In which some questions are answered and a hell of a lot more raised.

Two hunched figures stalked through a dark wood while two ragged shadows circled overhead. Weeks ago their movements had been slow and methodical. Now they had grown listless, prone to hissing and screeching at each other at ever louder volumes. Once they had thoroughly interrogated every trapper and traveler they came across. Now they devoured them and left not even the bones behind.

One of the skeletal fliers veered southwest, where Palancar Valley and its settlements extended out below. Its partner joined it until both fell away from the valley's edge, chattering in agitation. Their current orders prevented them from straying any close to civilization. The taller of the hooded figures raised its monstrous beak to the air.

He purposefully floated ahead of them, calling up every bit of dark and draconic energy in his spirit to lure them in the direction of Therinsford. They ignored his presence. Once they had chased his trail all over these mountains before realizing he was nothing more than a wisp. Their master urged them onward. The smaller of the pair steadfastly trained its beady gaze on Carvahall.

"Avatars damn it!"

The Ra'zac might have slipped under the cover of dark, but he was born of it like those of their ilk never could be. Spectral fingers rose to touch the solid warmth hanging near where his heart had once beat. Magic surged through his spirit before the night wind shifted to his will.

Rephaim spread his wings and flew.

He was not alone. He was never alone. Between his legs he felt the thrust of Saphira's every wing beat. He laughed at her joyous roar as a fresh gale caught her wings and carried them heavenward. Their souls sang as one.

They rose high and higher until Alagaesia unfurled beneath them in an intricate masterpiece no cartographer could ever hope to match. Pale streams of magic drifted across its surface, pooling above Du Weldenvarden's verdant treetops and the Beor Mountains' towering peaks, but never ceasing in their flow. It was this realm's lifesblood.

There was a wound in the world, dark and gaping. It swallowed up the pale, screaming wisps of magic and grew ever larger. From the rift spewed forth sentient shadows and skeletal horrors. Like locusts they fell upon the land and devoured all that was green and living. Behind them the hole in the world swelled, consuming all the horrors it had birthed in its relentless path.

Saphira keened in horror but could not flee for there was nowhere left to run.

He gazed down into hell and hell gazed back as two flaming pits of hellfire. At last the abomination, a colossus shaped like a dragon of seething shadow, emerged from its void.

Saphira screamed as she died. He screamed with her, but for him death's embrace did not come even as his she-dragon withered beneath him. Alone and forsaken, he and her skeletal corpse plummeted into the void. The beast below opened its maw to welcome them into oblivion.

Brom blearily awoke from darkness and mortal terror. As a Dragon Rider he had not truly slept, his mind instead flitting between ephemeral visions. Some of the bond had decayed with his dragon. His slumber was no longer light and airy, but dragged him deep into drowning dreams. Even by his standards this nightmare had been especially vivid.

Upon his hand Aren burned hot and urgent. Its vast stores helped feed wards he had etched into Palancar Valley's perimeters. They warned the Ra'zac had at last breached the barriers.

Of course their arrival was not unexpected. It had been inevitable since Arya Svit-Kona had managed to fling their prize so far away from them. When those wards had tripped Brom had immediately rushed to the site of the object's arrival. He had sent it on its way and did his damnedest to erase the sign's of its explosive presence. By now the forest would have swallowed the remnants.

Under normal circumstances Brom would have been vigilant but not alarmed, keeping a wary eye on the Ra'zac until they left Palancar Valley behind. His post was that of a watchman. Only under extreme duress was he supposed to involve himself in Imperial affairs. The wild goose chase suited the Varden's interest. Some of the King's fiercest servants were running themselves ragged for an egg that had never been there in the first place.

But just the day before Brom had discovered the possible existence of a new Dragon Rider, his own son. Whatever Eragon had fallen into, there was a possibility the Ra'zac would not stumble across a mere egg, but a fledgling dragon.

Brom moved to rise from bed but froze as something on his chest shifted with him. Aren's burning agency had distracted him.

Snagging the object by its chain, Brom rose and held it before him. Dangling from the gold was a deep red stone that glowed with a radiance of its own, further embellished by the golden dragon that cradled the stone in its folded wings. He tentatively reached a mental finger out to the energy stored within, quickly drawing back behind his shields when the amulet's heat flared in warning.

Someone was watching him in the dark.

Throwing Aren's power behind him, Brom lashed out mentally as he barked out every spell that might force a cloaked magician to reveal themselves. No matter how this mysterious shadow had slipped past his wards and his own superhuman senses, he was alone with their gift was once more. Regardless of what the chill down his neck insisted.

Eragon!

Remembering himself, Brom dressed and threw on a thick cloak against winter's chill. He always kept a pack reserved for emergency situations, such as an unexpected order or rescue mission. Bundling the gods damned amulet in to he slung it over his back. Without a second thought he buckled Zar'roc to his side. The only fools out this hour on a night this cold were the drunkards.

Taking up his staff, Brom kicked his door open and raced into the night with speed that belied both his age and apparent humanity.

Eragon's eyes snapped open. He threw himself out of bed, fists clenched and fighting mad. Scanning his surroundings for his foe, it took him a moment to realize he was alone in his room, his uncle's snores rumbling down the hall. Then he realized the fury and desperation raging through his mind were not his own. And its source was fast approaching.

"Saphira," he whispered in horror.

Absently grabbing his bow and quiver, he flung his door open and charged into the night clad in only breeches. The elements no longer troubled him as he did. Despite the clouds shrouding the moon overhead, Eragon nocked an arrow and aimed into the dark. His eyes, sharper by the day, picked up the figure rushing out the dark Saphira had so viciously honed in. It was fast approaching.

Hang back! he thought furiously, channeling of his willpower into the effort. Wait!

Saphira's own soul screamed rage and defiance. He bore the brunt of it unflinchingly, for the mere thought of a world where she died before his very eyes was one more terrible than anything she could inflict upon him.

At the last possible minute she pulled out of her dive. In the low-hanging clouds she circled overhead, a hairsbreadth away from raining down all the fire and fury in her little body.

The figure in the night gradually resolved, staff and all. Eragon's grip on his shot slackened.

"Brom?" he gaped. "What in the seven hells-"

"What in the blazes are you wearing, boy?" Brom said sternly, sounding exactly like a grandfather that had caught his fool grandchild running around naked. "You'll catch your death on a night like this!"

In some regard Brom looked as he always did, down the long beard and gnarled staff. Yet he was a storyteller no longer. The easy slouch had gone from his readied stance. From his hip hung a sword in a wine-red sheathe. Eragon did not doubt his ability to wield it. Always his face had radiated gentleness or good-natured grouchiness. Now his blue eyes were hard. With his curved nose he resembled a hawk as he stared Eragon down.

Sweat beading on his neck, Eragon did his best to glare back. Brom was the trespasser here! He drew his arm back on his shot. "Why are you here?"

Blue eyes flicked purposefully upward. Eragon's heart dropped his stomach. "We're not alone tonight, are we?"

Eragon flinched back when a touch, foreign and familiar, ever so lightly brushed their shared soul. For a heartbeat Saphira recoiled in shock and terror. Then the sheer force of her outrage nearly brought him to his knees.

OUT OUT OUT!

Pressing a hand to his throbbing tempers, Eragon was grimly pleased to see Brom looked just as winded as he.

For a moment he feared Saphira swooping down from the sky to end it all. His fondness for Brom held her back. Before the man burned alive they at least deserved from answers.

"Such fire for one so young," Brom rasped. Dropping his staff to the earth, he slowly raised his hands in surrender. "Please pass on my sincerest apologies, Eragon. I had only hoped to her at ease. You are a lucky soul to have a companion so protective of you."

Eragon did relay Brom's apology. Saphira's response was a disdainful sniff.

The boy squinted at the old man he had always mistaken for a harmless storyteller. In his tales Brom had always been dismissive of Galbatorix and his Empire, sometimes a toenail from treason without truly crossing the line. One part of Eragon coldly reasoned Brom was an Imperial plant, purposefully trying to stir up feelings of sedition so the king finally had solid charges to bring down upon them.

The other insisted the exact opposite. It was the one Eragon leaned toward. "You're a rebel then?" Because who else would he be with?

"Aye," the old man admitted gruffly. "I'm just supposed to be a set of eyes and ears for such a remote corner of the Empire. And then some fool boy cane to me and all but admitted he was a young Dragon Rider severely lacking in basic dragon knowledge."

Eragon held back his wince. It wasn't as if Brom's information on actual dragons had been all that accurate to start with. "And you decided the best way to recruit us to your cause was by charging to my farm head-on in the middle of the night?"

Brom heaved a weary sigh. "No, Eragon. I've come to ensure you two escape here with your very lives. The king's servants are coming. They are on their way to Carvahall as we speak. Perhaps an egg might be hidden away but you cannot conceal a dragon with them so close by. They will have you and your dragon in chains, or else you will die in the attempt."

For one reckless moment Eragon thought to declare a final stand. Then he bit his tongue. Even his accelerated healing and durability did not make him invulnerable. Risking his life was risking Saphira's. Uncle Garrow and Roran were both oblivious to the danger he had raised beneath their noses. They were ignorant of his choices and did not deserve to suffer them.

Saphira was confident in her might. He was not. For all her fire she was still one arrow or one hard punch away from death.

"Uncle Garrow doesn't know about her," he whispered hoarsely. "Neither does Roran."

"It's easier, that way," Brom said neutrally. "I might smuggle you and your dragon away with none being the wiser, but the more that must come the harder our trail is to hide. If they know nothing than they have nothing to give the king, whether willingly or by force. They might live their lives in peace."

Eragon bitterly conceded the point. Gods, Uncle Garrow might not even be surprised by him suddenly vanishing in the middle of the night. He had already spent long hunting trips in the Spine even before he had discovered Saphira's egg, and the rift between him and his family had only widened since. Twice before his mother had vanished into the night like a ghost, the second never to return. It was already in his blood.

His shoulders squared. "Do I have time to gather my things?"

"Be quick about it," Brom grunted. "Meet me at the edge of the wood."

Eragon ran for home, Saphira keeping pace in the clouds above. When he entered the cottage she dove in after him. She refused to abandon him. He was loathe to let her out of his sight, even if it came at the risk of discovery.

Firstly he dressed, pulling on his boots and tunic. Though the elements no longer bothered him as they once had he was not about to risk his health when he was the only being Saphira could depend upon. Frantically he shoved spares into his pack. Within it went only the essentials, dried foods and his water skin and sleeping mat. His bow and quiver were slung over his back, his knife strapped to his belt.

Garrow snored blissfully on. Eragon winced. For a moment he considered waking his uncle and revealing everything. Then he smothered the thought deep down inside. His uncle was a stubborn man, one who might insist on joining him or fighting their hunters or otherwise making himself a target. He might also suggest Saphira was the root of the problem, that her magic died with her and Eragon might then be free of the sword hanging over his head. Better he be left in ignorance.

Eragon's eyes passed over his shelf of keepsakes and abandoned the notion of taking one with him. They were all dead weight. An untouched shelf would be message enough to his family, that he left with only the essentials and nothing of them. Let him become a ghost like his mother, best never spoken of and left to be forgotten.

Saphira nipped forcefully at his hand. Snapped from his stupor, Eragon fled from his home with a dragon flapping at his side, and vanished into the night.

While Eragon charged away Brom padded toward the edge of the wood. Once more he discretely opened his mind toward the dragon in hopes of calming her concerns and revealing more of himself and her kind, but her blazing presence diligently followed her Rider's.

Brom marveled at how brightly her spirit burned. Most fledgling dragons were but sparks. Even dragons new to their flame were hearth-fires in comparison to the infernos of their elders.

The longer he considered her soul, the more he realized it did not burn purely like fire. Perhaps it was more like the plasma that lanced through a thunderbolt.

Reaching the borders of the farm, Brom's expert eye searched for any sign of a dragon's presence. In the beginning he had searched in vain for survivors for the massacre, wild and bonded alike. Then he had helped track down the beasts of the errant Forsworn to finally put them and their masters out of their misery. The Ra'zac might not comb every strand of the Spine, but doubtless they would come to the farm after making their way through Carvahall. Best not leave any tell-tell traces that said one from this particular farm had harbored a growing dragon.

Brom's brows rose in pleasant surprise as he surveyed his surroundings. There were no great gouges from where a growing dragon had sharpened her horns and claws, no bark rubbed away by the itch of molting scales. There were no deer bones or heaping dung piles strewn about, no signs that any creature larger than a polecat called this forest home. Perhaps she had retreated deeper in the Spine as she'd grown and this was her first time so close to the farm since her days as a hatchling.

Brom did wish he did not have to drag the boy away from home in the dead of night, that his destiny had been so suddenly thrust upon his unsure shoulders. At the very least he would have appreciated a few days' preparation to ready a proper saddle. All novices needed one as they learned to balance on dragon-back and their dragons learned how to handle a passenger. With a she-dragon Eragon especially required one to keep his legs from getting ripped to shreds without heavy enchantment upon his breaches.

Brom's vision might not have been what it once was but he had no trouble spied the two figures approaching from the east. His beamed with pride at seeing Eragon already managing a pace and speed that would have left any fit young man winded after too long, even if his pace did not yet come close to the swiftness of a fully-realized Rider.

Then he spotted the little figure keeping pace at his son's side. She was a deep, rich blue. She pushed herself forward wing-beat after wing-beat. She was the size of a hatchling.

His face fell into a bewildered frown. Eragon smirked at the sight.

"What?" he laughed. "Not quite how the stories made her out to be?"

The little dragon landed beside Eragon, wings tucked neatly against her side. Dragons thrice her size couldn't carry themselves with such grace. Up close there was no doubting she didn't look a day out of the egg. Her face was blunt, lacking proper horns and spikes. But she wasn't gawky like a ravenous hatchling. Her hide was sleek from weeks of good eating. Brilliant blue eyes bore a hole in his soul. Brom reflexively thickened his mental barriers.

"I'm sure she'll grow into herself," Brom answered diplomatically. "Did she deem any of my numerous suggestions suitable for her name?"

"Oh, aye." Eragon's smirk grew into a true, beaming smile. "Brom, meet Saphira. Saphira, this is Brom."

Brom's heart ached. Unwittingly his mind carried him back to a day so very long ago, when he had gazed down at a very different hatchling, one the deep blue of a clear summer sky.

The Saphira before him now looked up and sneezed a fireball that was anything but an accident, unfortunately proving herself a dragon in truth and not just a deformed dog or other such creature.

Brom tapped down the sparks in his beard before they truly caught alight. "Well met," he said drily.

I originally had Rephaim outright confronting Eragon and Saphira about the Re'zac coming before dropping the Dragon Amulet, but the dead 'Dragon Rider' showing up now just raises more questions and distracts from the dire situation at hand. So he took a more subtle approach here.

Eragon likes/trusts Brom enough that Saphira isn't going to incinerate him on sight. Rephaim has no such protection. And no desire to be exorcised from this plane of reality against his will, if not outright erased from existence entirely.