They aren't mine, I'm just playing with them for a while.Warnings:
Inspired by a scene towards the end of the movie.
Eragon drifted in and out of fevered dreams, his skin slicked with sweat. In those moments that he surfaced for longer than a second or two, he was aware that his body ached worse than he could ever remember it aching before, and that drove him back to the sanctuary of restless sleep.
And the sanctuary of someone holding him. He was only dimly aware of the comfort that was given; cool hands stroking his trembling body, strong arms wrapping around him and holding him, fingers carding through his hair. At times, as the fever gripped him, he thought it was his uncle that held him as he had when Eragon was a child, or perhaps Brom, but fleeting thoughts of his lost mentor only caused pain of a different kind, and his mind slipped away from those thoughts before they could take form.
The fever broke in the dead of night. Eragon whimpered and his eyes fluttered open as the fur he lay under was tucked around him and a firm kiss was planted on his brow. Dark eyes smiled at him, and he drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep for the first time in days.
When he finally woke to a bright, clean day, those same eyes stared back at him and he realised who had held him through the worst of it.