Disclaimer: As usual. It's called FANfiction, (one of my favorite sayings), which is, alas, the reason it all looks like crap before Paolini.
Chapter One
Eragon hoped against hope they weren't doing it again. Slim chance. He had little to no way of knowing if they were without asking Roran, but he knew they did it often enough; there was really nothing to ask. It wasn't the staring that was a problem. If their looks had been due to some other cause, say if he were a misfit amongst the other villagers, that would have been fine by him. Eragon knew better. They stared at him in pity, a fact that was positively loathsome to him.
Being the only blind boy living in Carvahall,(or more precisely, miles outside of Carvahall), Eragon was used to this, though he favored it no more that the first time Roran had informed him of their actions.
Apparently having noticed Eragon's glum expression, Roran exclaimed heartily,"Ah, cheer up! You'll be the very last thing on their minds by the time the traders are here." Eragon smiled in acknowledgment. His words rung true, as several hours later, Garrow presented them with coins and shoed them off to do what they pleased, while he exchanged the fruits of the past year's labor for much needed supplies, in the midst of the festivities. Both boys delighted in combing the village with other youths, admiring various bobbles and sweets displayed by the traders selling their wares, listening to hunter's tales in the Seven Sheaves, and later, the yarns of the village storytellers and bards. Shivers ran the length of Eragon's spine as the decrepit village storyteller, Brom, told the tale of Eragon's namesake, of the Dragon Riders. He told it every year, yet it never failed to rent excitement in the listeners, hearing things from a man the king would have executed long ago, had he knowledge of his tellings of the story. After the annual festivities had ended, Garrow, Roran, and Eragon trekked home in the embers of the dying fires they had previously sat around.