Disclaimer: I don't own Eragon or anything associated with the Inheritance Cycle.
Claimer: I, SussieKitten, own this plot and the story. Borrow or steal my plot, my original characters (when used) or story and I will report you.
Warnings: Slash/Yaoi – meaning guy x guy action. Mentions of Rape. Rape. Mentions of Suicidal thoughts – mentions only. Character Death – Genuine (Paolini's) Character. Blood – murders are messy business, I'm afraid. If any of this disturbs you, click on the "back" button. I won't tolerate any flames.
A/N This is just a little story to let you guys know that I'm alive and still writing. Updates on Obsession and Seen It All are on the way.
This is unbeta'ed, as I didn't want anyone else to suffer in the making of it.
There is a lot of Galbatorix/Murtagh in this story, non-consensual of course, even if it might not seem like it in places. You have now been warned.
I'd like to thank daymarket for giving me the courage to post this. Because of that, I'll pimp her story "Reflection". If you're in the mood for some Galby/Tag, I reccomend that you read that. ;)
Bile was crawling up his throat, but Murtagh swallowed it down. He could do this. He had to do this. There was a mantra playing inside his head. You can do this. You're not fighting for yourself anymore. You have to do this.
So he ignored the dirt gathering under his skin and held onto the bedding like his life depended on it. In a way, it did. If he didn't do this, then he was sure he would be killed. And while his life meant little in his book, he was not letting Thorn die. Murtagh pressed back against the form moving behind him and pretended to enjoy it.
It would have been so much better if he had just continued to rape him. But oh no. Eventually, Galbatorix had grown tired of not getting any response from him and had started to pleasure him. The first time he had come, it had hurt. It hadn't stopped since.
It was a routine now. He would be called to the King's chamber and Galbatorix would force him onto the bed. Then he would take him.
It always hurt in the beginning. Murtagh was never prepped, but he barely felt the pain anymore. There was a different pain in him now. An emotional pain. A pain that made him long for death. And hadn't his death meant Thorn's, he would have ended it a long time ago. But now there was no turning back.
The man snapped his hips forward and Murtagh felt a shot of pleasure shot through him. It made him feel sick. Each time he did it, Murtagh felt the sickness build up.
Galbatorix leaned forward and towered over him. Murtagh never felt smaller than he did during these times. He didn't know which position he hated the most.
When his back was to Galbatorix, his scar was bared. He hated that feeling. It had taken him a lot of courage and trust to show Era– him when he had done so in his previous life. Now he didn't have the choice. But this way he didn't have to look at the king.
There was no doubt that he hated it when Galbatorix forced him on his back and took him. Then he had to look the monster in the eye. Murtagh was allowed a few minutes of release by closing his eyes, but in the end, Galbatorix always forced him to open them. Looking up at that face as the man reached completion made him feel like he wanted to die every time.
Then there was those rare times Galbatorix forced him to ride him. Murtagh supposed he hated those times the most. It was humiliating beyond words to sit in the man's lap and be moved up and down his cock. It was even worse when Galbatorix forced him to do all the work.
Yes, that was the position Murtagh hated the most. But he hated every time more than the last, no matter which position he was in.
Murtagh shuddered when he felt Galbatorix breathe on his neck. "I want to hear you scream."
The words slithered down his back and dirtied him even more. But there was nothing he could do but to comply. When his prostate was hit again, Murtagh allowed the moan to escape his lips.
He wanted to vomit then and there when he heard Galbatorix answer it. His hands were already caressing him. Running down his sides, up his chest, down between his legs...
He bit back another sound when Galbatorix touched his member. Murtagh hated that he was hard. He cried out in pain when the other man handled the flesh roughly. "Yes, that's better."
He wanted to sob. But most of all, he wanted it to end. He didn't care if he didn't finish, as long as Galbatorix did so.
His knuckles were turning white from the death-grip he had on the bedding, but he didn't care. He needed something to keep him grounded. He shut Thorn out of his mind during these meetings. The dragon knew what was going on, but there was no way Murtagh would let him feel what he felt during them.
Galbatorix's thrusts were getting sharper and more erratic. Murtagh knew what that meant. It was almost over. He could have cried in relief.
Every time Galbatorix came, he would bite him. He rarely broke the skin, but the indentation would be there. It barely had time to heal before another one would take its place. And this time was no different. It was a different location, but when the king stiffened and spilled his seed, he bit down on Murtagh's shoulder.
Murtagh stifled the pained sound. He was supposed to be used to this. He was supposed to be used to this!
Galbatorix pulled out and left him there. Murtagh looked down at himself. He was no longer hard, at least. He stood, his legs still a little shaky, and got dressed. He left before the king had a chance to come back for more.
The bile tasted sour in his mouth. And no matter how much he threw up, he could still feel it deep beneath his skin. There was a dirtiness there that was never going away.
The mantra was sounding in his head again. It was less clear this time.
Galbatorix had decided that he wanted Murtagh to ride him again. There was nothing he could do but to agree. Galbatorix enjoyed reminding Murtagh what he would do to Thorn, to himself, if he didn't agree. And so he agreed.
Galbatorix lay on the bed, naked as the day he had been born. But he was by no means unarmed. That was another thing that Murtagh hated. Whenever he was forced into the King's bed, he would usually have guards inside the room to make sure Murtagh didn't try anything. The additional eyes on his form always made him feel dirtier, less worthy, less human, less...anything.
The King beckoned him to join him. Murtagh stepped out of his trousers and approached the bed. Every time it was like this, his eyes would seek out the other's member. It was by no means small, that much Murtagh had felt the first time. And it was usually hard and ready. He had only been forced to pleasure it to hardness a couple of times, and for that Murtagh was glad.
He was then beckoned to sit down. Murtagh knew then what was expected of him that night. Galbatorix wanted him to be completely submissive; give himself completely to him. He swallowed the bile and did as was expected of him; lowering himself onto the other's hard cock.
It hurt. It always hurt. Murtagh clenched his eyes shut, but didn't stop until he was seated in the King's lap. Galbatorix moaned. Murtagh forced himself not to shudder.
"Move," he growled.
Murtagh did as told. He braced himself and began to ride the King's member. He did the things he knew the man liked, hoping it would be over sooner that way.
But it was never that easy. Galbatorix slammed up, making sure to hit Murtagh's prostate. Slowly, very slowly, Murtagh could feel himself hardening.
He hated himself. But most of all, he hated Galbatorix. Murtagh let that anger fuel him and continued to ride the other. Thoughts were rising up in his mind, and for once, he didn't stop them.
He hated Galbatorix for turning his father into the man he had become. Murtagh hated him for paying special attention to him when he had been younger. He hated Galbatorix for never letting him go, for never stopping his search for him, for catching him. He hated Galbatorix for giving him Thorn, even if Thorn was his only friend now. Murtagh hated him for making him into this person he now was. Murtagh hated Galbatorix for making him hate himself even more.
There was so much more, but he wouldn't let those thoughts come. He wouldn't. He refused to think of E– him anymore.
Strong hands gripped his hips and forced him into a faster rhythm. Murtagh let himself to be steered.
Adapt or die. I'm sorry, Thorn.
The end came fast for once. To his horror, he felt a hand enclose his member and stroke him to completion. When Galbatorix's seed filled him, Murtagh cried out – in horror, pain, regret, he didn't know anymore – when he came too.
The haze cleared quickly. When it did, Murtagh noticed that he was still in the King's lap. The man was hard again. He closed his eyes and prepared himself for a long night.
He wanted to die. When he reached behind himself and clung to Galbatorix's hips, he just wanted to die.
He had had it. If this continued, Murtagh was sure to kill himself, Thorn be damned. He had to end it. Insanity was not an option, and that was exactly where he was heading.
The solution was easy enough. But the path there was clouded. He knew how to make it all go away, but he didn't have the means to do it.
When he got a summon for the King's chamber, Murtagh would rather have thrown himself out of the nearest window – never mind that there wasn't one – than to go. He didn't know what else to do than to put a knife in his boot before walking to the King's chamber. The knife would probably not be used, but he had to end it soon. He could at least be prepared. If he was lucky...
There were no guards there that night. Murtagh knew what that meant. It was going to be a long and violent night.
Not if he could help it. Another long night was sure to finish off what little sanity he had left.
Galbatorix beckoned him to come closer. Murtagh undressed slowly, the way he knew the King liked it. He took off his boots last, kicking the right one – the one with the knife – close to the bed. He then lay down and let the other take him.
He could no longer keep his thoughts under lock and key. They were edging closer and closer to the surface. Even the thoughts he refused to think were coming forward in his sleep. Murtagh had barely caught himself from uttering his name a couple of times already.
Thorn was starting to notice his unease. It was clear that he was losing himself. He knew he was thinner and paler than he had used to be. He hated to sleep because he didn't know what he would dream of. It could be a nightmare where he never left the King's clutches, or it could be about the life he would never get a chance to lead. Or, worse yet, it could be about those few precious months when he thought he had truly been happy.
Murtagh snapped back to present. Hands were clutching his hips so tightly he knew they would bruise. He looked up and noticed that the King's eyes were closed.
He would never get a chance like this again. He knew that. Murtagh reached down and felt around for his boot. After some fumbling, he found it. Magic would only alert Galbatorix. He had to do this the 'old-fashioned' way.
Murtagh pulled the small dagger-like knife and hid it under the bedding for a while. He had to make sure Galbatorix was busy. He had one shot, and that was it. Either he died now, or he died later.
He cried out when Galbatorix decided to pleasure him again. He never did so gently. He was always rough.
Murtagh did his best to get the King closer to the edge. He would strike then.
The moment came just a minute later. Murtagh acted quickly. When Galbatoix leaned down to bite him, his hand snapped up and forced the knife into the other's chest and into his heart.
Galbatorix froze. Murtagh felt a warm liquid stain his hands. He forced the knife deeper still. The blood was dripping onto his stomach, but he didn't care.
"Die," Murtagh snarled. He turned them around and slammed the knife again and again into the King's chest. Blood was coming out and staining his face and getting in his hair, but he didn't care. He just didn't care anymore.
He didn't stop until Galbatorix had long since stopped moving. He ended it with one sharp stab to the heart, or where the heart should have been.
He sat there panting for at least a minute. He got up slowly, feeling the limp flesh slide out of him. Murtagh was sure that if he cut himself open, the layer of dirt under his skin would be very visible to the world.
He grabbed his clothes and walked out of there, not caring enough to get dressed or to clean off the blood.
Murtagh thought he was supposed to feel happy or relieved, but he just felt empty. He had somehow ended up in Thorn's cage with his belongings. The dragon hadn't hesitated to break loose and get them out of there.
He didn't know how much time had passed, or if he had actually killed the King – for could such evil actually die so easily? – and he really didn't care. The only reason he ate was Thorn. He had come this far. He couldn't let Thorn die because he had no will to live himself.
They kept a low profile. Murtagh knew where the Varden had been, so he stayed clear of those villages and any towns near them. There were few left, but it was enough.
They never stayed in one place more than a week. Even if he really had killed the King, there was no doubt that the Varden wanted him dead too. Even if Shruikan had died too – Murtagh wasn't sure what had happened to the black dragon. He didn't really care either – his crimes were too severe. Besides, the green egg was sure to be male. They could just wait for it to hatch and then they would have their precious eggs.
Murtagh knew he was letting himself rot away. His nights were plagued of what he had done to keep himself alive. All the lives he had taken kept flashing in his head. All the nights he had spent in Galbatorix's bed made him vomit any food he managed to force down.
He knew Thorn was worried. He was worried too. He had a stronger will than this. Or, at least, he had used to. But that was a long time ago. A year? Maybe more. He didn't even know what season it was or how old he was anymore. His face looked young, but he felt old.
His face didn't look young anymore. His eyes were shrunken in and dead, his skin as pale as death. He felt like laughing.
He couldn't go on any longer. His body felt heavy, even though he rarely walked anymore. And if he did, Thorn was always close by in case he would stumble.
He was giving up, he could feel it. Murtagh had caught himself eyeing his weapons almost longingly. Only Thorn kept him levelled and almost sane. Thorn was always talking to him, trying to get him to cheer up, eat some more, do the things he had used to do for fun. Murtagh always told him that there was nothing to cheer him up anymore, the food was scarce at best, and the things he used to do weren't fun anymore.
Thorn was bringing him food now. He would catch a prey and Murtagh would prepare it. On the rare occasion that he had the strength, he would look for something to eat with the meat. Those occasions were steadily becoming fewer and fewer.
They weren't moving as much anymore. Murtagh supposed it was only a matter of time before the Varden found him. And somehow, he found himself not caring as much anymore.
He started to question Thorn; asking if there was some way he could break their bond so that when he died, Thorn wouldn't follow him. Thorn denied that there was any such way. Murtagh wondered whether or not Thorn was telling the truth.
When they had been moving, the days had seemed endless, the nights even longer. Now the days were blurring together. He was sleeping more and more, even though sleeping only brought him pain. He didn't have the strength to do anything else. Thorn rarely left his side, and when he had to, he returned as fast as he could.
Murtagh knew he was dying. He felt relieved. He could finally let go of the anger he had harboured for so many years. He was just sad Thorn would follow him. If there was a God, Murtagh was sure that he would be damned to hell.
He didn't open his eyes when he woke, but he still knew it was sunny outside. The light was blinding even through his eyelids. That was odd. He slept in a cave with Thorn, and Thorn always slept in front of him, shielding him from sight and from the elements. Even when the dragon was gone, little light came inside.
The Varden must have found him. Murtagh wanted to reach out for Thorn, but he felt too weak. Thorn had to be far away or silenced by spells. But if they had killed him, Murtagh would kill his killers; his weakness be damned.
Someone suddenly touched his face. Murtagh flinched away from the touch. They could kill him just fine, but touching was not on the agenda.
Someone was speaking. Murtagh couldn't hear the words. Everything was muted. He couldn't even tell if the speaker was male or female or even if they were talking to him.
Someone shook his shoulders then. Murtagh gave a slight sound of protest. The shaking stilled. Murtagh felt whoever it was lean closer and start to speak again. He wanted to tell them to shut up, but his voice wouldn't work. He'd rather go back to sleep anyway.
It was then he heard it; something that sounded like his name. This person knew him? Then again, everyone 'knew' him, so he didn't read into it. He didn't even bother to acknowledge whoever it was.
The person began to shake his shoulders again. What were they saying? No, never mind that. They were annoying him. Couldn't they see that Murtagh didn't care?
Whoever it was must have screamed, because Murtagh had heard that clearly. And he knew that voice. He knew the face, he knew the name.
His mouth opened, but no sound came forth.
Just leave me alone, he wanted to say. Let me die.
He was worried. The face without a name was worried. Murtagh wanted to laugh. He had no reason to worry. Murtagh was soon out of his life. He could move on and be happy.
He thought he heard please, but he couldn't be sure. He felt a strained laugh-like sound leave him. The shaking stopped.
Murtagh sighed. Now he could sleep again. But no, the shaking started up again. The voice sounded different now. Panicked.
He knew he had heard right this time. "Murtagh, please!" the boy had said. No, not boy. After all the time that had passed, he had to be a man now. A man. Murtagh never thought he would see the day.
And now perhaps he never would.
But before he went back to sleep, he wanted to say that name. He knew it. He had denied himself from saying it long enough.
Slowly it formed on his tongue. He almost had it. Then that voice came back and ruined his concentration.
"We're almost there. Hold on. Please."
He wanted to laugh. Hold on? He had held on long enough.
The other stiffened. Murtagh could feel it. He had said it. He had said the boy – no, man's name. Eragon.
He felt himself smile. Goodnight Eragon.
But somehow, as he surrendered to the darkness, he just knew Eragon would be there when he woke up again.
A/N If you've survived through this, then you are truly brave. I barely survived through it, and I wrote 90 percent of it at the dead of night (3AM to 5AM to be precise).
This was proof-read...twice, so if there are any mistakes I've missed, feel free to point them out. Because it pained me to write it. Don't ask me what made me do it, because quite frankly my dears, I don't know. I guess I was in the mood.
Before I go, I want to make something clear. By writing this, I'm not saying that I'm a Galbatorix/Murtagh shipper. Per say. But one day I found myself in the mood to write this, and *shrug* I did. It's an angst source that too few take advantage of. Murtagh spent a long time with Galbatorix, before and after he was captured by the Twins. Few write this angle on what might have happened during those years.
In case you were wondering, this is a one-shot. There is no sequel to this. This is my very AU take on events during Eldest, Brisingr and the fourth book. But this is it. Does he die? Does he live? That's up to you. Whatever feels right for you.
That is all for now. To those who actually read this, thank you.