Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle does not belong to me. However, all original material including original characters and plot-twists, do belong to me.
"The beginning is the most important part of the work" -Plato
"....and then Saphira opened her mouth and unleashed a plume of brilliantly blue flame. Morb could only stare on in shock. His dragon, the littlest and youngest of the dragons, had just breathed fire." There was a rustling of paper as the papers were sorted back into their proper order. Jolly blue eyes peered inquisitively over spectacles, hungry for an outsider's opinion. "Well?" he asked, prodding at his one-man audience. "What do you think of it so far?"
His listener shrugged helplessly, struggling to find a response that would satisfy the old author's (1.) insatiable curiosity that would not alienate him forever at the same time. "It was good.... but a little typical for a children's book."
"Oh?" A silver brow arched, the blue eyes sparkling impishly. "And what do you mean by 'typical'?"
"Um." Seventeen-year-old Eragon Brodin (2.)desperately searched for a respectable explanation. Brom Holcombssen looked on, the smile hidden underneath his silver beard growing with every hesitating moment. "I... don't know how to explain it."
Brom sighed, shaking his head in bemusement. "Of course you know how to explain it, boy. You always do. Gods know everyone in Carvahall have seen you when you want to speak your mind about something. Even the wiliest of politicians would have difficulty trying to answer your questions and turn you against your reasoning. Don't be afraid to tell me of your opinions, Eragon. You and your relatives are all close friends of the family." He winked. "It would take much more than a poor review of my latest book for you to be banned from my presence."
Brom's words were true: the Brodin family had been close with the old author since his moving to Carvahall seventeen years ago. Even now, Brom was considered a newcomer to many townsfolk, whose ancestors had lived in Palancar Valley for countless generations. Besides, why would a renowned author want to live in an obscure mining town such as Carvahall? His natural elusiveness to his small cottage on the outskirts of town had not helped his poor relationships with locals.
Aunt Marian, the resolute woman she was, had not been discouraged by Brom's hermit habits. She had thought of befriending the author as a challenge and when her husband Garrow had attempted to dissuade her she had simply said, "Brom writes books. Books are good for Roran's education and imagination. Especially free books. Besides, don't you want to be able to brag about being friends with a famous author?"
So Aunt Marian had been careful to include Brom in her family as often as possible. When she made dinner she always made sure to make an extra plate for their author friend. Ocassionally he was invited over to dinner but often Garrow, and later Roran and Eragon, had often walked over to his house to personally deliver the food.
In return Brom had given the Brodin children free copies of his kid's books. While Roran had mildly appreciated the free literature, Eragon had become hooked on them the moment he was old enough to begin to learn how to read. Taught by old Brom, he was reading small chaptered stories when students in his class were just beginning to form words out of letters. Garrow had always said that his nephew had latched onto Brom, seeing the kindly man as the father he had never had.
Even now, when Eragon was a senior in high school and Roran had gone on to community college, ties between the Brodin and Holcombssen households remained as tight as ever. When Aunt Marian had passed a few years back, Garrow had been unwilling to allow the old traditions and friendships to die along with her. Though the widower and his two teenage 'sons' often ate takeout for dinner, he always remembered to order enough for Brom.
Eragon had been delivering the latest offering of takeout from Sloan's Place (the only takeout restaurant in Carvahall) when Brom had cornered him with a chapter of his newest work, The Sapphire Saga: The Burning. The Sapphire Saga, which focused on a young blue she-dragon named Saphira and her Rider Morb, was Eragon's personal favorite of all of Brom's books. He had loved the early books of the series when he was a youth, and still offered helpful output on the latest installments. But recently Eragon had noticed a decline in the writing quality of the books, one even Brom noticed and was powerless to stop.
"Well," Eragon began reluctantly. "It seems a bit cliche. Not at all like the earlier books."
Brom gave a humorless laugh. "Tell me about it, boy. King Galbatorix's increasing bans on all fantasy books, especially ones concerning dragons, severely limit my artistic talents." He snorted. "Our beloved ruler thinks it is best for the Empire's youth to concentrate on their studies rather than drown themselves in unrealistic dreams and fantasies."
The younger man scoffed. "Like any of that crap matters in Carvahall. All of us either end up working in the mines or move away to slave away in one of Therinsford's factories."
"Watch your language," Brom reprimanded automatically. "Besides, Eragon, not everyone in Carvahall is destined to become miners. Look at your cousin Roran. He's on his way to becoming a carpenter. If you put your mind to it you could become-"
"Anything you want to be. Would you stop saying that to me? Both you and I know that's not true if you grow up in a mining town."
Old Brom gave a wan smile. "You know me, I'm the stereotypical father figure out of my own books, cheesy sagacity and wisdom included." He quickly became serious, his blue eyes losing their playful twinkle. "But know that your destiny is not set in stone, Eragon. Your entire future could be altered by one little twist of fate."
Eragon opened his mouth, no doubt to spit out a retort, but Brom was quicker. Moving with remarkable speed, the author jumped out of his chair, forced Eragon's backpack into his arms and guided the bewildered student out the door. "Now, now, Eragon, enough wasting your time on an ominous old man such as me. Go out and live your life like a normal teenager." And, without further explanation, the door to Brom's small cottage was promptly shut in Eragon's puzzled face.
Eragon stood there for a moment, utterly speechless. Had Brom, kind, old Brom, just kicked him out of his house? The high school student did not waste too much time on his disbelief. Brom was an eccentric man, no doubt a tad senile in his rather respectable old age. This just must have been one of the moments where his irrational side had gotten ahold of him.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Eragon turned around and began the walk to his favorite place.
It was a Friday afternoon in early autumn. School was done for the week and the weather was still nice enough for most outdoor activities. Most of the students from Palancar Valley High School had begun an immediate celebration of their two glorious days of freedom by rushing out with their friends for an afternoon by the Anora River or by driving their cars to Therinsford, which offered more entertainment for the young crowd than Carvahall did.
But not Eragon Brodin. His best and only friend, Nasuada Hounsou (3.) lived in Therinsford. Her unusually strict father required her to return home immediately after school, no exceptions. And Eragon had to preform the ancient tradition of delivering Sloan's Place takeout to old Brom on his walk home from school. With Uncle Garrow working in the mines 'til sundown and Roran still at the community college in Therinsford, Eragon was unwilling to return home to an empty house.
So, seeking a quiet calmness, he headed off to the only place within walking distance of his hometown that provided such a solace. The Spine. While Carvahall and Therinsford had built mines into the mountain range, all were on the outskirts of civilization. Despite the modern age, many locals had an instinctive fear of the Spine, ingrained into them from horror stories from their elders. Those that scoffed at the legends, as in greedy outsiders looking for a share of the ore mined from the mountains, either lost scouting parties to the wilderness or else had their mines fail miserably because of mysterious conditions.
While most of his classmates stayed clear of the Spine, Eragon was an exception. While they feared the wilderness's unnevering silence, he relished it. What they saw as a foreboding and cursed forest, he saw it as a refuge from the harsh reality he lived in.
Stepping into the Spine's heart was like stepping back in time, to a time before even the Empire itself and the rise of the Voskian (4.)royal line. When he was younger, Eragon had pretended to be a hunter in the woods, tracking a deer or searching for a missing comrade. Even now, so longer after those childhood forays into the imagination, the Spine had a magical air to it.
If only these woods could take me back in time, Eragon thought playfully to himself. Or if a dragon's treasure hoard still rested in one of the mountain's caves. Or if an adventure suitable only for the ancient legends came to find me. But I don't suppose something like that would just fall right out of the-
BOOM!
An eruption of emerald light sounded, as well as an incredible shock wave that followed it. Yelling surprise, Eragon dove for cover, hiding behind the trunk of an ancient tree. Eyes closed tightly, he prayed desperately to whatever god that might be listening for him to survive this strange explosion.
After what seemed like an eternity, the rush of energy ceased. The brilliant emerald light that penetrated even his eyelids stopped, leaving him with blessed darkness. Bird song and the general movement of animals had ceased, as if even they were stunned by the incredible event. Eragon just hid behind the tree trunk, struggling wildly to try and regain his bearings.
What just happened? he thought, putting a hand to his dazed head. Did I survive that explosion.... Or am I a ghost of some sort?
Examining himself, Eragon was relieved to discover he was not a ghost, phantom, spook or any being of the spectral sort. He was vastly unharmed, save for a few cuts and scratches from the splintered remains of the undergrowth that had blown past him. Knowing that he himself was all right, Eragon remained sheltered behind the tree, trying to come up with a logical explanation for the illogical event that had just occurred.
Had an explosion of natural gas trapped beneath the mountain had caused this? He doubted it. Any gas explosion would have probably left him dead, or what at least have toppled his tree right on top of him. Had a supernatural being had heard his wistful thoughts and had actually caused an adventure to fall right out of the sky? Eragon was neither devoutly spiritual nor bad enough for him to receive punishment in such an ironic sense.
Could it have been a space rock? A metor that was sucked into the world's atmosphere and one that crashed just feet away from me? It seemed like the most likely explanation, more feasibile than an impossible gas explosion and less spiritual than a divine sense of irony. Yes. It had to be a meteor. A small rock that had fallen from outer space. It couldn't have been anything else.
Peering out from behind his tree, Eragon's blue eyes widened in shock at the carnage all around him. The meteor's crash landing had completely desecrated this one little patch of previously green forest. Nothing but ash and the blackened remnants of tree stumps was left, most of it obliterated by the searing heat that had accompanied the space rock. Keeping a careful eye out for any harmful debris, the high school student cautiously ventured forward, searching for whatever remained of the meteor.
"Gods," Eragon breathed, catching a glimpse of blue out of the corner of his eye. Leaning down to get a closer look at the unknown object, he wiped the ash away from it, not caring whether he got the soot all over his school uniform. What he discovered made him gasp in awe.
It was a stone. A perfectly flawless stone no more than a foot long. Its polished sides were smoothed to perfection, but that was not the oddest feature about it. The supposed meteor was a brilliant blue, a hue deeper than even the sky above. It could have been a sapphire, except its surface was streaked with thin white lines. Besides, Eragon doubted this beautiful object could have been only a mere gemstone.
Was this blue stone a meteor? Eragon had seen meteors only as pictures in books. And all had been lumpy and brown, like just about any ordinary rock he could pull out of a mine. None of the photographed space rocks he had seen were as otherworldy as the one he gazed at.
Reaching out, Eragon cautiously tapped the stone with a finger. It wasn't warm at all. In fact, it was pleasantly cool, no hotter than a refreshing spring rain shower. What surprised him even more was the delicate ring that sounded when he tapped the stone's surface. It had almost sounded as if it were hallow.
Curious, he picked up the stone, holding it with both arms. The stone was oddly light. Lighter than any other stone its size should be. His suspicions were confirmed. The stone was hallow. There was no other reasonable explanation as to why it could have been so.
Eragon wondered what to do with the stone. Should he take it to Brom, the smartest man he knew, for identification? Or should he just take it to the nearest junk shop and pawn it off for all the crowns he could get from selling it?
Smiling softly, Eragon tucked the stone into his backpack, taking great care to stow it away in a safe place. Turning around, he began the long walk back to Carvahall.
He knew exactly what he was he going to do with it.
A virtual cookie to anyone who can guess where the modern last names of Eragon Brodin, Brom Holcombssen, Nasuada Hounsou and Galbatorix Voskian came from. Hint: check out the histories of each character. (And the background from behind the movie, in one of the cases.)
Next chapter: We meet (or at least hear) Nasuada for the first time. And, after a thousand years of slumber, Saphira finally gets her lazy ass into gear and hatches at last.
1. Brom is an author of children's books. Not only is this an appropiate profession for the modern age, but he can also pass on the hidden truth of the past under the pretext of writing children's stories. His answer for basing most of his stories (Sapphire Saga included) on the supposedly mythical Dragon Riders: he took a bunch of obscure old legends and made them kid-friendly.
2. Eragon is seventeen. Not only does it make him older and more disillusioned for a modern world, but a modern fifteen year old doesn't have the same independence and rights one from the medieval age had.
3. Nasuada is a student at Palancar Valley High School and best and only friend of Eragon Brodin. The explanation for her prescence will be later explained.
4. The Voskian line is the official ruling family of the Empire. Officially, Galbatorix the I founded the line along with the Empire, and was succeeded by a number of Kings also named Galbatorix, up until the most recent one. Unofficially? Well, knowing a Dragon Rider's longevity you can probably guess the rest.