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Chapter Text

Since early in the afternoon, the children had been busy playing a game with anklebones. Using a piece of limestone they had drawn two long lines on the dirt marking their starting and take-off point, aiming towards the target area which was segmented into three concentric circles. Evidence of the children's game existed long centuries ago, since the very first years their forefathers had moved into the valley. It might have been that old, that the human inhabitants had brought it with them to the fertile land of Alagaësia, when they first decided to move to its territory abandoning their distant home. The bones, taken from the talus of the hunted deer – a game in abundance in the forests of the Spine – were a precious acquisition for every child, an heirloom usually passed on from a father to his firstborn son.

For this particular game one player should gain momentum running from the start, up to the take-off point – which was the second drawn line on the dirt – aiming their bone for the circle. For those who failed the target for three continuous times the game was over. The winner of the game would be the one who would succeed all his five anklebones in the circles, especially the inner and smaller one. For the rare times when more than one had managed all their bones inside the smaller circle – none of the children remembered that something like that had ever happened – two older boys, chosen as umpires, would decide whose bones stood nearer the center. That meant one player should put a mark on their bones to avoid accidental mistakes, or intentional cheating. The game of anklebones, even seemingly played so calmly, it has been a pure challenge among the players, and many a game had finished with bruises, bloody noses and torn clothes after an argument.

The young boy in turn closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated, calculating for the fifth time the distance between the take-off line up to the inner circle. He had previously succeeded his four bones inside the smaller, inner circle, and if he would manage one more, he would be announced the winner for sure. His other opponents had either failed, or had not achieved as many goals as he had. The boy was the youngest of all, which was the reason the others had left him aiming as the last one. He held tightly his fifth bone – not even his, but borrowed from his older brother since he had better start a serious conversation with the sons of the blacksmith under the shadow of a tree – and he breathed deeply. The target was not much of a difference to him, than the small prey he was used to hunting with his sling and stones. Later, full of pride he would brig the birds and the wild rabbits to his mother's kitchen, to be prepared for the supper. The little boy had fame among the members of his family as a skillful hunter; at least for such a small prey. Now he breathed deeply, he kept his breath, he opened his eyes, and started running. The anklebone left his hand with a dexterous shot and it landed for the fifth time inside the center circle.

The little boy was not given enough time to enjoy the winner's satisfaction, when the angry voice of one of the elders cut short his joyous jumping.

"Theft! I saw you stepping on the line, and your shot is foul!"

The little boy turned towards the voice, anger already stirring in his eyes for the unfair accusation. It was Rid Kiseltsson the one who had objected, not something really unexpected, since Rid was a brawler and he had previously been dismissed from the game with three foul shots. Now he was aiming towards the inner circle pushing and pulling at the umpires, who had come closer to judge. The fifth bone of the younger one stood among his others, even closer to the center. One could easily spot it from the bones of the other players, not only from the mark of the three deep notches on its one side, but also from the thick dot, made by some faded yellow paint, on the top of it. Apparently its owner has been determined to make his bones stand out from those of the others.

"I haven't seen him stepping on the line" the one of the umpires protested somewhat spiritlessly. The other one decided he had better to do not interfere. Rid Kiseltsson was his friend, additionally, he was very well known as a squabbler. He had better be on good terms with him.

"You might not have seen him, but I have noticed that, all the times he has shot he has stepped on the line. That is the reason he wins us all."

"Since you have noticed, you should have spoken in the first place" the umpire said again apathetically, and he stepped aside. Rid seemed determined to start a fight, and the umpire had no intention to be his first victim.

The little boy ran and stood in front of the circle examining the place his bones stood around the center, eyes shining and a contented smile on his face. "My shots are not illegal" he protested. "I never stepped on the line! All the times I've stopped behind it."

Kiseltsson turned against him goggling, his cheeks burning and his fists ready. "You should not speak, Eragon son of None! I've seen you stepping inside the line." His argument 'on' the line now became 'inside' it. For anyone dared to oppose, Rid's fist was ready to strike.

The little boy stood speechless due to the double insult. Rid had not only called him a thief, but also… the son of None? His cheeks blushed, his eyes flashed from fair anger and wounded pride.

"My name is Eragon, son of Garrow, not son of None!" he cried out loud for everyone to listen to him. "And I am not a thief!"

His older brother, Roran, was standing under the shadow of a tree along with Albriech and Baldor. The two sons of Horst, the blacksmith of the village, were about the same age with Roran, and they usually spend their free time together. The kids had better sit under the shadow talking about metal techniques. Roran was listening carefully every word the sons of the blacksmith said, as they had a better knowledge about this art and about all things a man could construct using iron. Roran was already nine years old, and the childish years of his life would soon leave him forever. The magic of the constructions had already captivated his spirit. He had better lent his anklebones to his little brother since toys like these were just for kids to 'waste' their time.

Suddenly, Roran's attention was drawn by the screams and rumpus coming from the game of the youngest. The bad-temper Rid had seized his little brother from the shirt and was punching him at his face. Eragon was not standing still accepting the beating, but he had retaliated. Roran, along with the two sons of the blacksmith, urged towards them to stop the fight.

"The reason, if you please, of the fighting?" Roran rescued Eragon from the hands of the elder boy, securing his little brother behind him. Rid Kiseltsson was tall for his age, strapping, and even older in years than Roran himself. However, Roran was never afraid, not only Rid, but no one else.

"He called me a thief," the boy Eragon yelled shaking his fist from the secure place behind his brother "but it is not fair! I am neither a thief, nor the son of None!" The little boy's just anger flooded his chest filling his eyes with tears that ran down his cheeks. His nose was bleeding and droplets of blood were dripping on the collar of his messed up shirt.

Roran's eyes shone with anger because of the insults, but he kept his temper. He turned towards the umpire and asked. "Did my brother cheat?" His voice was filled with restrained rage. The first boy murmured something about not seeing, the other shook his head. Roran turned again towards Rid. "The umpires do not agree with you. That means, Eragon is not a thief. As for you Kiseltsson mind to quarrel with one of your own age, not with a seven-year old kid. If you want to know, you already are beyond the age of the childish games. Grow up!"

Roran said like that, but when he noticed a long bruise spreading across Rid's jaw, he felt proud for his little brother. He held Eragon's shoulder protectively, and, saying no more he started leaving, nodding at the sons of the blacksmith as he passed them. Albreich and Baldor had already started appeasing the belligerence of the 'offended' Rid.

Roran and Eragon followed the road that led out of the village towards the river. The farm of their parents has been located somewhere in the middle, closer to the waters of Anora, which started at the Igualda Falls rushing then through the valley, eventually flowing into the northern sea. At the beginning the boys walked in silence, except an occasional sob that shook the chest of the younger. Eragon sniffled back the blood and tears scowling, fumbling in the leather bag he kept the anklebones. Roran decided to comfort him.

"For a younger kid you did well" he told him pulling him closer to his own body. His hand had remained on Eragon's shoulder holding his younger brother all the way back home. "Rid Kiseltsson will have a bruised face in the following days. His hurt jaw will remind him that he had better think before accusing the others. Albeit, you should avoid answering whatever accusation one says; squabbling with them is not the proper way. There are the proper arbitrators to resolve any issue."

Eragon sniffled once more trying to stop the blood that was still dripping from his nose. "He insulted me!" he complained to his older brother. "I didn't mind so much that he called me a 'thief,' and accused me for cheating at the game when I actually did not. He called me 'son of None' in front of all others!" Eragon stood and turned towards his brother looking at the older boy in the eye. "Why has he called me that, Roran? Why would he like to humiliate me like that, calling me… a bastard?"

Roran took his handkerchief out of his pocket and started wiping the blood from the nose of his brother. "Do not pay attention" he told the little kid. "Kiseltsson is but a narrow-minded moron. Everyone knows about it, no other proof is needed. Don't you remember when we had sneaked in the old-Brom's forbidden 'lair' along with the other boys? Kiseltsson was the one who had hurried to call him back. The oldster had hastily returned and caught us all red-handed."

Roran pressed so slightly his handkerchief against Eragon's nose. The blood had ceased dripping and his lips and jaw were now clear. It was time for them to rush towards home. Their mother was still running a fever and their father might need them to help around the house before dusk.

Chapter Text

Gertrude, the healer of Carvahall, came out of the room where mother Marian was resting. Through the opened door the two boys saw their father sitting by her side, holding her hand, caressing her hair. Over the last few days, mother's poor health had gone worse. She looked so unwell, and she could not leave her bed even for a while. Despite Gertrude's medicine her fever was running higher and higher.

"Your mother wishes to talk to you one to one separately" the woman whispered giving a tender smile at the boys. Someone would say that the healer was quite satisfied with her patience's course of healing. However, Gertrude has always been calm and collected; a very optimistic person, who liked to give courage to everyone. She would be the last one to lose control. "Come, Eragon, she likes to see you first."

The boy was sitting near the cold hearth next to his brother. He stood, gave Roran an anxious glance and he aimed reluctantly for his mother's room. As he passed Gertrude, the woman touched him gently stroking his tousled, brown hair in an unexpected caress. The father had already stood and as he exited the room he met the little boy. Garrow's lean face was pale. Inside his intense eyes two pools of tears were hidden with elaborately care, tears that always would be there, but they would never break out.

"Eragon…" Mother-Marian's voice was cut short by a violent burst of coughing. For many days she had suffered from the nagging cough, and now she pressed her handkerchief on her lips trying to stop it. Then, she dabbed her mouth with the linen and looked at the boy. "Come closer, my child."

The little boy sat by her side taking the seat his father had previously occupied. His mother's long, brunette hair – was it really that long? He had never noticed – spread out on the pillow, her cheeks bright red from the high fever, her eyes blurring. On her nightstand Gertrude had arranged the bundles of herbs she had carried from her hut to use them as medicines. However, despite the healer's efforts the continuous fever had insisted.

"Eragon…" mother smiled at him with a sad look in her eyes stretching her hand towards him, asking him closer. "My little boy…"

The parents in Carvahall, although deeply caring for their children, they were never pampering and cuddling them in fear they might spoil them. Sweet words were unfamiliar to the little boy, so he felt surprised by his mother's attitude.

"Soon you will be much better, my mother" he told her gaining courage with his own words. "As for our household, you should not be bothered about it. Roran and I can very well manage. We're taking good care of our father and…"

"There is something, child," the woman interjected "I wish to tell you since the secret is so weighty, and I do not see it proper to take it with me in my grave."

The mother's words upset the boy, but in his attempt to say something, he was cut short by the woman's intense gaze.

"Please, Eragon, listen to me without interrupting. There is no much vital energy left to me and my time is short. You know, my son, that I've loved you since the first moment I've accepted you in my arms. I've never seen you differently than Roran, but I've always considered you as my own child… You see, Eragon… as much as I love, I am not, son, your mother."

Once more a constant coughing interrupted the woman's talking, and in her attempt to reach for the water on her nightstand, the boy carried the glass helping her drink. What his mother had just said puzzled him greatly. She could not possibly mean that she was not his mother. Definitely not! It would be the fever talking through her mouth.

"Mother…"

"Do not call me that, my boy, although I believe I deserve this title. I've raised you like my own child. I took care of your childhood illnesses, ever during the whole night long. I've shared my time equally between you and Roran, as well as the poor supplies of my kitchen during the difficult winters of the farm. I've cared for you from the depths of my heart, and I've loved you the same way I love him. Yet, I have not given you birth." Marian gasped for breath and she fell on her pillows trying to gather her strength to go on. "I am not your mother, Eragon, but I am your aunt. Your real mother, the sister of you uncle Garrow, is called Selena. She came to our farm during one stormy night. She was pregnant and seeking shelter to deliver her child. After five months living with us, she gave birth to you. Then, she pleaded with us to keep you here, to raise you as our own. Before she left forever, she gave you your name. None has ever heard word from her; neither have we known anything about your father."

As the woman ceased speaking, the room was wrapped in deep silence. Marian peered at the boy's wet eyes. She could very well understand that it was hard for him to accept her words. However, she would never start her journey to the afterworld taking such a secret with her. If Eragon knew all about his true origin, one day he would be able to search for his mother or, maybe, his father too. When she had first come to the farm, Selena was dressed in expensive clothes embroidered lavishly with lace and pearls. Golden jewels with precious stones adorned her neck, ears, wrists and fingers. The parent of this child should be a rich man for sure. Maybe he was a very important noble of the empire. How could Marian die and abandon this world leaving such a secret untold? She told the child all she could recall emphasizing that, it was Selena who had chosen this kind of life for her son. She had insisted that, if the boy stayed with them that would be the best for his future.

Marian kissed the boy's brow giving him her blessing. She wished Eragon a good and decent life full of joyousness and healthiness. She admonished him to spread his kindness around him, inspire the others with his deeds, and gain respect and recognition form all the members of their society. She encouraged him to make his family proud by doing his duty according to the needs of time. She told him to be strong and face the difficulties that always come, supporting those in need around him. She urged him, always aim for the better and she warned him that, when a difficult situation of life has ended, great strength is needed for a new start. Eragon should never forget his origin and the love she had showered upon him during the first, the tenderest years of his life.

When Eragon exited the room tears shone in his eyes, his heart was sinking. Roran glanced at him perplexed, then he entered their mother's room saying nothing. Their father… for him 'uncle Garrow' from now on, sat by the table along with Gertrude. They whispered to each other with soft voices and Eragon could not perceive their talking.

Agitated by the revelation he went out of the house, his thoughts and emotions being like a tangled box of yarn. The boys' usual seat on the doorstep would not invite him, to wait for his brother… cousin there. All the life he had lived so far had just changed in a twist of fate. Puzzled with hundreds of questions and anxieties, he sought refuge in the loneliness of the forest. He ran crying behind the house, he passed the barn, the fields, and the fence of the farm and scurried for the desolation among the trees. His father, his mother and brother, all the family members he cherished so much, now seemed to him like distant strangers. Somewhere dwelt a mother he had never met. A father unknown… he was really the son of None… and, maybe, another brother who lived separated from him. Why had his mother left him with his uncle and aunt? Why had his parents brought him to life just to forsake him? Wasn't he good enough for them, so they had decided to renounce him? The boy sat by a root of a tree letting his tears run freely from his cheeks. He was alone… abandoned… deserted.

After long hours he had searched for him, Roran finally found Eragon in the forest. He detected him lying among the roots of the tree, his little body cold from the wetness of the soil and the chilly breeze that had followed the dusk. His tears had ceased and his cheeks had dried, but he stared with wide open eyes into a world he could not recognize. Roran engulfed Eragon with both arms in a tight embrace. He promised the younger one that he would always be his little brother. He reminded him the love they shared for their father, who, in such a difficult moment of his life, was in need of both of his children. He encouraged him saying that, nothing in their lives was about to change. The blood bond they shared was meant to last forever, and it would be the glue uniting them as long as they lived.

Eragon responded to Roran's words with a barrage of questions about his mother. Answering him Roran said he could not remember the night of the little one's birth. He was too young to remember Selena visiting their farm, or her life with them. He could not recall father Garrow ever mentioning something about a sister. After that the boys returned home holding hands, and they were snuggled together in Roran's bed for the night.

Before the break of dawn and the beginning of a new day, mother-aunt Marian died in the hands of father-uncle Garrow.

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.

Chapter Text

Garrow was digging into the dark soil using his fingers, frozen clods of mud painfully sticking under his nails. The small knife he held was a poor help to his effort, so he went on digging with his fingers, so as not to injure the purplish-white bulbs. Then, he was carefully pulling the long green stalks from their leaves, to drop each one of them into the basket that stood beside him. Since the break of the new day, Garrow has been busy with the gathering of turnips with Roran's help, while Eragon carried the full baskets of the harvest and emptied them in the warehouse. The temperature had dropped sharply and the weather would not be on their help for much longer.

Garrow worked without speaking. For years now – since the days Marian died – his conversations were less than a few, and lately they were limited to those absolutely necessary for the farm working; so were his associations. No man in Carvahall would blame him for looking after his house, his farm and his children. After all, he would never find out about the gossip behind his back since the people he met could be counted on the fingers of his one hand. Scarce were his visits too. During the past years, Garrow allowed himself to grow thinner. His stick-thin body was clothed in poor and worn clothes; his hair had turned gray and his intense, hungry-looking eyes observed the world silently from his gaunt face.

Since Marian’s death, Garrow had taken care of the two boys all by himself. Without wasting time on obvious displays of love, had stood for them a typical father, as any father in their village would be. People of Carvahall never bestowed too much affection towards their children. However, they prepared them properly to face the difficult conditions of living in the north, as well as the hard work needed for their land to produce. Although the parents of Carvahall never wasted time into pampering their children, yet they all loved them dearly, and they would gladly give their lives to protect them. Garrow might never show it, but he was proud for the man Roran had become. He was proud for Eragon too. He believed deep down, that he had done his duty as a father bringing up these two sons in the best possible way, both of whom he considered as his own.

Garrow went on uprooting the turnips, watching Roran’s broad shoulders – Roran, who worked stooped, occupied to a similar chore. His son had grown into manhood. His body already changed from a boy in his teens to that of a man. Roran was a man now and every time Garrow was thinking about it, he nodded to himself with contentment. His son had officially passed into manhood during the previous year, and he was now seventeen years of age. Time has come for an engagement to be arranged for him, then a marriage.

Garrow cleaned the frozen mud off the flesh of another root dropping the turnip into the basket. Time has come for a young woman to join their family and house. A woman's hand was all their home has been missing, for so many years. A woman, to take care of their household; so that when the men would return from the fields, there would be a warm plate of food on their table. A woman, to welcome the tired workers with a sweet smile. A young woman, to bring new blood into their family; a new generation of children under their roof; new hands to work their land. Roran was a man now, and Garrow, even though he would never admit it, he would rejoice about the fact from the depths of his heart.

Although such kind of conversation has always been avoided in Carvahall, Garrow knew that Roran's heart had spoken. All they would wait now was for the bride’s family to accept Roran, so that joy would come again to their house. As for the younger one, for Eragon, who was almost fifteen? Garrow believed that he would stay on the farm too, helping with the land works and taking part in their lives. The year that his sister Selena had abandoned her baby into their hands to be gone forever, seemed so far away that Garrow barely remembered.

By nightfall Garrow locked the wooden door of the warehouse and, before he crossed the thirty yards that separated the stable from the house, he checked for the horses and the cow. They usually fed a pig too, however, during the previous difficult season, they wouldn’t have managed. Returning home was always a relief to Garrow’s tiredness. The passing day had not been wasted in vain. It had not passed empty, but fool of heavy farm work, with plans for everything that had to be done in the next day. Before winter’s cold would fall from the high mountains ridge to their valley, and the frost confines the farmers to the heat of their hearth, they had to be ready.

Garrow stopped on the threshold for a few moments, looking around at his land. The harvest moon appeared between two mountain peaks of the Spine shedding its pearly light over the valley. Calm was the hour, but the cold was piercing. It was not the kind of cold that reduces on the sunny heights, but the liquid cold that could not penetrate even the first morning sunrays. The wind had dropped, and the stillness of the hour brought to his ears the distant sound of the river, that flowed towards the northern sea. The hour was peaceful and Garrow rubbed his hands in contentment.

‟Uncle!”

The boy’s voice made him turn abruptly. Without having heard of him, Eragon had exited the door of the house. He was standing behind him, under the covered porch beside the winter Woodstock. Garrow looked at him carefully. Dark eyebrows arched over dark brown eyes – his sister's eyes – stared back at him.

‟If you don't need me tomorrow and during the following days, I plan to go for hunting in the Spine” the boy said. ‟I want to test my new bow and arrows, and I will definitely be back before the first snowfall.”

Garrow's thin features tensed. ‟Who is going to harvest the barley?” He knew Roran and himself were not enough hands. If Eragon was not around, they would be late and the cold would probably catch them up. On the other hand, Eragon was a skilled hunter. The meat he would surely bring was a necessary food for them for the upcoming winter. In a few weeks the first snow would be around and the forests of the Spine would become impassable. Perhaps that was Eragon’s last chance to hunt.

‟You may go” he reluctantly gave his permission. ‟However, as soon as you will be back, you will help Roran gather the rest of the barley.” Entering the kitchen Garrow warmed up his hands by the lit fireplace. He saw Roran having been seated at the table Eragon had previously prepared. The young man had already placed the cauldron with the breakfast leftovers onto the hearth to warm their soup. ‟If we manage to gather the pumpkin before frost that would be fine” Garrow said, as he began to pour the soup into their bowls.

‟Tomorrow before dawn I’ll be gone” said Eragon stuffing some bread and a few provisions for the road into his bag.

‟On your way back to Carvahall, do not forget to meet the person I told you about” Roran whispered to his cousin. ‟Tell her that she is the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. Tell her that… she is the only one I think about, all the time.”

Eragon shot a guilty glance towards Garrow, but his uncle was busy serving the dinner. He didn’t seem to have noticed their whispers. ‟Don’t worry. I’ll tell her everything” he answered Roran in a serious tone.

They ate in silence, and when they had finished Garrow stood. ‟I’m going to sleep. Goodnight” he said dryly.

Both young men bade him goodnight and after they had washed all the food utensils and placed them on the kitchen shelf, they moved to their champers. The day which had just ended, has been long and tiring. The next one would start early. Eragon slept almost immediately. Even though the stuff he would take with him was already ready since earlier, he had to wake up before dawn.

In the next morning, before the first golden sunrays fire onto the Palancar valley, Eragon was on his way to the Spine, and to the adventure that would change his life forever.