Chapter 3

And the third chapter of this story is up for you all. I've been putting out some time to go over the chapters and fix some mistakes that I catch so I can deliver a spiffing chapter for you all to read! (Hope all the extra time was put to some good use!). Anyways to address some concerns, yes this story will be ExA but it won't be as smooth as RL. There will be some obstacles along the way (hehehe). And yes, this story will have some 'jumps in time'. I don't think I can do a chapter of his life every day or even week for a near century. That would be rather repetitive and it won't serve much of a purpose besides reiterating that Eragon has several decades to live out before his time comes. I think those were the major questions to be addressed so happy reading! R&R!

It wasn't until the second day of traveling with Evandar and his company did Eragon have the misfortune of stumbling across his father. He had merely decided to have some fresh air from his tent and away from the elves did he meet the young and brash Brom. It was a sight that he did not enjoy and nor did he particularly like it when his father had the audacity to speak down to him. Just thinking about how easily this could have been avoided, Eragon blinked when the man before him spoke in his questioning anger. Brom was not gray haired and aged as Eragon remembered him to be. Instead, he was younger with chestnut hair that could match Eragon's but lighter and with piercing azure eyes that were clouded with grief and anger. If Eragon were to place his age, he would say that his father was in his mid-second decade. And yet, his mind was that of a young boy who could not move past his anger. He reminded Eragon of himself before he joined the Varden.

I was always angry, always filled with hate and resentment, always waiting for death, thought Eragon sadly as he gazed upon his father remembering how he had stumbled across the man. He did not live a happy childhood and he would not wish that type of mindset on anyone else. Like father like son, thought Eragon amused, how ironic fate is.

Earlier that day, he had decided to leave the comfort of his tent and venture outside. Yesterday evening, they had managed to make it to the outskirts of Du Weldenvarden and the majority of the elves had dispersed in many directions returning to their homes before the war broke out. Meanwhile the company that lived in Ellesméra, particularly the high lords, remained with Evandar to travel with the king back to the capital to deliver the devastating news of their loss. While everyone was going on about their own business, Eragon about had it with all the formalities and whatnot that the elves seemed to pile upon him. He wished to be himself, he wished to not mind the need for eloquence and common etiquette but he lacked the authority to do so in this time. He was another soldier—another Rider with a loss. A Rider without a dragon is as useless as the next person.

Unable to remain in the camp any longer without a means to vent his frustration, he sought to move away from the encampment that felt as if it were confining him. He could not understand how one could live like the elves did. He may appear an elf but he would always be a human at heart. Curving around the base of a rather large pine tree, he continued onwards hearing the sound of a running stream. Having not bathed since he had traveled back through time, he would at least like to clean his face. Remembering what Arya said about elves valuing hygiene, he sighed as he studied his nails. There was some dirt underneath some of his nails but for the main part they were clean. Though he needed to round some of his nails out and perhaps even rubbed some oil on the surface. He winced as the thought made its way through his mind. Perhaps he did take up some elf tendencies.

Shaking his head, he easily stepped over several large roots that protruded from the ground and continued on his way through the forest and towards the stream remembering his path as he did so. The forest of Du Weldenvarden was large and if he was not careful he could easily become lost within it for all the trees appeared similar and the surroundings blended in with one another. He did not like the idea of losing his way in the forest and therefore made sure to keep a close eye on the direction he was heading so that he could retrace his steps back to the camp.

Ducking underneath a low branch, he once more let his thoughts wander. He had never been to Du Weldenvarden without Saphira and Arya. The two of them had been his only source of comfort and security in such a foreign place, isolated from the world just as the Beor Mountains were. To be back here now without them made him feel the stark loneliness from earlier return and once more the sudden fear. He was afraid to meet Arya once more and to have her look upon him and see no more than a stranger. In this time he did not save her life. In this time, the two of them were not connected in any way apart from the fact that he saved her father's life. But other than that, he was nothing to her. And he was sure that Fäolin —when she grew older—would mean much more to her than he did. At the thought of Fäolin a chill washed over him. Though Arya never went out and said it, he knew that a part of her before she had met him and loved him had some sort of romantic feelings for Fäolin . He had never questioned her past but he wandered what it was that laid between the two of them. She had said that they were good friends but…there had to be something more.

His mind went back to the time she had confessed to him at Lake Tüdosten. When she had kissed him, it was so experienced that he had wondered if she had learned…from her time spent with Fäolin ? Instantly, he felt an iciness wash over him as he nearly wanted to double over with pain at the thought of Arya loving Fäolin over him. Would she still choose him over Fäolin ? The thought of it nearly made him physically sick. Placing a hand on the tree beside him, he took in a deep breath frowning at the sweat that seemed clung to his forehead.

He would not think of it. Now was not the time. Arya was still young. She was still a child. When she was older and perhaps if he was still alive he would worry over her choice. But he could not help but have a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. Arya, despite her own opinions about her standings, was a princess. Fäolin , whom Eragon did not know well enough, was no doubt from a noble family. While in this time he, Eragon, had nothing. He had no titles to be offered. He was no longer a Dragon Rider, he was not yet a Shadeslayer, he was not a Kingkiller—he was nothing. Compared to Fäolin , he was certainly not the most prominent of suitors. And to add to it, Fäolin was a "kindred" spirit while he had a foul temper and a rather indifferent personality. The Arya currently was already changed from the one that he knew. And he was uncertain of whether the one he would eventually meet and come to learn about would be the same Arya from his time.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eragon frowned, his brows furrowing with the action. He did not feel well and thinking about Arya only served to make him feel uneasy. Clearing his thoughts of Arya once more, his mind latched onto another topic that was rather painful for him to think of: Saphira. She was still in the clutches of Galbatorix and though Eragon could attempt to go and steal her away, he would have to wait until Galbatorix was too confident with his safety within his citadel and walls. Presently, it would be too dangerous for him to attempt to whisk the eggs away from Galbatorix. Having just overthrown the Riders and defeating the last of the resistance, the king was no doubt cautious of his treasures. It was as Evandar had said; he was merely going to have to bid his time. Wait for me Saphira. Eragon was not worried about Saphira's safety for he knew Galbatorix would take care of the eggs but he did not like the idea of having her within the king's confines for too long.

Circling about another tree trunk, he emerged from the forest into an open clearing where a steady stream was flowing. Farther up he saw a doe drinking from the stream and could only smile slightly at the peaceful scene. His eyes returning to the stream, Eragon blinked as they passed over a figure that sat on the bank with his back turned to him. He could not see much of the person but he saw that the person had light chestnut hair. He appeared familiar to Eragon but he could not place where he had seen the man before. All he could do was merely stare at his back. His posture was tensed and his hands were clenched as if he was in deep anger.

Eragon stepped forward not being overly quiet with his footsteps and announced his presence as his boots crunched the soft grass beneath his feet. The person tensed and he could see his hand moving to the pommel of his sword that was attached to his hip. Eragon took another step forward and then a sharp voice rang out, "Who goes there?" though the voice was younger, he could still recognize it in the older and sharper voice of his father in his present day.

Eragon resisted the urge to merely ignore his father. It was not as if he could not wander near the stream if he wanted to. Brom had no right to tell him what to do nor demand answers from him even if it was a mere introduction. He pushed the urge away, however, as he remembered the grief and betrayal that his father was going through. Eventually, Eragon answered him. "Eragon."

His tensed posture relaxed slightly and his hand moved away from the pommel of his sword. Having half the mind to leave Brom where he was sitting and return to the camp, Eragon paused. A part of him did not want to deal with his younger father. It would be easier if he did not approach him nor share his sympathies with the young Brom. But he knew just how much his father was grieving, perhaps even more so than Eragon was. While Eragon was separated from Saphira, he knew that in time he would be reunited with her. But for Brom, his dragon—his Saphira—was gone. In that one moment of understanding, Eragon found himself walking forward.

"You must be Brom," said Eragon knowing fully well that the angry man before him was indeed Brom. How odd it was to stare at his young father who did not know who he was. He watched as Brom made his way to his feet turning about to stare at Eragon. When blue eyes met his, he was not surprised to see a lack of recognition in the eyes that Ella had inherited when she was born. What was surprising was how much it cut him to the quick that the man—his very father—did not recognize his own son. Though Eragon appeared more elvish now, he had thought that in his features a part of his father might show. But it was apparent that was not so for Brom continued to stare at him as if he were a stranger.

His eyes darted to Brisingr which rested against Eragon's hip and Vrangr which was strapped to his back and instantly he darted forward. "Where did you get those swords?" he asked, his words biting and short. Eragon furrowed his brow as he let Brom's words wash over him. Was he speaking of Vrangr and Brisingr?

"You speak of my swords I believe?" asked Eragon trying to make head of such a situation. He was still reeling from the fact that currently he was speaking to his younger father who did not know who he was and was pinning him with such a stare that Eragon would even go as far as to say that it made him uncomfortable.

"Do you think I am speaking of my swords?" asked Brom looking rather close to rolling his eyes. Eragon stared at him near affronted by his attitude. This angry man was his father? The very same man whom his mother had fallen in love with? He stared at his father for a long moment and fought the urge to snap back at him. But he reminded himself once more that this man was near crazed from the loss of his dragon. Losing Saphira and Arya as well as his family had driven Eragon to plead with Alagaësia for a second chance, he could only sympathize as to how Brom was faring. "Of course I am speaking of your swords."

Ignoring the obvious tone of his voice, Eragon gestured to Vrangr and Brisingr, "I made this one," said Eragon gesturing to Brisingr watching as Brom's eyes widen in surprise and astonishment. It was true, while Rhunön had used his body as a medium to forge the blade; in essence it was Eragon who actually forged the blade of Brisingr. Then he gestured to Vrangr, "And this one was gifted to me…by a close friend." He couldn't very well say that Arya had forged him Vrangr. It would lead to too many questions that he did not want to answer.

Instead, he merely watched as Brom's face fell. Observing him for a moment, he blinked when realization came to him that Brom was hoping that perhaps one of Eragon's swords was his that he had lost. Undbitr he remembered the name of the sword to be. Brom faltered and he saw as the light left his eyes leaving behind a tremendous sorrow. He then turned and made his way back to the bank. Eragon blinked and unbidden by him, his feet carried him to Brom's side and he sat down beside the man. A long moment passed between them and he was unsure of what to say before Brom spoke quietly.

"It is not so much the sword that bothers me but rather its meaning," said Brom quietly his eyes flickering to Brisingr and Eragon could read the clear longing in his eyes. Unsure of what to do but certain of his need to comfort Brom, Eragon slid Brisingr from his waist and handed the sword to Brom to study. Hopefully, he would not comment on how the blade was thinner than most Riders sword at this moment in time and how it was sharper at the end so that it could easily sink through armor in Eragon's time. He watched as Brom took Brisingr in his hand, his eyes studying the deep and rich sapphire of the scabbard before he pulled the sword from its sheath with a silent hiss, his eyes widening at the beauty of the blade.

As he observed Brom studying Brisingr, the flash of longing in his eyes seemed to intensify. Then he remembered his words. It is not so much the sword that bothers me but rather its meaning. Every Riders blade was forged so that the hue of the blade matched the hue of their dragon. While Brisingr and Vrangr were representations of Saphira, Undbitr was a physical representation of Brom's Saphira. A deep sadness pervaded him at the thought of his father's loss. He had lost Saphira and his sword. The only connection he had to his dragon was his gedwëy ignasia which Eragon glimpsed on his right palm. His eyes flickered to his own right palm.

We are more similar than I thought us to be, thought Eragon his eyes never leaving Brom as he continued to stare at Brisingr as if trying to ingrain in his mind the memory of its color. After a moment, he sheathed Brisingr and returned the sword to him.

"It is a beautiful sword," he said quietly. "Your dragon…must have been as beautiful as your blades."

"She is more beautiful," Eragon replied thinking of Saphira, the pain that came with her memory aching within him. "Much more beautiful than my swords could give meaning to." And he meant it. As much as Brisingr and Vrangr represented Saphira, they could never match her true beauty. Saphira would have no doubt been flattered by his thoughts but she wasn't here to share in his mind and emotions anymore.

"What happened to her?" Brom asked quietly, his blue eyes fixed on the stream.

It isn't what happened to her, but what happened to me, thought Eragon in the lonely confines of his mind. It was odd not to have his connection with Saphira anymore, not mentally at least. It was hard to imagine that he had been dead and it was only Alagaësia's mercy that saved him. He thought about the world for a moment and how it appeared to him. Was this really his Alagaësia? Was this reality? Or was he still dead but he did not simply know anymore? Death, the greatest adventure of all…one that I did not wish to undertake.

"Galbatorix," said Eragon simply. His answer appeared to be enough for Brom for the man nodded. After a long moment of silence once more, he spoke. "And what of your dragon?"

"She was killed in the fighting at Doru Araeba," Brom's jaws clenched and Eragon could tell that he was struggling within himself for words. His earlier rage seemed to have returned to him and he could see him struggling to try and restrain his emotions. Feeling as if he was intruding on a personal moment, Eragon darted his eyes away back upstream. The doe that had been drinking from the water had gone leaving merely him and Brom. I never knew that silence could be so loud.

"Will you seek revenge?" asked Eragon quietly knowing fully well that Brom would devote his entire life to creating methods and strategies to bring Morzan to his grave. He was going to extract vengeance from all of the Forsworn—that was his legacy. At least until he met his mother, Selena. Love would be enough to change him from the raging man he was to the wise and knowledge father he was going to be. Another trait we share, thought Eragon wryly. While Selena had invoked change in Brom, Arya had invoked change in Eragon.

"That is the only way left for Riders," said Brom with a hard voice as he turned his blue eyes to Eragon. "You and I are the only Riders left apart from…" He stopped faltering and Eragon knew that Brom was about to mention Oromis and Glaedr but he did not seem to trust in Eragon fully or maybe he did not trust in himself to speak the truth about their master. A second passed and then his determined expression had returned to his face. "It is our duty to avenge what was lost—our dragons, our Order, and our homes. What Galbatorix and his servants did was unforgivable and never—as long as I shall live and even in death itself—never shall I forgive them."

Eragon nodded. Though it seemed an unhealthy obsession, as long as it gave him a sense of purpose he was not going to deny Brom his thirst for revenge. He understood the feeling well enough, he could even empathize with Brom on a certain level. Whenever there was a purpose, it was always much easier to control one's rage.

"And what will you do?" Brom asked turning to Eragon.

"I would like to fight against Galbatorix," said Eragon as Brom grunted in approval, he paved on. "However, for the meantime I would like to seek asylum within Du Weldenvarden."

Instantly, the earlier approval was gone and instead Brom looked at him outraged. Rather than flinching away, Eragon held his stare waiting for him to burst with indignation at the fact that a Rider would merely stand by and let the traitor to their Order do as he pleased. "You would stow away while Galbatorix seeks to control Alagaësia? You will not avenge your dragon?"

"We must bid our time," said Eragon refusing to neither budge nor fall to anger at how Brom was speaking to him currently. Had this been any other time, he would have snapped back at his father.

"We must strike while the iron is hot!"

"Which can lead to reckless and irrevocable results."

"Which can lead to a way for us to fight Galbatorix! The longer we let him do as he pleases, the stronger he shall become and by then we will never have another opportunity," said Brom adamantly, a raging inferno in his piercing blue eyes. When Eragon made no move to answer him, he made to his feet. Then he said in a harsh voice, "Do what you will but know this, I will not relent."

He then turned and left making his way back to the camp leaving Eragon to sit by the stream deep in thought. To think that the Brom who had just left and the one who had fathered him were the same person. It was almost unbelievable. Almost. Leaning back onto his hands, he sighed as he stared up at the sky above him, taking in cloudless blue. "What am I to do Saphira?" whispered Eragon feeling lost.

In truth, he did not like the idea of waiting but that was all he could do. If he became too involved at the moment it could end up jeopardizing the entire struggle against Galbatorix. He needed to wait for Brom—in all of his rage—to form the Varden. Then when Weldon took command, he would be able to offer his assistance without fear of the entire history since the fall of the Riders deviating radically. Waiting always made him restless and when he was restless he was impatient. It was a flaw in his character but he could not change that particular aspect of him.

Would I change?

He knew his true name was still as it was but he couldn't help but wonder if the events in this time would propel his name into changing. He did not want his true name to change. For if it changed, then that meant that the Eragon in the future never really existed and that thought alone was enough to crush him. Who am I?

Sighing once more, he merely sat there by the stream for an unknown amount of hours trying to think of what was to become of his life. What would he do? He had thought that he could simply wait until the opportune time to aid in the fighting. But what would he do during the time he waited? He did not like idly sitting by while the world passed him by. Then there was also the problem of Arya. What would he do regarding the elf princess that in his future was his mate, his soul bond? A part of him wanted to seek her out and tell her how much he cared, how much she meant to him. But another part of him knew that it was folly to do so. He could not seek Arya out no matter how much his feelings meant. He could only wait and see if fate would bring her to him. It had brought her to him in his time, he could only pray that it would spare his ardent feelings and bring her to him once more.

At the thought of depending on fate Eragon chuckled darkly.

What are we but mere pawns in this game called fate?

Was it his fate to die? Was it his fate to go back in time? Or was it his own selfishness that had driven him here? If he had accepted his fate and had died, there would have been no need to fear about the outcome of the war to come. His life was a small price to pay for the century of fighting—of struggling to their very last breath—against Galbatorix. And he had thrown at all away for more time with his loved ones, for another chance. Leaning forward, Eragon blinked trying to keep his expression from becoming twisted in anguish as he passed a hand over his face. If Brom came back, he did not want him to see him in such a state.

The greed of one man can destroy a lifetime of effort.

He now understood the meaning to that particular phrase. He had never thought himself to be greedy, spoilt perhaps but never greedy. He hated himself because in that one moment he was the man that was greedy. He was the man that had thrown away all the sacrifices, all of their efforts for a near century so that he could live again. Even if the events that spanned from the fall of the Riders up to his present time did not occur yet, it did not mean they did not transpire for Eragon. In his life, Ajihad had died when he returned from routing the Urgals. Hrothgar was killed by Jeremiah. Fäolin and Glenwing were slain by Durza and the Urgals that had ambushed them. Years upon years of sacrifice and they had finally won. They had defeated Galbatorix and it was his desire to live again that had undone the future and brought forth a past that was tragic, sorrowful, and dark.

This is the burden of my decision.

He had wanted this, he had pleaded for it and now it was his. Alagaësia gave him the power of knowledge and allowed him to play a role close to that of a god's. He had a hundred years' worth of knowledge to fight against Galbatorix with. He knew of events that have yet to happen and he could change the future. He could do a task that not even the greatest sages could ever do. But to do so, would he in turn destroy his future? He thought about it for a moment. Would his mother exist sixty years from now? Would Murtagh be born? Would he be born?

And even if they were born, he knew deep down, that they would not be the same people from his memories. Arya would not be herself. He had already prevented her father's death and therefore effectively destroyed one of her greatest motivation in life. A choked sound escaped him as he thought of the Arya in this time and the one that he knew and loved. Already a great piece of her was chipping away, falling to nothingness. In his mind, he heard her voice as she spoke to him. Even if it was a mere memory in his mind, it was nothing in this time for it did not happen and it never would.

He devoted his entire life to our cause, always valiant, always willing. But that day that I heard of his fall by Galbatorix, it changed my entire life. My mother was left to rule our people while I…

He clenched his jaw as the Arya in his memories continued to speak no more than a whisper of what she used to be now.

Since I carried Thorn's egg, I had always wished to become a dragon rider to avenge my father and to protect my people. It wasn't until Eridor hatched for me that my dream became reality.

It was as if he had killed her. The Arya, whom he knew, so devoted to her people and late father was gone. She would no longer tell him that everything she had done for the better part of a century was fueled by her desire to seek justice for King Evandar. Knowing, simply knowing that another Arya existed and yet was unable to flourish because of his actions made him want to yell out in frustration. It made him want to destroy something. It made him want to hate himself. This was his sin for asking for a second chance. He was going to destroy the world that he knew to recreate another one. And in it, he was going to destroy the existence of those he came to know and love. He was going to keep them from becoming the people they should be, he was going to warp their lives with his decisions.

This is my sin to bear.

His eyes stinging with his grief, a shaky breath escaped him and he fought hard to keep his composure. He did not want to give way now. He did not want to mourn. Could he mourn for something that no longer existed? He thought of Saphira, Arya, his mother and father, Murtagh, Nasuada, and so many others whom he was going to possibly change to the point that they would no longer resemble the people he knew. Then he thought of himself. Was he going to change? Was this Eragon going to exist once he was reborn? The thought of not being who he was—of losing himself once more frightened him but he could not continue to be selfish. If he was altering the lives of others, it was only fair retribution that his life was also altered that this Eragon like his Arya no longer existed in this timeline.

A brief silence washed over him and unable to help himself, he murmured his true name. A tremor ran through his body at the sound of his name and profuse relief pervaded his body. He was still him. His relief only lasted momentarily before another name slipped from between his lips. In his heart he recognized the name and he could feel the part of Arya within him resonate to it but otherwise the world remained still and silent. Unbidden by him a tear escaped his eyes as he thought of Arya's true name. It was still her true name, it was the true name of the Arya from his time and as he promised her, he would forever cherish and protect it for it was her name.

But that was the only promise he could keep to her amongst the many that he had told her. He had promised that one day they would visit Vroengard, that they would search the tunnels of Farthen Dûr for the flower that she spoke of, that they would have a future together after the war. Broken promises, that is what they are.

Eragon did not know how long it was that he sat there by the stream but he could not find it in himself to move. If he returned to the camp now, he would surely be unable to keep his composure especially if he saw King Evandar once more for the king would only remind him of the sin that he had committed. He would remind him that he, Eragon Shadeslayer, had changed the past and consequently the future with it as well. It was not until night was beginning to fall did Eragon force himself to his feet.

He could not sit there and wallow in his sorrow any longer. If he did, he would go mad with grief. For now, he would lock away his emotions for a later time. He would mourn over his loss after things had been said and done. Sitting there and drowning in his own self-pity would surely have caused Saphira to become irritated at him. He was stronger than that. At least he would like to think himself strong. Turning away from the stream, he began to make his way back towards the camp. Before he was fully encircled by the large pine trees, Eragon turned his head back to stare at the peaceful clearing.

"I'm sorry."

It was not directed towards anyone but his feelings behind the apology were sincere. He meant those two words with every fiber in his being and could only hope that those it was meant for understood. Without another glance back, he turned and continued forward retracing his footsteps through the darkening forest. If it weren't for his keen sight, he would have lost his way. Glad that he had undergone several transformations in his lifetime, Eragon easily maneuvered about the trees as if the sun was shining down on him rather than the dark night blanketing him.

Feeling calmer than he did earlier while he was thinking by the stream, he was confident that he would be able to continued playing the façade of a Rider who had lost his dragon to Galbatorix. It was ironic to think that he had finally managed to undo the puzzle that surrounded his identity and yet he could not live as who he was. He had learned who he was and understood himself more than anything back at Vroengard and now he could not live as himself. He would have to live in hiding and behind a mask until time righted itself or until he righted time, whichever came first.

As he neared the camp, he passed two guards on patrol and nodded to them. They did not make anything unusual out of his late return to the camp but merely inclined their heads at him to acknowledge his presence. He was not sure what unsettled him more: the elves being distant or the elves being familiar. Either way, he was going to have to live in their presence for some time now. He did not know what he was going to make of the time he spent in Ellesméra. He could only hope that his lack of eloquence and his temperament did not show through.

By the time he reached camp, night had fallen and the only light that pervade the darkness were from the flameless lanterns that the elves had hung up. Making his way to the provisions tent, Eragon had fetched himself an apple to eat. Constantly thinking and worrying had made him hunger for food. Thanking the elf who handed him the green apple, he turned the fruit in his hand a few times before taking a bite out of it, crunching it between his teeth.

Not wanting to linger underneath watchful eyes, he made his way back to his tent that the elves had once more generously offered him. As he made his way between the tents, he continued to crunch on his apple glad that he had something for his teeth to bite down on. He was unsure whether or not his continual grinding of his teeth would be beneficial. By the time he reached his tent with little incidents on the way, Eragon was surprised at the sight of a young man with chestnut hair standing near the entrance. Brom was waiting by the tent, his arms folded across his chest.

Cautious of what Brom could possibly want with him, Eragon tentatively made his way forward. If he was here to argue with him more he would take to the winds and make way for another location to sleep that night. But as it was, Brom turned at his approach and instantly chagrin filled his features.

"Is something the matter?" asked Eragon treading lightly on unknown waters.

"No," said Brom with a shake of his head. Eragon saw his fingers twitch but otherwise Brom remained still seemingly struggling with himself. It wasn't until some time had passed did Brom speak. "I want to merely apologize for my outburst earlier…it was rude and unbecoming of me."

"No matter," said Eragon not holding his anger to him. "You have a right to your anger."

"As do you," said Brom motioning to Eragon's right hand. Belatedly Eragon realized he was motion to his gedwëy ignasia. "We all deal with our grief differently and I had no right to think little of you because you decided to venture a different path than I. It just reminded me that I still have much to learn."

"You will in time no doubt," said Eragon as he took another bite of his apple. He searched for words to say. He had never been apt at speaking of his own feelings to others apart from Arya and Saphira and occasionally his mother. His relationship with his father had become better with time but it was still strange territory. What was a son supposed to say to his young father who at the time was not even his father? Eventually he settled for advice rather than personal feelings. "Whatever you do Brom, just remember that at times a cleared mind is much more useful than one clouded with anger." He tapped his temple with the forefinger of his free hand.

"I will remember your words," he paused looking like he wanted to say more but instead he said, "Well, it is late and we have to rise early to continue our travel back to Ellesméra."

Bidding Brom a peaceful rest, Eragon stood to the side as his father made to pass him but as he did so a strange urge in Eragon caused him to turn and call out to him. "Brom," the man turned to him with a questioning look. "Your dragon…she was no doubt beautiful."

An expression of deep anguish crossed his face only to be replaced a spilt second later by a sad smile. "Aye that she was."

With that said, he watched as Brom continued on his way weaving in and out between the tents until his figure disappeared from sight. Sparing another long look in the direction he left, Eragon sighed and took another bite out from his apple before he ducked inside his tent to rest. He had done enough for one day.

There's plenty of contemplation and such in this chapter but I felt as if it was necessary for laying out the entire time travel plot. I've read a few time travel FFs and the majority (not to say all) seem to have this view of time travel as 'if we can go back and fix time for the better, it's worth a shot' type theme (not to say that it's wrong or anything). But in this story since it's a spin-off of RL, Eragon as the one who is time traveling weighs in more on his sudden burdens that comes from his decision to go back into time. I think what I'm trying to get across is that people often think of time traveling (strictly in the past) as a way to change things when it's more of a way to undo them. Anyone catch my drift? In this chapter, I just wanted to show that time traveling to Eragon is more than merely making things better. As much as it is a miracle, it is also a burden. It goes along with the concept of sacrificing one thing for another. So that's what I wanted to say here.

Mind blowing revelation (at least to me): I was searching through CP Q&A and all that stuff and wikia to try and construct the timeline as best as I could and long story short, I came across this one online Q&A that CP had for his readers and in it, he said that Arya and Fäolin were indeed in a romantic relationship (as in bg/gf)! I was mind blown. I've always thought their relationship was those of mere good friends and I never actually read it being confirmed that they were more until now! It was an OMG moment for me and I could barely write. I was just too fazed out at the moment. It was unbelievable. I guess that leaves more options for me in this story...

Anyways apart from this tremendous A/N, I hope to see you all soon!