Eragon opened his eyes. Rough hewn beams of a low roof came into focus. The room smelled of cedar, and he could feel the warmth of a nearby fire. Despite the dull ache in his chest, the room was comfortable, almost familiar.
Then he remembered. The bodies of his friends were strewn around him. Nasuada looked on in despair, shaking with grief. The pain in Eragon's neck as he watched Shruikan's fangs sink into Saphira and Saphira's desperate roar as Galbatorix drove Vrangr into him. I should be dead.
Eragon slowly started to ease himself up.
"Sitja," said a commanding, though not an unkind voice coming from his right. Male, older perhaps. Definitely familiar. "Stydja. Ono havr mïnen."
The meaning took a moment to register with Eragon. Stay, rest, you are injured. Eragon resisted the urge to attack. If this man wanted him dead, he could have slain him while he was unconscious.
However, the slight twitch of his sword arm was apparently not lost on the man to his right. "Mor'ranr, älfa. Eka aí vinr älfakyn," he said softly.
Elf friend? Eragon slowly, painfully, turned to his right. He saw blue eyes and a long beard. Eragon gaped. "B-Brom?", Eragon asked. He couldn't believe his eyes. Find your Saphira. Eragon remembered. "Am I dead?", Eragon posed in the tongue of the elves.
A chuckle escaped the old man. "Almost. I doubt even an elf could survive a fall like that. Even after I stopped your fall, I wasn't sure you would make it. The sword punctured one of your arteries…"
Eragon barely heard what his father was saying. Brom is alive! How? The last gift… Did the dragons bring him back? Did he save me? No. No one can raise the dead. What's going on?
Eragon took a second to look around the room. The fireplace, the scrolls were strewn across the room. He remembered it from his childhood. He was in his father's house…in Carvahall. I doubt even the dragons could bring back an entire village, let alone raise the dead. Then maybe the magic they worked was on me. Maybe they sent me back to before we fled Carvahall! Find your Saphira… Saphira! If Brom is alive, she could be too. I need to find her!
He looked up. Brom had stopped talking, apparently aware that he was deep in thought. He waited patiently, looking unconcerned. "Here, have something to eat," he said, handing him a bowl of potato soup.
Despite the urgency of his mission, Eragon was starving. He took it readily, and when he finished, he finally asked, "What year is it?", asked Eragon.
Brom gave him a sideways glance. "7999 AC," he replied slowly.
Eragon thought for a moment. Two years ago… "Has it snowed yet?", he asked, remembering that he found Saphira's egg roughly a week before a terrible blizzard.
Brom raised an eyebrow. "No. It has not. But, it's been getting colder. It's been frosting each night."
That was enough for Eragon. He bolted. He had to rescue his partner-of-heart-and-mind. He only made it to the door before the dull ache became a hot and searing pain. The room spun, and then Eragon collapsed once more.