Chapter Text
Brom collected his firewood in the Spine forest. When he had gathered a fair amount of it, he tied it in a firm bundle using a piece of rope made of the twisted strands of flax. His intention was to carry the bundle on his back from the edge of the forest up to the small one-room hut he occupied outside the village of Carvahall. Winter was taking charge early in the north before even the end of autumn. The wood would burn in his hearth helping him cook his meal and warm up his hut for many a day. If Brom had chosen to ask for help to carry the firewood, he would have found many who would have come wholeheartedly to an old man's aid. Horst's mare, usually borrowed to Ivor to help him with his farm work, or Quimby's cart would have carried his burden quickly and effortlessly. However, Brom detested these small favors granted out of goodwill, as well as most of the encounters with the villagers of Carvahall.
Brom's venerable, almost patriarchal appearance always impressed the others. His long, white beard was reaching almost to the waist. His always long, shaggy hair had grown even longer. During the years he had lived in Carvahall, his beard had turned white and his hair silver. He was always dressed in long tunics that covered his boots and trousers, and they contributed to the impression of his old age.
The old man started walking the long way home leaning on his yaw staff, pretending to support himself on it. He had spotted a group of young men, probably hunters, who walked in the distant opposite side of the valley, hurriedly coming towards him. As Brom was walking he pretended to be bending under the heavy bundle of wood. The young men would probably volunteer to carry the firewood for him. However, Brom hurriedly got away the fastest he could, to avoid the unpleasant meeting.
Brom preferred to be alone. If only his beautiful Saphira had lived…
…No! He would never again say her name… He had better not to remember…
He was alone!
About twelve years ago, Brom had settled down in Carvahall breaking all contacts with the elves or the Varden. He appeared in the village one night of the winter, when all the inhabitants had been gathered in the central square, where they celebrated their annual feast. To their curiosity about his person, he had only one answer; he was a storyteller strolling around the country, narrating about old stories of dragons and riders. To affirm his words, he sat by the fire and started narrating a beautiful story about the old dragonriders. Before he had even finished, all the villagers watched him with awe and amazement, enchanted by his words. Brom had accepted the many treats of roast meat and tangy beer that had followed his story. When he hinted that he might prefer to settle down in the village for the winter, many people had accepted him with delight, suggesting he could live in the empty hut on the outskirts of Carvahall.
Since then Brom had settled down in Carvahall never to travel again, never to leave the territory of the Palancar valley. He let his hair and beard grow long, his thick eyebrows hide his angry stare, and he bent his proud body under the weight of his supposed old age. It would be difficult for someone who had known him to recognize in the face of this old storyteller the man he had been; Brom, the fierce dragon-rider and rebel. Yet, this appearance was deliberately false. Under his long robes and the bent body leaning on his stuff, he was hiding his strong muscles and his brave heart; his unique sword dexterity and his steel will and determination that had destroyed many a forsworn.
Brom was alone! He always responded angrily to the other people avoiding friendships, and none was ever permitted in his hut. He guarded his world and his personal space with devotion, keeping everyone at a distance. He was keeping hundreds of secrets from the villagers of Carvahall, since no one had ever heard his entire name, or the place of his birth. What had this man done for a living before he came to their village? How had he known the old stories he narrated during annual festivals? What about the factors that had caused a so anti-social character, and had made Brom so willing to quarrel with anyone coming too close to his home? The image of the bitter, furious old man that followed him, would not reduce the curiosity of the villagers.
Brom was alone! His thoughts were always dark, as dark had been some of the paths he had taken in his long life. All these painful wounds in his mind and heart, caused by the great losses of his past… but no, Brom would never permit himself to call their names. He would never repeat the name of his first, his supreme love… nor of his second, his compassionate one. He was alone… he was condemned to live with his half, his broken and misery heart… Alone forever! Deprived from his memories either suite, or bitter. All alone! He himself had chosen this kind of life for him. Dedicated to his old books and scrolls, sometimes his own writings, he sought the salvation in vain. The two great loves would never come back, so their memories should never disturb his present life, devoted to guard… the child.
Despite his odd, unfriendly and fierce behaviour, he had always kept an eye on the family of…
…No! He would never repeat her name, not even in his thoughts… No one could ever know whose malevolent mind could watch…
Brom had an eye on 'her' family. On her little boy who was growing up like all the other children of Carvahall. The boy was healthy and in good spirits. He seemed to be strong and clever, as a young boy should be. Brom was more watching keeping his distance than asking directly about the child. He received the information concerning Eragon even observing those people the family befriended than the family itself. The few times the child and his relatives spent some time in Carvahall, the very next day Brom approached the forge of Horst finding an excuse, or even the house of Byrd, places the family usually visited.
Brom had decided to live a plain and simple life. He had introduced himself to the villagers of Carvahall as a 'story-teller'; however, he had never accepted any kind of fee for his stories. He had always shared them for free once in a year, during the winter festivity of the village. A few small coins of various values, he kept from the days of his past, were not to be spent. He survived in Carvahall the way all the villagers did. Without land to plow or harvest, he was limited to a small garden, where he cultivated some vegetables. The meat of the small animals and birds he trapped was added to his daily portion after his lonely excursions to the outskirts of the Spine. Brom had no need of something, or somebody else.
Trying to avoid the group of the hunters he had discerned in the distance, Brom followed a parallel path to the public road of the village. Soon he reached the back of his cottage, he stacked the heavy bundle neatly under the narrow shed, and he busied himself with cutting some wood for the hearth. Suddenly, he stood up straight and turned towards his home, all his senses in alarm. He had sensed someone standing behind the wooden fence. "What is your business here, boy?"
The child walked out of the fence awkwardly, his sling fastened to his belt. In his right hand he held a makeshift hook, a scrawny wild rabbit hung by it, obviously the victim of his last hunting. "I was passing by…" Brom's harsh voice was heard as angry as ever. Nevertheless, he had not yet shoo him away using his stick, as he usually did to others. Brom had never scold or hit him, even if his tone was as strict as now. Eragon came closer and busied himself by picking up the smaller, broken branches, his intention to carry them inside the hut. "Let me help you!"
"It is not necessary!" Brom grunted and reached for the door. The child made a back step unintentionally obviously scared. The old man glance him, while he himself carried the firewood inside. The boy still stood staring at him the same way he always did when, puzzled with something, a torrent of questions demanding answers was about to escape his mouth. "Have you been with the other hunters?" Brom asked him. A glance at the rabbit declared it did not even worth the boy's trouble. If the stone had missed its head, the rabbit would have probably died of hunger in a few days long.
The boy shook his head. "I was alone. I wanted to ask you something" he said less timidly, gaining courage from the fact that he had not yet been driven away. He followed Brom towards the entrance, but the old man stood at the threshold looking at him in the eye, expecting to listen all about his questions. "It's about the dragons" the boy dared. "Have they ever lived in the real world? Roran says your stories are nothing more than fairytales, worth only for the little children to go to sleep."
Brom stared at him enigmatically, and then he nodded at him to follow inside. "Stop standing at the door. You might as well come in."
Eragon walked through the doorway. It was not his first time in Brom's hut. A few years ago, when he was much younger, he had invaded Brom's forbidden place along with a gang of other boys. The old man was not at home. They did not even have had the chance to enjoy the fruits of their curiosity taking advantage on his absence, when he had suddenly appeared to capture them 'dealing with his treasures'. The old man was very angry with them. After he had chased them with his staff, he had unleashed a bitter tirade against them, threatening them with horrifying punishments if they ever dared to repeat the invasion to his sanctuary. However, despite the threats some of them were still strolling around. Eragon was one of them. Nevertheless, the few times he had dared to appear, Brom had never rejected him, but he had always answered his questions using beautiful stories about the past.
Brom piled the firewood into the hearth and then he lit the fire using a tinderbox, striking the flint. A lively, orange flame sprang up biting at the wood, casting a bright light all over the room. The old man filled the teapot with water and he set it down on the iron trivet to boil. All the time he was murmuring angrily, but the boy could not hear his words. Finally, Brom took his pipe out of his pocket, filled it with tobacco, and then he used a small twig from the fireplace to light it.
"Do not stand near the door, come in, sit down" Brom urged the boy, who had stood by the threshold looking at the 'treasures' with wide open eyes.
Eragon came in, but he dared not touch anything. All these miracles of knowledge, placed all around the room, were amazing. There were beautiful, leather bound books, fragile scrolls of parchment, old quills, and even a crystal, silver topped inkwell.
Brom removed a stack of books out of a chair and placed them on the floor, making place for the boy to sit. "So, that is what Roran says about the dragons, eh? Hmm…" Brom took a deep puff on his pipe and then he blew the smoke out of his nose. The child was still staring, a questioning look in his eyes. However, he sat on the chair after he abandoned the scrawny rabbit on the floor.
"You have too many books!" Eragon admired. "Can you read them all?"
Brom let an angry laugh escape his lips. "Of course I can! Now, let's get back to the subject. Dragons are not just bedtime stories, as Roran claims. Dragons, along with the dwarfs and a few others are the true inhabitants of Alagaësia. They flew up into the wide sky, strong and proud in their glory, before the first elves sailed over the sea on their silver ships."
The boy looked at him full of admiration, his mouth open ready to attack with a torrent of more questions. "Where did the elves come from? Why are they called the fair folk? Do they really exist? And who are the other species, except the dwarves and the dragons?"
Brom turned his back to him hiding a small smile under a scowling face. The old man might be irascible at times, but he never minded taking time for Eragon. He reached for two cups out of the shelf, and dropped some leaves into them. "If you go on interrupting, you will never have answers to your questions. Exploring every piece of knowledge, we would still be sitting here when the next winter comes."
The boy dipped his head trying to look contrite. "I should not interrupt," he said "I am sorry."
Brom could not refrain from smiling. "Most definitely, you are not." Then he took the pot out of the fire and poured boiling water into the cups. Handing one to Eragon, he said, "You had better drink your tea hot, it will do you good. Besides, these leaves don't need to steep long, so drink it quickly before it gets too strong" he warned. The old man reached for a heavy volume under a pile of scrolls. "In this tome you can see some illustrations that will convince you for the existence of the dragons. The illuminator has painted the images hundreds of years ago, but the paintings still keep their lively colors. You can see how the dragons used to be, and then assure your cousin he is wrong."
The book was full of the colorful images of creatures that looked so fierce, at the same time so beautiful and majestic. Eragon looked at them captivated that he forgot to ask more questions. Brom kept on describing the Dragons' names and deeds, avoiding on purpose the way of their death. Time seemed to pass too quickly for them. Outside the window the setting sun flamed the horizon, and the shadows deepened on the world. Finally, Brom stopped talking and he closed the book decisively.
"Your uncle will be looking for you. It is time for you to go."
The boy stood slowly and took his prey from the floor. "The dragons were beautiful" he admitted. "Thank you for showing me their images, and telling me their stories. Now I know that they've truly existed." The moment he opened the door to leave the hut he changed his mind, and turned back. In a serious manner he offered the killed wild rabbit to the old man. "Here, take it! I've killed it earlier using my sling and a stone. You should keep it as a gift for accepting me and showing me the beautiful images of the dragons."
Brom shook his head in denial. "You had better give the prey to your uncle" he said. "Ask him too, to make a bow for you. You would be able to hunt bigger game with a bow and an arrow. The meat of this wild rabbit does not worth your trouble. You are already twelve years old. A bow is the proper weapon for a hunter at your age."
"How do you know that I am twelve years old?" the boy asked eyeing him suspiciously. However, the old man refrained from answering him, and he just waved for him to go.
Eragon hasted to descend the valley road towards the farm of his uncle, carrying the scrawny rabbit with him. The days were getting shorter and the darkness came early. Like the horn of an ox, the crescent moon appeared above him, through a rift in the clouds the wind had torn open.