This is a story about Eragon's childhood, concerning his relation with Roran, his aunt Marian, his uncle Garrow, and Brom the storyteller of Carvahall. It is the English translation of a very small part of my original story Inheritance, which is written in my native tongue. I hope you will like it.
The son of None
1. The insult
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.
A/N: Since this is my first attempt to write in English, I would very much appreciate your opinion.
Thanks for reading