone. “You who flew with Saphira across desert, plain, and sea, escaping a damned Nïdhwal of all creatures—you have never fallen from her without cause. You can’t be dragged off once you’re firm in the saddle.”
Water splashed as Eragon slid deeper into the tub, lapping over his chin and the thin scrape there. He closed his eyes, embarrassed by the force of Murtagh’s anger. “It’s nothing,” he murmured. “Don’t be wroth.”
“Wroth,” Murtagh repeated, exhaling an aggrieved breath. He turned toward the curtain, then away again. “I’m not wroth,” he said. “Not with you, at least. Who did it, Eragon? Tell me, and we’ll say no more on it.”
There was no use hiding it; Murtagh had a bloodhound’s talent for the truth, and once he caught a scent, he never let it go.
“Thorv was in the yard when we flew in,” Eragon muttered. “He must have wanted to speak with me. He rushed toward Saphira just as she was landing, and I had already freed the straps about my legs. You can imagine the rest.”
“She threw you to avoid crushing the dwarf,” Murtagh said grimly.
“Obviously,” Eragon muttered.
“I suppose it’s too much to ask that you went to see Blödhgarm or Rílven?” Murtagh grumbled. He paced a few steps away and returned, even the shadow of his body stiff with displeasure.
“Nothing’s broken,” Eragon said. “And I already sealed the wound. It seemed foolish to bother the elves with so little.”
It was a familiar argument; he expected Murtagh to mouth one of his usual retorts. Instead, Murtagh halted mid-step and hesitated. “May I—That is, could I—”
He reached out and touched the curtain lightly, making the thin fabric flutter above the bare floor.
“You want to come around,” Eragon said in surprise.
“No!” Murtagh said at once, loudly. Then he swallowed and added more quietly, “Not if it will discomfort you.”
“For heaven’s sake, you’ve been bedding me for months,” Eragon said, heat rising to his face. “You needn’t ask.”
“But I am asking,” Murtagh said, his voice a little hoarse. “May I come around?”
Eragon drew his knees to his chest. “Yes.”
Murtagh had his hair drawn back and knotted behind his head. He kept his eyes carefully to himself until he was settled on the floor beside Eragon, looking past him to the fireplace.
He had a goblet of wine in his hand, which he offered to Eragon with a smooth turn of his wrist. Eragon took it carefully, mindful not to drip bathwater on Murtagh’s sleeve. The wine was overly sweet, a fruity red from Ilirea that made him wrinkle his nose.
When he set the cup aside on the stool, Murtagh’s gaze lingered on him intently.
“Your face,” he said, touching his own chin. His eyes were still dark with anger, his mouth curved down sullenly.
“A scrape only,” Eragon said. “I don’t think it’ll even bruise.”
“But that is just the least of it,” Murtagh said knowingly, the look twinning frustration with fondness. “Where else, then? I’d have the full report, if I may.”
Despite Murtagh’s highborn prissiness, it wasn’t so different from bathing with him in the Ramr River, Eragon told himself. They hadn’t kept their eyes so firmly to themselves in the rush to get clean, and after a while all flesh became as innocuous as stones in the water. He let go of his legs, extending one carefully to prop his foot against the tub side.
“My knees,” he said. “And my hip took the worst of it.”
Murtagh’s eyes flicked to his knee, then—only for a heartbeat—to the water over Eragon’s lap before he looked away, ears tinged red, as if this were all new to him, and not terrain he’d mapped with hands and mouth a hundred times over.
Eragon kept his hands busy with the cloth, stirring up more soap bubbles in the water. “Whoever checks the courtyard did a poor job,” he said, keeping his voice light. “There was a rock where I liked it least to be.”
“I’ll send a page to walk the yards tomorrow,” Murtagh said. He was still looking away. “Perhaps two or three. They idle about the Hall all day as it is.”
“They won’t thank you for that,” Eragon said. He glanced at Murtagh from the corner of his eye. His brother had one arm braced against the tub’s rim, his sword hand clenched into a tight fist.
“Don’t be too harsh with Thorv,” Eragon added after a moment. “He didn’t mean to send me flying—head over heels, at that.”
“Then he should have thought twice before charging a dragon mid-descent,” Murtagh snapped. His fist tightened further, his shoulders set into a hard, angry line beneath his clothes.
“It’s not as though he killed me,” Eragon said, but at that Murtagh went pale in a single, furious breath.
“He could have,” he said, close to a snarl. “A rock to your hip? It might just as well have been your head.” He looked at him then, and his expression cracked, stricken. “Riders have died falling from their dragons, Eragon,” he finished hoarsely.
“Aye, but I didn’t,” Eragon murmured. He reached out and left wet fingerprints on Murtagh’s sleeve. Ruby scales had been embroidered along the cuff; he traced them absently, watching the red darken to burgundy beneath the water.
“My head’s too hard for that,” he added. “You ought to know.”
Murtagh snorted, though it was still an unhappy sound. “I’m well,” Eragon insisted, tugging gently at his sleeve. “Truly. Check if you want—I didn’t even bruise myself there.”
“Perhaps I should,” Murtagh muttered. “You’ve clearly cracked your skull if you’re arguing Thorv’s case to me.”
“If it will make you less sour, go ahead,” Eragon said, shaking his hair loose from behind his ears. It fell in wet clumps to his shoulders, dripping down his chest. “And I expect an apology,” he went on, “once you realize it’s far better not to have to scrub Thorv’s bits off the Hall floor—especially after all I’ve done to ensure none of the dwarves here murder you in your sleep.”
This snort edged closer to laughter. Murtagh dragged a hand down his face and began unlacing his jerkin.
The corner of Eragon’s mouth quirked, faint and sly.
“None of that look,” Murtagh said. “I remember it when you tried to dunk me in the river after I bested you at sparring, back on the road to Gil’ead. I was still wringing water from my clothes three days after.”
“I was young,” Eragon said with some dignity, lifting his chin. “And I have grown more mature since then.”
“Oh, have you?” Murtagh said. He moved around the head of the tub, and a shiver traced Eragon’s spine at the awareness of someone kneeling behind him—no weapon at hand but his magic, Saphira far away in the springs.
It’s only Murtagh, he told himself. He’d fall on his own sword before harming me.
Once, another voice answered, he tried to kill you in the throne room.
Aloud, Eragon said, “If I wished to dunk you underwater, I’d have done it already.”
“I tremble in fear,” Murtagh murmured near his ear—and laughed outright when Eragon startled.
“You’re horrible,” Eragon said, slapping at the water. “I’ve changed my mind—go away.”
“Too late,” Murtagh said, and Eragon felt his fingers comb slowly through his hair, careful of the snarls they found.
After a moment, Murtagh added, teasing, “I can’t tell if these are lumps on your head, or if you’re simply caked in mud.”
Eragon had forgotten just how foul the yard had been. “Then don’t put your hands in it,” he said, embarrassed. Murtagh’s shirts were too fine for that, and he hadn’t even rolled up his sleeves. Eragon tried to turn away, but Murtagh’s hand settled on his shoulder, firm enough to stop him.
The tips of his pointed ears burned. “Let go,” Eragon said tightly.
“You can’t go to bed like this,” Murtagh replied. He worked his fingers into the tense muscle under his hand, causing the knot to slacken with a jolt of exquisite pain. Eragon shuddered. “They’d have to burn the pillows. Let me wash it out for you.”
“I can wash my own hair,” Eragon insisted. “You may be shocked to learn not all of us were raised with servants eager to tear half the tangles from our heads.”
Murtagh’s hand slid up his neck, scraping gently over his scalp. Eragon found himself leaning into it despite himself. “I’m asking,” Murtagh said, all the humor gone from his voice. “Will you let me? As a favor to me.”
Eragon ducked his head, struck by the simple fact of it—Murtagh, willing to tend him, to serve him in this small way. Once, he would have spit at the notion.
Eragon nudged the forgotten bar with his heel. “The soap’s there,” he said at last.
“Drink the rest of that wine,” Murtagh said. “Then give me the goblet.”
Eragon swallowed, wincing at the sweetness. “There’s still a little left,” he said warily, imagining it poured into the bath. The soap’s scent was bad enough.
“I know,” Murtagh said, taking the goblet. He pressed his lips to the rim—right where Eragon’s mouth had been—and swallowed the last of it.
Eragon flushed and looked away, occupying his hands with the cloth, rubbing his fingers along its loose weave without truly washing at all.
He drew a careful breath when Murtagh said, quietly, “Tip your head back for me.”
Eragon complied, letting his head hang back, the ends of his hair heavy with water. He stilled, barely breathing, as Murtagh's hand scraped against the thin scratch high on his forehead, nearly at his hairline, while he sheltered Eragon's eyes from the hot water he poured over his hair.
For a split second, panic seized him. Being cradled like that, his head held back just so, summoned a flash of Murtagh’s hardened expression and the cold kiss of Zar’roc as it nearly took his throat in the throne room. His breath caught, muscles tightening on instinct—then hot water coursed over his shoulders and down his neck. The heat grounded him, slow and inescapable, and he forced himself to breathe, letting the tension drain away a little at a time. By the time he exhaled fully, his body was yielding to the warmth at last.
“Is it too hot?” Murtagh asked.
Eragon shook his head. The echo of panic had already begun to fade, dulled by the steady presence behind him. Murtagh would not hurt him. Fingers combed gently through his wet hair, drawing it back from his face, and another cupful of water was poured over him—unhurried, careful.
When Eragon blinked his eyes open, feeling almost sleepy with the sudden deep comfort of it, Murtagh was looking down at him with a slight curve to his mouth. He cupped Eragon’s face, his sword callouses scratching deliciously at the tender skin of his cheek.
“I’ve seen cats less pleased to be petted,” Murtagh teased. “Are you going to start purring if I keep doing that?”
“I ought to scratch you,” Eragon mumbled, turning his face deeper into Murtagh’s hand. “Shame I haven’t got Brisingr on me.”
“Well, have you at least got a comb?” Murtagh asked, touching the hair at the back of Eragon’s head, the thickest part still cool with mud. “The rest of this might need more work than a little water and soap.”
“It’s around here somewhere,” Eragon said, frowning when Murtagh let go. “I didn’t tell you to go looking, you idiot!”
Murtagh’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. Someday he’d have fine lines at the corners, Eragon thought, savoring the sight. He’d keep him smiling often enough to ensure it.
“Where did you say it was?” Murtagh called over his shoulder.
“By the mirror,” he mumbled, and slid lower into the bath, letting the water lap higher against his ribs.
He turned his face toward the ceiling at once, fixing his attention on the slow drift of shadow across the stone. He did not need to see Murtagh to know what he had found. There was only one plain comb on Eragon’s dresser, set apart from the rest of his belongings as though it were something precious. It had been Murtagh’s—forgotten one morning many moons past, left behind after a tryst and never reclaimed. His brother had carved it himself in exile, something to do to wile away the time. The wood was darkened and softened by oil and use, for Eragon had used it every morning since.
Behind him, there was only silence.
The absence of sound stretched, thin as a bowstring. No jape. No careless remark. Eragon’s fingers found the scrape on his wrist and worried at it, matching the tear in his glove; he forced himself to still. The bathwater had cooled from scalding to merely hot, but his skin felt tight all the same.
At last he dared to glance sideways.
Murtagh was turning the comb over in his hand, slow and deliberate, as though weighing it. His face was carefully schooled into nothing at all—but something had gone still in him.
The silence went on another heartbeat, and another.
Then Murtagh knelt behind him once more, the stone whispering softly beneath his weight.
“I did not know you kept this,” he said, very quietly.
“You forgot it,” Eragon said at last, the words coming out thin despite his intent. Heat crept down his chest. “And you never came looking for it, so… I kept it.”
Murtagh’s fingers came to his chin again, careful as ever, tilting his head back while he poured another measure of water through his hair. It streamed warm over Eragon’s scalp and down his neck. “It’s a plain thing,” Murtagh said lightly, too lightly. “A miser’s bit of wood. Hardly fit for a Grand Master.”
“Well, I like it,” Eragon replied, some stubborn note entering his voice despite himself. “It does what it’s meant to do. And it’s well made. That’s enough for me.”
For a while there was nothing but the sound of water and Murtagh’s hands moving through his hair, slow and methodical. The edge of Eragon’s offense dulled, softened by the simple, careful attention.
“I’m glad,” Murtagh said eventually. “That you like it so well. I know you’re accustomed to finer things now, and I never thought—”
“Nonsense.” Eragon hesitated, then spoke more quietly, as if choosing each word. “When you came back to me,” he said, “you were so… untamed. Not the lord of Urû'baen at all. You were yourself, unshackled.”
Murtagh’s hands stilled, slick and dark with water in Eragon’s hair.
“I was glad to see you that way,” Eragon went on. “Free. Learning what joy really was. Of course I kept the comb you made during our time apart. Not because it was finely made, but because it was made by you.”
Murtagh drew in a sharp breath. When he spoke, his voice wavered, slightly. “I never thought you would welcome me again, after all I’ve done.” He swallowed. “You have always been—more than I deserve.”
Eragon opened his mouth to protest, but Murtagh cupped the side of Eragon’s neck in his broad, warm hand, then let it slide to his shoulder, his touch lingering as it traced down Eragon’s arm, skin to skin. “And I wouldn’t have you any other way either,” he added softly, “no matter how it drives me to distraction every time you do something reckless— or perform acrobatics in the courtyard.”
“Wasn’t my choice,” Eragon said. “This time, at least.” He moved to catch Murtagh’s hand before it withdrew, but it slipped away just out of reach.
“No,” Murtagh agreed, turning to sort through the items on the stool. “If it had been your fault, I’d have taken your sword and had Saphira barricade you in your chambers for a week—or however long it took my heart to stop trying to pound its way out of my chest.”
His voice hardened. “Thorv, on the other hand, I have no tender feelings towards. He’s lucky you’ve convinced me to let him keep his head.”
There was no sense pressing the matter further; it would only stoke Murtagh’s rage towards the dwarf.
Eragon splashed him instead. Water arced over the tub. Murtagh sputtered and splashed back, and soon they were grappling, arms and water tangled together. In a sudden burst of motion, Eragon hauled him fully into the bath, clothes and all.
Murtagh gasped. Eragon laughed, grinning. “You’re fortunate I’m feeling tender tonight,” he said lightly. “Or I might take your head myself.”
“I was hoping you would,” Murtagh said, voice low. Heat rose to Eragon’s face at his meaning.
Keeping his eyes fixed on Eragon, Murtagh stripped with brisk, impatient efficiency, peeling off his soaked clothes and flinging them aside. They hit the floor with a wet slap.
Eragon hummed. “Come here,” he said, and Murtagh did, the water swirling around his waist. Eragon put his arms around the strong body, and Murtagh let himself be drawn close. For a moment they simply gazed at each other, tenderness stretching out between them, and then Eragon leaned in and kissed Murtagh on the mouth, soft and achingly sweet.
Murtagh pulled back after a moment, enough for his breath to mingle with Eragon’s. “Finally,” he murmured, voice low and teasing, “you remembered your manners. I’ve been waiting all day for a greeting like that.” Another kiss, softer this time, traced along Eragon’s jaw. “About time you rewarded me properly,” he whispered, lips brushing Eragon’s ear, “I’ve been patient long enough.”
Eragon shivered, letting his hands wander, and his mind drifted, catching flashes of sensation: Saphira beneath Thorn in the hot springs, Thorn’s playful nips and thrusts blurring the edges of her vision, her heat spilling into every thought.
“Seems one of you isn’t half as patient as the other,” he whispered, pressing closer.
Murtagh’s grin was all teeth and heat. “And which of us will be rewarded more handsomely?” he murmured into Eragon’s mouth, drawing him tighter, the water swirling around them like a shield against the world.
They kept kissing for a long time, the kind of slow, lazy kiss which came with knowing that time was rolling out luxuriously before them, that they were rich with it. The water and the heat made everything feel hazy and unreal. When Murtagh pulled away, Eragon exhaled and stroked his stubbled cheek, feeling the swelling tide of affection like a fist in his throat.
Eragon pushed gently, and Murtagh blindly allowed himself to be steered until he bumped into the high end of the tub. He settled against it and Eragon crawled onto his lap, sore knees planted on either side of his hips, arms about his shoulders. Murtagh’s hands came up to his waist, sliding along the smooth skin. Like this, the water lapped at Murtagh’s chest and Eragon’s ribs. Murtagh’s wet hands had come up to stroke through Eragon’s clean hair, winding individual curls between his fingers.
Eragon leaned to reach behind Murtagh, sitting back on his heels with a small handful of vials. These were not labelled, only identifiable by their distinct colors and shapes, so Murtagh had to explain what each one was for: this one to wash hair, that one to oil it, this one to scent the bathwater, that one to rub into the skin after the bath.
“And this one?” asked Eragon, twirling the last vial in his hands. Murtagh smiled.
“Let me show you,” he said.
Eragon watched as he rubbed the oil onto his hands, and caught on at once; he started to laugh breathlessly, disbelieving.
“Do people in Ilirea often,” said Eragon, breath stuttering as Murtagh’s hands moved lower to his rear, “carouse in the water?”
“Yes,” said Murtagh. “Not in the North?”
“No, I—” shifting on his knees, “not in public, anyway. Everything would have frozen off in the river.”
“You’re not freezing now,” Murtagh murmured. Eragon was flushed delightfully pink, not only in his face but across the rest of his body in the hot water.
“No,” Eragon agreed breathlessly. “Murtagh—” and his voice pitched as Murtagh gave in to the impulse to kiss his neck, his fingers twisting skillfully inside in Eragon. Whatever he had been about to say was lost to quick, panting breaths. Murtagh’s fingers slowed their movements, and Eragon made a sound of pleasure that Murtagh tried to swallow whole, to take into himself. But then Eragon pulled back and said, “Stop.” He nudged his nose along Murtagh’s cheek. “Take your fingers out.”
Murtagh did. Eragon shifted, one hand dipping below the water to find where Murtagh was hard, the other pressing insistently on Murtagh’s shoulder. He said, “Stay still.”
“Yes,” said Murtagh, and then, “yes—” again, when Eragon began to lower himself—
They had not had this for too long. A month was a terribly long time.
They had satisfied each other with hands and mouths before, but there was nothing in the world like this. It was intoxicating to have Murtagh so near him, opening him up, feeling his fast shallow breaths as he breached Eragon. They were watching each other, Murtagh’s lashes fluttering when he had to keep dragging them open, as though he could not bear to miss a moment.
“Stay still,” Eragon repeated, and the water lapped around him as he moved, rocking slowly on Murtagh’s lap. Breathlessly: “Oh, I’ve missed this.”
“I know,” said Murtagh. “I know.” He caught Eragon’s mouth in another kiss, this one long and languid, their mouths moving together as their bodies did, giving everything up to each other. With the water all around them, the boundaries of Murtagh’s body and mind seemed to blur and fade; it felt wildly, vividly possible that he could absorb Murtagh into him, that they might achieve such a closeness as to transform each other in some fundamental way.
Eragon could feel their pleasure building together. There were fractured, tiny noises coming from Murtagh’s throat, their kisses now loose and gasping. When Murtagh slid a hand down to stroke him to the tempo of his thrusts, Eragon cried out loudly enough that the noise reverberated off the stone walls while he dissolved in Murtagh’s arms. Murtagh followed him, and Eragon could feel the hot, bright pulse of climax through their bond as if it ran through his own body, hearing Murtagh’s mouth murmuring against his skin, “Eragon—Eragon—”
After, they lay against each other in the wide bed, his head resting against Murtagh’s shoulder. Murtagh’s lips traced his scalp, chin, hip, and knees—everywhere Eragon ached—while murmuring words of healing, lending the energy Eragon had long exhausted. As soon as he was able to stir again, Murtagh urged him to turn and settle between his legs—something Eragon might have refused, had he been fully sensible and able to resist the embarrassment of being so helpless. But he could sense the shape of Murtagh’s thoughts, and knew he wanted them to be close, wanted to cradle Eragon with all of his body.
The heat and lassitude after climax dulled Eragon’s thoughts, as if he were wading through thick syrup. He rubbed his cheek along Murtagh’s shoulder, back and forth like a contented cat, not seeking anything, simply savoring his presence. Through their connection, he felt Murtagh’s emotions wash over him: his brother was floating, overcome by tenderness.
Murtagh kissed his temple. He was looking at Eragon’s face as though for the first time all over again, the usually harsh features softened and peaceful in the warmth of the room.
“I should get up,” said Eragon. “Or I’ll fall asleep right here.”
“Go to sleep,” said Murtagh. Eragon’s eyes were sliding shut, his lashes flickering briefly every time he forced them open again.
“I have things to do.”
“They’ll wait,” he said, stroking down Eragon’s cheek.
“You’re a poor influence,” said Eragon, but then he put his hands over where Murtagh’s arms were wrapped around his waist, urging them tighter around him. “Do people in Ilirea idle the day away, too?”
“Yes,” said Murtagh, looking now at the love marks on Eragon’s neck. “Often.”
A low, indulgent laugh. “Far be it from me to spurn such an honored tradition, then.”
And then abruptly Murtagh asked, anxiety creeping into his voice, “Are you certain you’re all right?”
“I feel fine,” said Eragon. “Better than fine. I feel wonderful.”
Murtagh’s hand had wormed back into the space between them to touch where Eragon had been wounded, as though he needed the reassurance, the physical proof of healing. In the haze of drowsiness, Murtagh’s voice drifted to him, soft and indistinct. “Eragon,” he murmured, holding him close. “I want you to be well again.”
“I will be,” Eragon promised.
“Go to sleep,” Murtagh whispered, and finally Eragon yielded himself up with a long sigh, his body entirely relaxed as he leaned into Murtagh, the room quiet and peaceful around them.