Chapter Text
so much wanting to know, but not asking
He woke slowly, unhurried.
Winter hadn't fully made its way to Carvahall yet, though it was certainly making itself known. Several nights ago, the same storm he’d remembered from before had blown in, and with a few carefully placed words, he'd managed to get Roran and Garrow properly prepared for it before it was too late. And though the snow had stopped falling, Eragon could still hear the shutters of the window in his room rattling as a harsh wall of wind buffeted against the side of the house. He rolled over, pulling his blanket over his head. Laying on his side, he brought his knees up to his chest, curling into a tight ball. He let himself worry after Saphira for just a moment before releasing the thought; even if they couldn't properly talk with her being so far away and as yet inside her egg, she'd still be able to feel his distress.
He groaned and sat up as a foggy sense of comfort came from her anyway.
It'd been long enough that he no longer spent the first moments of each morning looking around his room in wonder at simply being there—only a month, give or take a week, had passed—or with paralyzing horror for having actually stayed in Carvahall. At first, he'd been so on edge once he'd woken up in Brom's house before sprinting home that he could hardly finish his chores in the following week, and Garrow had threatened to take him into town to be seen by Gertrude in case there was something wrong with him. But Eragon had, somehow, been able to convince his uncle that he was fine. In truth, though, he hadn't wanted to see the woman; with Garrow so close and, well, alive, Eragon didn't want to be reminded of his uncle's death. So he’d pulled himself together.
Eragon pulled on his boots as he finally swung his legs over the edge of the bed and started making his way toward the smell of breakfast. As he passed the door to Roran's room, slightly ajar, he peeked inside to find the bed unmade and his cousin missing. I wonder where he's gone, Eragon thought as he continued on to the kitchen.
Roran had noticed the difference in his demeanor more than Garrow had. Or, perhaps, Roran simply didn’t have the same patience as Garrow to wait Eragon out. After a week had passed since his return home, Roran had come into his room after dark, sat on the edge of his bed, and demanded to know what happened in the Spine. The thought of lying to him had felt so dishonest that Eragon had simply denied anything at all had happened, but Roran was too keen to let it go like that. So Eragon had floundered for a moment before admitting, somewhat ashamedly, that he had had a dream that was so... terrible… that he was having difficulties recovering from it. Roran had given him a hard look, then nodded, accepting the lie for what it was.
He hadn't brought it up since, but Eragon had still noticed Roran looking at him oddly every now and again as they tended to the fields or the horses.
Only Garrow sat at the table. When Eragon finally descended the stairs and pulled out a chair of his own to sit, Garrow greeted him with a gruff, "Mornin'."
Eragon returned the greeting, and began eating in big, quick bites, looking out the window as he did. "Where's Roran?" he asked.
Garrow scoffed. "Off to see Katrina, I'd bet. He left not too long ago, said he was going into town."
"Oh, I'll probably be seeing him then," Eragon said. With the barley and squash already harvested before the storm, there wasn't much left to do at home other than sit in front of the woodstove and wait. And besides, he'd already made plans.
Garrow must have noticed the pleased smile he couldn't keep off his face when thinking about Saphira because he leaned forward then, his eyebrows drawn together. "You're seeing him again?"
"Wh— Brom?" Eragon asked, coughing as his throat constricted mid-swallow. It wasn't exactly a secret where Eragon spent his time in town lately, but the looks Garrow and Roran gave him—not to mention the tone they used when speaking of the man—led Eragon to believe that, at the least, they disapproved.
His uncle leaned back in his chair, and it creaked as he did so. He shook his head slowly from side to side, frowning. "I won't tell you to stay away from him now," he said, not meeting Eragon's eye. "But just be careful he doesn't fill your head with nonsense. You've got a good head on your shoulders."
Eragon sighed and pushed his mostly-empty plate away; he'd heard that before from his uncle and cousin both over the last month. It made him uncomfortable, the way they spoke about his father, even if they didn't know who he was to Eragon.
"I told you before, he's helping me with a project," Eragon said, fighting to keep the annoyance out of his voice.
"I know, I know," Garrow said, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. "I just worry about you—you and Roran both."
"I know," Eragon said, leaning back in his own chair. He let his head drop back and stared up at the ceiling, arms crossed over his chest, trying not to pout.
He didn't regret staying in Carvahall, but some days he wondered if he should have just bullied his way into staying with Brom until the traders arrived instead of returning home to Garrow and Roran and their... concern. Some days it was too much, knowing he'd be leaving them again, and that no matter what justifications he provided they would probably never forgive him. Forgiveness, he thought, snorting. Yes, he'd been questing after that for quite some time now; it was part of the reason why Saphira's egg was still in Brom's possession and and not his.
She had not forgiven him for agreeing to go with Arya to the cathedral in Dras-Leona, and after spending the better part of a month without her, thinking it over without her emotions colouring his own, he no longer had any desire to defend himself; it had been a terrible thing to do to Saphira, especially after she'd all-but begged him to reconsider. Yet, he'd gone ahead anyway, hoping to play the hero once again.
Eragon knew that Galbatorix was still waiting for him, somewhere over the horizon in Urû'baen, but…that was a long while off. For now, he and Brom couldn't even agree where they'd go after Carvahall, and Eragon privately hoped that they wouldn't decide so that they wouldn't have to leave. After all, if the Ra'zac came to Carvahall looking for Saphira's egg, she was bound to have hatched by then and they could take them on together; him and Saphira and Brom. He was trying to face this Aptr-moi with more determination than he had with the last one, had vowed to keep everyone—himself included—alive. And reluctantly, Eragon could admit that meant leaving again.
Across the table, Garrow sighed and stood, collecting their plates. "I'm not telling you no, you know. Go if you want," he said and for a moment, Eragon's heart seized in his chest, wondering if somehow his uncle had read his thoughts. "Just make sure you're home in time to rest up; we have work to do before dinner at Horst's house tomorrow night."
Is that tomorrow? Eragon thought, squeezing his eyes shut against the momentary bout of paranoia. I must have lost track of the days... If we're having dinner with Horst tomorrow, then that means the traders will be here soon, and if they are, that means— "I've got to go!" he nearly shouted, standing and running up the stairs two at a time to grab his pack.
Garrow stood by the front door, waiting, as Eragon dashed back down again. "What d'you need all that for?" he grunted, gesturing at his pack.
Eragon remained silent, letting his uncle hand him his thick winter cloak; he didn't want his uncle to get so curious that he'd go looking himself, but he needed to say something. Why had he been so terrible at explaining things this Aptr-Moi? "It's for that project I've been talking about. But don't look!" he said, hoping he didn't sound too worried.
Garrow snorted, then smiled, clapping a hand on Eragon's shoulder. "Alright, I was just asking. Be good while you're out," he said, then he held open the door as Eragon tried to hold himself back from actually running out of it.
"I will!" he called over his shoulder, nearly stumbling as the cold air hit him head-on. Almost immediately, his teeth began chattering, but he refused to slow down—he needed to see Brom. Once he was out of sight of the house, he murmured a simple spell to keep him slightly warmer without exhausting himself before he made it into town.
Despite the snow, the expanse of waist-high grasses still stood tall along the path, and the dry stalks rattled in the harsh winter wind around him as Eragon trotted toward the road leading into town. Above him, the sky was a pale, muted blue-grey, like one massive cloud hovered over all of Palancar Valley. In the distance, he heard the harsh cry of a crow, but when he looked for it as he walked, it couldn't be found.
The closer he got to the road, he further he reached with his mind out toward Saphira. Like the first Aptr-moi—this being the second, they'd decided to make things clearer—her voice was faint and strained from inside her egg. Eragon had asked Brom why that would be, and the man had grumbled around his house without answering the question, flipping through various books. Eragon just assumed he didn't know and was too embarrassed to admit it, so he hadn't asked again. Still, something kept him and Saphira connected and he wondered, once she hatched again, if they'd be able to hear each other's voices from anywhere in Alagaësia; Brom had been especially curious of the fact that they'd been able to speak with each other from opposite sides of Leona Lake in the last Aptr-moi.
Eragon was so caught up in his thoughts, his mind already spread thin with reaching out to Saphira, that he missed it the first few times his name was being called from further along the path. When Roran ran up, grabbing Eragon by the shoulders, he snapped back into himself, disoriented for more than just moment.
"Roran! What's wrong?" he asked, looking over Roran's shoulder and behind him for whatever danger he hadn't been able to sense.
"I should ask you the same thing!" Roran frowned, looking intently from one of Eragon's eyes to the other. "Where'd you go off to in that head of yours?"
"I was just...thinking," Eragon said, still looking down the path. "What's wrong?" he asked again, stepping back and out of Roran's grasp. His cousin’s hands grasped at the air for a moment before falling to his sides.
"Nothing! I—" Roran cut himself off, taking a deep breath before smiling wide. "I saw the tracks in the snow! The traders are here! I was running back to tell you!"
Eragon stomach dropped, even as he watched Roran bouncing excitedly on his toes. That means I'll be leaving even sooner than I realized, he thought, though he let himself smile at Roran in return. "That's good news," he said weakly before his mouth finally relaxed into a real smile. But that also means Saphira will be hatching soon! "No, that's great news, thank you!" Eragon said, dancing around his cousin to start off toward the road again.
"Wait!" Roran called. Eragon turned around, walking backward, and saw concern on his cousin's face. "Aren't you going to go back with me to tell—?"
"Sorry!" Eragon said, waving guiltily, "but I've really got to go!" Then he turned back around and started running, hoping that Roran wouldn't follow.
Everything’s happening so fast, he thought to himself, his stomach clenching. Was it like this before? I…I thought we’d have more time to prepare.
He slowed down after a mile or so when he realized he wasn't being followed, though he still kept up a brisk enough pace that when he finally reached Carvahall, he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath among the traders' tents and wagons on the outskirts of town. A few traders offered him pleasant waves, which he returned with one hand still braced on his knee. None of them approached, too busy setting up their makeshift camps, for which Eragon was thankful. Saphira greeted him with a soft brush of her mind against his, and he returned it, telling her he'd be there shortly. As she pulled away, he wondered if she would tell Brom.
He laughed to himself, hoping she wouldn’t.
When he caught his breath, he set off toward Brom's house, nodding politely to the villagers as he passed. He wondered sometimes what they thought of him; nobody else from Carvahall really ventured into the Spine, his mother Selena had shown up one day to have him before leaving again, and he was, as far as he could tell, the only 'friend' Brom seemed to have in town. He tried to glean their thoughts from just their faces as the walked past, unwilling to actually look with his mind in case he found something he didn't want to know.
He paused again in front of Brom's house and smiled. The curtains were drawn and while Eragon was sure the man could sense him…he couldn't see him, which was what Eragon had been hoping for. He reached forward and turned the doorknob just enough that the door was unlatched, then took a step back and a quick breath in.
As he let his breath out, steaming in the cold air, he kicked the door inward with his boot as hard as he could in one smooth motion, and grinned as it cracked against whatever was behind it.
"What the—!?" Eragon heard Brom shout as he stepped inside, casually pulling off his cloak and shaking it out. He took his time hanging it on the hook by the door, next to Brom's many cloaks and scarves, uncaring of the cold air billowing into the man's house. "Every time!" Brom yelled, and Eragon shut the door behind him as he turned around, letting the man see his smirk. He was ready with a quip for whatever Brom decided to berate him about this time—he’d been practicing.
The corners of Eragon's mouth twitched downward as he looked at Brom, seated comfortably in the same stuffed leather chair he was always in when Eragon came for his lessons. Brom held Saphira half-in his lap and half-in his arms, cradling her egg like a mother would her newborn, and the sight of it stirred up such a profound and surprising jealousy that Eragon stumbled back a step, as though he'd taken a blow to his stomach. "...just...can't help it," he choked out around the feeling.
"Surely you should have learned some manners by now," Brom grunted. He returned his pipe to his mouth from where he'd held it in his hand to shout at Eragon. He looked down at the egg. "Hmph. You've got that right," he said, presumably, to Saphira. Eragon's stomach twisted; he hadn't heard what she'd said.
A familiar swell of rage bubbled up in his chest, and Eragon took another step backward to lean against the door. His temper lately had been almost unmanageable, so much so that he found it easier to stay away from Roran and Garrow both so he didn't snap at them. He squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced, recalling how even just that morning he'd dismissed Roran so easily. He cousin didn't deserve that.
Still, it hadn't stopped him from harassing Brom; at least he could take it with some amount of resigned grace. And privately, Eragon thought Brom deserved it, at least a little bit. If he'd had any issues with Eragon's worsening demeanor, he at least had the wherewithal to keep it to himself, which Eragon was thankful for.
"Well?" Brom barked after a moment, and Eragon finally stepped away from the door and into the room.
"Well what?" Eragon sighed, sinking into the chair angled toward Brom's, the same one he'd cleared so he could present Saphira's egg. He nudged the stack of books with the toe of his boot; even after a month, Brom had only tidied the pile instead of moving it elsewhere. Eragon was tempted to kick it over, but narrowly managed to resist the urge. He leaned his elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin propped up in the palm of his hand, not meeting the man's eye. He felt terribly immature.
Across from him, he heard Brom take a long drag from his pipe, the smell of smoke swelling around him. Maybe I should get a pipe, too, he thought absently.
Please don't, Saphira said, and Eragon's breath caught in his throat. He glanced over at her egg then away again. You would look...far too silly.
Eragon smiled to himself. Aye, I would. His tension eased as he felt himself warming slightly, both inside and out, and he gasped when he remembered what had brought him running to Brom's house before his own turmoil had muted all his thoughts. "Oh! The traders!" he said, lifting his head. "The traders are here! That means—"
Brom scoffed, combing the fingers of his free hand through his beard. "I am aware, thank you. I do live in town, unless you've forgotten?"
Eragon had to bite his tongue to keep from snapping back at him. He squeezed his eyes shut again and held his breath for a moment until his pounding heart began to slow. In his mind, he could feel Saphira brushing against him, offering up some patient comfort. How have you dealt with him for so long? he asked her, only half-joking.
He's not so bad, she said, her voice an amused hum behind his eyes. And really, he's only this awful to you because you've made it so. Stop being such a blockhead around him, he...he is happy to have you here.
And yet, he keeps trying to chase me away, Eragon said, and Saphira couldn't deny it though she did send him a fair bit of comfort for the thought. Out loud, he slowly said, "I only meant that before this is when Saphira's egg hatched. So perhaps we should...prepare for that?"
Brom grumbled, "...perhaps," then remained silent. Huffing as he stood, Eragon took two steps forward and plucked Saphira's egg from the man's arms before returning to his own chair. He sat sideways, his knees hooked over one arm of it, and leaned the egg against his thighs.
"You could hatch now, you know," he said, running his fingers over the smooth curve of her shell. He traced one of the veins of white with the pad of his finger, and below the surface of it, he could feel it tremble slightly before stilling again.
Mmm, Saphira hummed, it would be nice to stretch my wings again. Perhaps I could beat you over the head with them enough times that you'd forget how to be so foolish.
He leaned his head back over the opposite arm of the chair and groaned. Brom allowed him a few more moments of rest before he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. Eragon glanced over to see his pipe on the side table in place of the scroll they'd been working on during the last two weeks. Since neither of them wanted to be caught outside in the dead of night using wooden practice swords—and Brom didn't want them wrecking up his home with their …movements —Eragon's lessons with the man mainly consisted of expanding his knowledge of the ancient language as much as possible, though he was more advanced than Brom had expected him to be. And while there wasn’t much they could do indoors, he still practiced the actual casting of spells and storing his energy in a white-and-orange speckled gemstone Brom had dug up from some chest in his home.
They only met two or three times a week, but still Eragon regretted having to keep any of it a secret from Roran or Garrow. As far as they knew, Eragon was just…being kind to an aging old man. Eragon snorted to himself; in a way, he was.
"Today, you'll be translating this," Brom said, tossing the scroll over without making sure Eragon was ready, and he had to scramble to grab it from the air while keeping Saphira balanced in his lap, only fumbling it once before pulling it open slightly.
"Again?" Eragon whined as he read over the words, and Brom laughed as he stretched out his legs. Brom had been pleased that Eragon could read and write in both the common and ancient languages, but not surprised, and Eragon had never told him from whom exactly he'd learned.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
To make up for his rudeness, Eragon invited Roran to walk around the gathered traders' booths and tents together, which his cousin had eagerly agreed to when Eragon had arrived home from his lessons with Brom. Eragon had been too excited about what was to come to feel guilty for, well, any number of reasons; being so short and dismissive with his family over the last month, spending so much time away from home and with Brom and then lying about the reason why, knowing that he would be leaving in a week's time... The list went on, but when Roran threw his arm around Eragon's shoulder like he'd done all their lives, it filled Eragon with warmth.
He's a good man, Eragon thought with a smile as he settled into bed. He and Roran and Garrow would go into town tomorrow on their wagon, and for now, Eragon just wanted to rest.
He is, Saphira said, and Eragon rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket over both himself and her egg. He and Brom didn't know exactly when she'd be hatching, and Eragon wanted to keep her as close as possible until she did. He pulled her to his face, pressing his cheek against the cool, smooth surface of the egg. Are you ready for tomorrow? she asked eagerly.
As much as I can be, he said, already feeling sleep pulling at his mind. He's made me translate it so many times, I could probably recite it in the dwarves' language at this point.
He's a good teacher, Saphira hummed.
In the morning, he helped Roran and Garrow load the wagon. His uncle gave him a strange look, an eyebrow raised critically, when Eragon brought his pack along. "What d'you need all that for?" he asked again, and once more Eragon silently begged him not to open it; he had brought Saphira's egg with him.
"Is it enough if I simply tell you it's a surprise?" Eragon asked hopefully.
Garrow gave him a fond—if exasperated—look, and shrugged. "We'll see, now won't we?" Then he climbed up onto the wagon. Eragon watched him nervously and was startled out of his thoughts by Roran yet again when he stepped up to Eragon's side, knocking their shoulders together.
"What kind of surprise?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
"You'll see," Eragon grinned. Then he, too, climbed aboard.
Eragon distracted himself from his nerves by teasing Roran about his relationship with Katrina on the trip into town, which Garrow bore with the same resigned silence any father would. It made Eragon wish he could tell them anything about Arya, but anything he could say about her would just sound too unbelievable. When they finally arrived just past noon, Eragon was eager to stretch his legs. He and Roran jumped from the wagon and waited beside it as Garrow lowered himself to the ground and gave each of them a stern look.
"Don't forget about dinner tonight," he said, reaching to the pouch on his belt and pulling out several coins. "This is all you're getting, so don't spend it all in one place." He dropped a few in each of their hands. Eragon and Roran were practically bouncing on their toes, but still they waited to be dismissed, and once they were they all-but ran into town, giggling like they were many years younger.
Roran dragged him toward a booth displaying a number of intricately decorated knives, and Eragon watched him from the corner of his eye as his cousin browsed. Am I older than him now? he wondered. It was an odd feeling; he certainly wasn't taller than Roran, and even after the Agaetí Blödhren he'd only had maybe an inch on him.
I don't know if it's been that long, Saphira said, deep in her own thoughts. Eragon could feel the edges of them, the sorts of thoughts they'd been avoiding having until they left; there was something about Carvahall that made them both reluctant to spend their time considering darker things, something…innocent. Eragon comforted her, eyeing a tabled stacked with jars of various sizes, all filled with a menagerie of spices.
What does Brom season his food with? Eragon asked, edging his way over; having a surplus of spice might make their travels more comfortable, at the least.
He was almost finished with his transaction, three jars tucked carefully into his pack alongside Saphira's egg, when Roran joined him, a guilty look on his cousin's face. Amused, Eragon let him squirm for a moment longer, then turned to face him. Over his shoulder, Eragon could see Katrina standing nearby, tucking a curl of copper behind her ear. He looked back at Roran and couldn't help smirking.
"Leaving me already?" Eragon asked, though he didn't really mind; he still had Saphira.
"Aye," Roran said, smiling guiltily. "I know you asked if we could go around together, but—"
"Go," Eragon said, putting a hand on Roran's shoulder to turn him away. "I'll see you at Horst's for dinner."
Roran hesitated for only a moment before grinning. "Thanks," he said, relieved, then practically ran to Katrina's side to join her. Eragon smiled as he watched them go, disappearing into the crowd.
Will you marry them again? Saphira asked.
I hope so, Eragon said, and he did, though this time he hoped it wouldn't be surrounding such hardships. He wasn't quite sure how he imagined it happening yet; if Eragon had his way, Carvahall would stay completely separated from the war until he had killed Galbatorix, in which, he imagined, he'd return to Carvahall to live out the rest of his days. Perhaps he'd marry them then.
He was grateful to have Saphira so close; she offered him some comfort and commiseration, for neither of them had thought much about what they'd do after the war.
Her own senses of perception were weakened in her egg, but Eragon still shared as much of his sight as he could with her as they walked through town. While she couldn't discern what exactly roasted hazelnuts smelled like, she could still appreciate what it felt like to Eragon—warm and nostalgiac and comforting. He couldn't help smiling as they walked between the brightly coloured tents and booths, describing to Saphira the importance of each trinket and tool being sold, even though she could see it for herself in his mind. They walked that way for more than an hour, until Eragon was finally too hungry to resist buying himself a cherry pie which he sat on a stoop to eat, his pack safely placed between his feet.
Saphira... he said as he ate, watching two traders—men, with swords on their belts—walk by, patrolling around Carvahall, ...why haven't you hatched yet?
He could feel, against his legs, the egg tremble inside his pack. ...I don't know, she admitted. It just...doesn't feel right yet.
He frowned as a cold wind blew through town, shivering despite his thick cloak. It's odd that you've hatched so...randomly. I suppose I would have expected you to hatch around the same time as before in the last Aptr-moi, but it was later, I think. Wasn't it?
I couldn't tell if it was, she said. My sense of time in here is...trivial. I have no need for it. In our eggs, we simply hatch when we know it is right.
Eragon's chest tightened. And right now...is it not right?
In his mind, she snorted with laughter. What, right here in the middle of town? Brom would have both our heads for that.
So you can control it? he asked, hopeful despite himself.
Did you not hear me when I said it has to be right?
Eragon shifted uncomfortably on the wooden planks of the stoop. I know, he said. I just...wish I understood it better, I guess.
Saphira's egg trembled again. As do I. It's not something I've ever had to think about...I doubt any dragon has ever had to hatch more than once before.
As Eragon licked the leftover syrup from his fingers, he thought about her words. I suppose it must have something to do with whomever your Rider is, he mused. And whether or not they're ready for you to hatch... He could feel Saphira considering it for a moment before, somewhat-reluctantly, she accepted his theory. Then no matter how much I wish for you to hatch, it won't happen until I'm ready, either. But what would make him ready? Before, it seemed like she'd hatched quite randomly. Was the plan they had made with Brom to leave with the traders for naught if neither he nor Saphira could predict when she'd hatch?
It's a good plan, Saphira assured him. And believe me—there's nothing I'd like more than to be able to walk by your side.
Eragon smiled at the thought; if there was one thing he missed from his time in Ellesméra in the last Aptr-moi, it was seeing Saphira as a hatchling; he thought the sight of it would never get old.
She huffed in his mind, and Eragon got the distinct impression that she was shuffling her wings, embarrassed, inside her egg. Let's not dwell on it for today, Saphira offered. What else does this little celebration have to offer?
He glanced up, trying to guess where the sun was behind the clouds as he stood. They would still have several hours until he was to meet Roran and Garrow at Horst's house for dinner and he let himself be swept through town by Saphira's curiosity as they waited for the time to pass. After making a full circuit around Carvahall, Eragon returned to one stall that had caught his attention more than the jewelry and tools and cooking ware.
There was a richly-decorated tent with a long table in front of it covered in heaps of cloth arranged by weave and colour, and Eragon couldn't resist looking through them with a new sort of appreciation, running his fingers over each piece that caught his eye. He found himself buying a bolt of thin green fabric—obviously not the same quality as the elven clothing he'd grown used to—that was similar enough to the green lámarae Niduen had gifted him that he couldn't let it go. He wasn't sure yet what to do with it, but it was a comfort to hold in his hands; he hadn't expected Niduen to be such a good companion, and it reminded him of her more than it did the colour of Arya's eyes.
He froze at the realization—was his opinion of Arya so drastically changed by what had happened?—only distracted from his surprise when Saphira directed him to a coarsely-woven stack of blue fabric. Which one matches my scales best? she prodded him.
His hands twitched, then moved to drape the green cloth over one arm. Why do you want to know? he asked, smiling to himself as he leaned forward for a better look; it was late in the afternoon and, by his best guess, this would be their last stop before meeting up with Garrow and Roran.
Perhaps I'd like to decorate myself as well, she said, and Eragon could feel both curiosity and embarrassment from her words.
He didn't want to embarrass her further, though the idea of a dragon in clothing made him want to laugh. Dutifully, he combed through the stack, torn between two options; one was woven with alternating thick and thin threads, and the other seemed to shimmer in the afternoon light. When he asked the trader for the price of each, she offered both to him at such a discount that he couldn't turn her down. As carefully as he could, he stuffed all three bundles in his pack, grateful it wasn't exactly full when he'd left for the day; just the journals Brom had suggested he keep, a spare scarf, Saphira's egg, and now the three new jars of spices. It was an awkward process, having to use his body to shield her egg from view, and when he was satisfied, he re-shouldered it and thanked the trader profusely for her generosity.
Garrow gave him a questioning look when he arrived for dinner—early, thankfully—at Horst's house, but he didn't say anything about his overstuffed pack. The meal itself was hearty and more satisfying than Eragon had remembered it being. Once Horst and Garrow were several mugs deep in the heavy ale passed around during dinner, Albriech and Baldor pulled Roran and Eragon into the kitchen, and they passed their own bottle around in a circle, laughing even harder when all Elain offered them was a knowing smile and wink before she rejoined the table with dessert.
"This is the most I've seen of you all month!" Roran laughed, throwing an arm around Eragon's shoulder and wrestling him nearly to his back.
"Oh?" Baldor asked, passing the bottle to his brother. "And where've you been, Eragon?"
"Got a girl?" Albriech asked with such genuine curiosity that Roran laughed so hard his knees buckled beneath him, collapsing onto Eragon's back and dragging them both to the floor.
"Has he got a— No!" Roran snorted. "He's been hanging around that old storyteller! A girl? Hah!"
The drink had loosened Eragon's tongue enough that he almost spoke of Arya, but he managed to swallow his words. He rolled over, shoving Roran away and dodged—unsteadily—to the side as Roran feigned a lunge toward. him. "As a matter of fact," Eragon said slowly, drawing himself up to his full height, "Brom and I have been working on a—a story. Together. And maybe, if you're nice enough, you'll get to hear it tonight."
Roran, Baldor, and Albriech stared at him, wide-eyed, and Eragon took the opportunity to snatch the bottle from Albriech's lax grip. Mind yourself, Saphira said, but he found, much like before, that it helped to ease his nerves. Still...
He passed the bottle to Roran who clutched it in both hands. "Is that it?" Roran asked, sounding, of all things, disappointed.
"What do you mean?" Eragon frowned.
Roran shared a look with Albriech and Baldor. "I...thought you did have a girl, and the old man was just covering for you..." he admitted softly. "I didn't know you were actually doing something with him."
Albriech and Baldor snickered at his wording, and Eragon could feel himself flushing from more than just the pilfered ale. Unable to stop himself, he slugged Roran on the arm. "...I could have a girl," he said, sniffing indignantly.
"Of course you could," Baldor said, patting Eragon's shoulder, the fraternal gesture warming something in Eragon's chest.
"Sure!" Albriech nodded, taking the bottle again. "You're not all that bad-looking," he said after taking a swig and passing it to his brother. "And you're...funny. That's always good."
Eragon's stomach tightened. "I'm...funny."
"Aye," Baldor said, "everyone likes a funny guy."
Eragon turned a pleading look on Roran, who'd remained suspiciously silent. "What do you think of me?" he asked, almost desperately.
Roran took a step back, his hands on his hips, and looked Eragon up and down. "You've got the bones of a good man in there somewhere," he nodded. "But you're more clever than you are funny. Though I'm not sure what girls think of cleverness."
"Clever isn't bad, either!" Albriech said, and Eragon let out a weak noise from the back of his throat.
Saphira, he said, looking around the circle they'd formed again in the middle of the kitchen. I could get a girl, right? Her wordless reply was full of love and warmth, but it didn't help, and Eragon couldn't stop from thinking there was a reason she wasn't saying anything. When the bottle was passed to him again, he shook his head. "I won't participate if you're all going to be like that," he said, only half-meaning it as a joke.
Roran and Albriech laughed, and Baldor nudged Eragon with his elbow, saying, "See? Funny!"
When it was well into the night, Eragon all-but rushed everyone out the door and toward the traders' camp. After making sure his uncle and cousin were seated toward the center of the ring around the bonfire, Eragon bid them farewell and reached out with his mind to find Brom. He darted between tents, nearly tripping several times in his haste. When he finally found the man, Brom took one look at him and frowned.
"You've been drinking," he said shortly, and Eragon snorted. "You're too young for that."
"I'm seventeen," he said. "That's plenty old."
Brom gave him a long-suffering look, but didn't speak on it any further. "Are you ready? You've got it memorized?" he asked instead.
"I've had it memorized for years," Eragon said, and Brom scoffed.
"I don't need you slipping into the ancient language in the middle of it, though," he said seriously. Then he sighed and put his hands on Eragon's shoulders and leaned down enough that they were eye-to-eye. "Eragon," he said, then paused, looking at the ground. "I don't expect everyone to understand it, but...it's beautiful. To know that the queen once had a copy of it for herself..." Brom trailed off, shaking his head. He took a deep breath then returned his gaze to Eragon. "I'm proud of you."
Eragon swayed on his feet, blinking back tears; perhaps he had had too much to drink, if he was so affected by the man's words. Still, he swallowed and said, "Th-thank you."
They waited in the tent of a troubadour Brom was familiar enough with for their turn in front of the crowd, and Eragon only half-listened to the conversations flowing in and out of the tent. He was, for some reason, almost surprised that none of the plays or stories had changed—why did he keep expecting things to be different? Occasionally, he caught Brom's eye whenever the man noticed him sighing too morosely. He didn't approach though, and Eragon guessed that Brom had already expended his daily ration of fatherly behaviour.
But more than morose, Eragon was nervous; rehearsing his story in front of Brom had been one thing, but to do it in front of the majority of Carvahall? He wished he'd taken the bottle of ale from Baldor before they left, lamenting how confident he'd been while reciting his story at the Agaetí Blödhren. But for all his worrying, he knew he was prepared; he had to be.
For whatever reason, Brom had insisted Eragon go last, and Eragon watched half-hidden in the darkness as Brom swept around the crowd with his tale of the Riders' fall and Galbatorix's rise to power. He hadn't heard it since before, and hearing it again with the knowledge he had now made him want to fall to the ground and weep.
Umaroth is still waiting, Saphira assured him as he leaned against the wooden pole of the tent they'd waited in. And I know he'll be glad to meet you again.
Thank you, Eragon thought. I can’t wait for him to meet you, too. If there was one being that would be glad to hear his tale, he thought it would be the Eldunarí, isolated as they were. He basked in his bond with Saphira as Brom's tale came to a close. The man swept an arm out, his black cloak fluttering in the firelight, and looked over his shoulder at Eragon.
You can do this, Saphira said, and Eragon sucked in a quick breath, stepping forward and into the light before his nerves could fail him. He kept his head down as he walked and Brom spun around at his side as he approached, retreating into darkness. Eragon let out his breath slowly as he looked up, meeting Roran's excited gaze. He felt something in his chest ease, and fighting back a smile at the whoop Roran let out, Eragon began to speak.
When he'd woken up on the floor in Brom's house a month ago, after casting a uselessly ineffective spell in his anger, he'd immediately ran home, unable to speak another word to his father.
When he'd gotten home, he'd realized he'd left Saphira's egg behind and, ashamed, he'd ran all the way back to Brom's.
And then they'd spoken, man-to-man, as Eragon had always wished they could. And after that, he couldn't stay away.
Brom had listened to his tale again, eagerly, and had questioned everything, trying to understand what Eragon and Saphira had gone through. They'd made a plan then, to leave with the traders after they came through Carvahall, so that Eragon and Saphira could recover from yet another terrible trip to Dras-Leona. Brom had never exactly apologized for his behaviour in the last Aptr-moi, but Eragon couldn't fault him; he wasn't the same man. And while this Brom wasn't overly-paternal with him, Eragon had the feeling he'd taken to heart some of the crueler things he'd said to the man.
When Brom had asked Eragon to recite his story from the Agaetí Blödhren, Eragon had been happy to do so, unaware of what Brom had planned for him until he found himself being coached on even his movements while he told it.
He was thankful for Brom's help, for the care and dedication he'd put into this, as he performed it for Carvahall. He could feel Brom's eyes on his back as he spoke, chanting each line with a rhythm that had been drilled into his mind over several weeks, and when Eragon turned, casting off his cloak at a particular line before picking it back up at another, he could see his father beaming at him.
It was only due to how many times they'd rehearsed his performance that Eragon didn't falter. He met Brom's gaze and grinned, his anxieties over speaking to a crowd forgotten as he threw himself whole-heartedly into his words and movements. As he finished, flourishing his cloak in front of himself with a practiced gesture, Eragon nearly collapsed as the adrenaline and alcohol finally caught up with him. He heard a ripple of cheers and applause that only grew louder with Roran and Garrow's shouting. Eragon stood and found Brom sweeping to his side to clap a warm hand on his shoulder.
˚₊‧꒰ა ∞ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Eragon tossed and turned, unable to stay asleep for more than an hour at a time. He was tired, but every sound he heard—the creaking of the house settling in the cold, brittle branches brushing against each other outside his window, the calling of some distant crow—made him sit up, heart pounding, and reach for Saphira's egg, thinking she was about to hatch.
Inside her egg, she was quiet, and Eragon guessed she must be resting, too. He didn't want to disturb her, so he reached for his pack, fishing out one of his journals. This one, Brom had advised he fill with things that were different in this Aptr-moi that were better than before. Eragon lit a candle and, using a charcoal pen, began to write; he left the one for things he remembered about the past at the bottom of his pack.
When he was mostly through the events of the evening—unable to leave out anything that had happened—Saphira brushed against his mind, questioning. I'm fine, he assured her, reaching over to run his fingertips over her shell.
She prodded a little deeper into his mind, and he left her to it, continuing to write. ...you don't want to wait? she asked.
His hand paused. I don't think I can, he admitted, closing his journal, the entry abandoned.
But today was a good day, she said, confused. You were just writing about it.
And it had been. Eragon pushed his feelings at her, not sure how to word how he felt; there was only so much he could do if they stayed behind any longer; things were good, but he could feel himself growing complacent—even this night; dinner at Horst's, telling his story—was enough that he had started wanting to stay. He couldn't let that happen when there was so much for they should be doing instead.
After a moment, Saphira said, I understand. He could feel her restlessness in their bond; Carvahall had never really been her home, her home was with him.
Eragon glanced at his pack, biting his lower lip as he thought. Then he opened his journal, turning to an unmarked page toward the back and began to write again. When he finished, he re-read the letter for Roran and Garrow and nodded to himself. It would have to do.
Then, setting Saphira's egg on his pillow, he started to pack, shuffling his feet across the floorboards to keep as silent as possible. He slid his pack over his shoulders, as full as he could get it with the folds of cloth he'd purchased from the trader, Saphira safely wrapped among them, and tied his boots. Then he put out the candle and stood, trembling.
I take it back, I don't think I can do this, he said, wishing he'd left her egg out so that he could hold it in his hands for something to do with them.
You can, she promised. I doubt Brom will be upset with you for wanting to spend more time with him.
He brushed off the thought, embarrassed, but it did strengthen his resolve. He left the letter on his bed and edged his way to the door of his bedroom and shut it behind him as he exited.
He took several long moments to stand in the doorway of Roran's bedroom, watching the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he slept. I should have spent more time with him, he thought.
That would have made it harder, Saphira said, comfort and encouragement flooding through him; she was right. Finally, Eragon tore himself away, promising that when he was finished with ending Galbatorix, he would come back and explain everything.
As silently as he could, Eragon left.
He reached Carvahall before dawn, shivering despite the spell he'd used to warm the air around him. He skirted around the edge of town to avoid the traders' camp and the chance of being sighted. When he started to squeeze between two houses, he was surprised to see Brom emerging from the dark alley, a hefty pack over his own shoulder and his twisted staff in hand.
"What..?" Eragon started, but Brom shushed him.
What took you so long? Brom asked in their minds. Eragon flinched at the contact; he wasn't unused to it, but it still startled him with how tired he was.
I was waiting for Saphira to hatch, he frowned. How had he guessed Eragon wanted to leave early? They were meant to leave with the traders...
Brom looked around, his movements condescendingly exaggerated. I see no dragon.
Because she hasn't, Eragon growled.
Brom raised one eyebrow comically high, the corners of his mouth twitching upward, before he dropped the act and sighed. He ran a hand down his beard, looking east to where the sun would soon be rising. Then he threw an arm around Eragon's shoulder, jostlinging their packs together.
Alright then, Brom said, offering Eragon a tight smile. And together, they began to walk.