Look, folks, it only took me less than a month this time! :D Due to some questions for the last chapter, check below for some answers that should hopefully clear up the confusion. (Although some of you may not like me for the last bit of this chapter...)
1. Eragon is a wild dragon. Only those spelled to do so will hatch for a Rider ;). Wild dragons can hatch whenever they damn want to, depending on current populations and conditions outside. What prompted Eragon to hatch back in the prologue was the large of food in Roran's back right there for the taking.
2. There's bound to be a number of potential candidates out there a dragon would consider hatching for. Faolin and Arya were both worthy of being the green dragon's Rider. In cannon, Faolin died before it could matter, but here he got to the egg first. Having hatched into a literal living hell, and with a completely Rider as an influence, it is impossible for the dragon we all know and love as Firnen to come to pass. He and Aelath are two completely different characters, born of completely circumstances, if deriving from the same egg ;).
Disclaimer: The Inheritance Cycle is not mine. Anything you don't recognize as Chris Paolini's belongs to me.
Garrow Cadocsson hated Galbatorix's murderously high taxes, pests, weeds- a farmer's usual woes. The only thing in the wide world he truly loathed was winter.
Spring called for field preparations and planting, summer for tending the growing crops, and autumn for harvesting and preparing for the ruthless season ahead. Aside from the few animals he had to care for and the occasional maintenance about the cottage, there was very little left to do once the snow flew. Last spring, when Roran had truly begun taking his plans for finding a bride seriously, Garrow had dreaded spending an entire damned winter alone in his drafty little cottage.
The following months had brought Eragon and Saphira into his life. With two dragons so close to home, he would have all the company and fresh game he'd ever need without ever having to leave his property. Then Roran had spontaneously decided to not take the job down in Therinsford, which had been both a worry and a relief. For this winter, at least, their unlikely family would remain whole.
Or at least Garrow had believed that until he had started to notice just how suspiciously absent both his son and the dragons had become.
Roran was gone for most of the day, stumbling in around dusk and barely making it to his bed before passing out. He'd be out of the house again by dawn before Garrow could confront him. By the smoke clouds he occasionally glimpsed outside, Garrow guessed his son had taking to cooking meat the dragons had caught for him rather than return home for food.
When his son finally crept in to his room one cold afternoon to retrieve his bow and arrows, Garrow blocked the doorway with his still-commanding presence.
"Am I that bad a cook, Roran?"
One hand still clutching his quiver, the younger man whirled frantically around. His eyes had the guilty look of a thief caught in the act. "I-I..."
"I miss you, son," Garrow began as he casually leaned against the door-frame. "Almost as much as I miss my bone-headed 'nephew'. Wish I could say the same for Saphira, but I've barely seen her since she was a hatchling. Growing as rapidly as Eragon, I imagine."
"Father, I..." Roran held his nearly-empty quiver up. "I needed to make more arrows, especially since I'm going hunting in a week's time."
"So Horst told me when I was in town this morning. Apparently you and Albriech were discussing such plans at the Seven Sheaves yesterday." His brown eyes narrowed. "Funny. I thought we had two dragons always eager to help out."
"We need to keep our cover," Roran answered confidently. "If Galbatorix ever-"
"Galbatorix?" Garrow barely suppressed the shiver traveling down his spine. "Are soldiers inquiring about Saphira's egg? Gods forbid, were they spotted-"
"We've been careful!" his son snapped.
"We?" his father echoed incredulously. "Since when did you fly? I thought you were afraid of heights!"
Roran's face darkened somberly. "There's a lot you don't know about me."
"Because you've been avoiding me like the plague!" Expression softening, Garrow reached out to the younger man. His child shied away like a spooked horse. "Son..."
"Forgive me, Father," Roran whispered quietly. "I'm only doing what's best for you."
Like a deer fleeing the hounds, Roran bolted past him, Garrow's fingers closing only on empty air. In hot pursuit, the old farmer charged after him, tripping just as the door slammed shut behind his son.
Knees throbbing, Garrow stared long and hard after the close door, damning Eragon for having ever discovered that second egg.
That night, Brom the old recluse had graced the Seven Sheaves to his hearty presence. Chugging something down that tasted vaguely of rabbit piss, he regaled the entire intoxicated tavern to just how he spoke from experience. Finally chased out by Tara after the ninth or so dirty tale, Brom staggered back to his cottage, waking up several irritated villagers when he accidentally tripped into a pen of squealing pigs.
The giddy smile finally fell away from the old man's weathered face as he slammed the door shut behind him. Gagging against the odor that now hung around him in a toxic cloud, sorely regretting the spell he had cast to prevent him from actually getting drunk. Barking a harsh "brisingr" at the fireplace, he angrily ripped off his soiled clothing, washing away the filth in a tub of cold water he had prepared just for the occasion.
Still, tripping right into a pigpen didn't even crack the top ten unspeakable things he had done for his own survival.
Clean at long last, Brom sighed as he wearily fell back in his favorite chair. A warm fire now crackled merrily in the hearth, bathing the room in welcoming light. Despite the large number of irreplaceable books he had anonymously sent off to Jeod, and the smaller amount safely tucked away in the dragons' cave with the rest of their supplies, there were still massive piles of scrolls and tomes piled precariously on top of tables and chairs. This cozy cottage had been his home for the better part of two decades, longer than he had been bonded with his Saphira.
Able to take the cheery scene no longer, Brom returned to the water tub. His reflection stared right back.
The life of a storyteller wasn't a bad one, he mused. Certainly better than killing in the rebellion's name!
He looked the part of the ancient storyteller. His loose and ratty robes gave the appearance of the paunch that should have been there. The long silver beard added to his somewhat mysterious air and disguised just how few wrinkles he actually had. The deceptive twinkle to his blue eyes spoke little of the decades of heartbreak and horror he had endured without his Saphira.
Leaving the fire to burn, Brom grabbed his razor and set to work. He could have used magic, aye, but this seemed so much more fitting.
The hair beneath the silver locks he had helped to influence was a far darker shade of gray, one that could have been black or dark brown in earlier days. Beneath the beard lay the haggard face of a veteran who had gone through far many battles. His true face, long since buried under the stories and cheer, reemerged.
There was an entire tavern of witnesses to his drunken revelry, a street of angry neighbors that would remember his face in the morning. And the night was so cold... who would blame an old and addled man for throwing too much wood on the fire to ward against the chill? An old and addled man who would have slept deeply in his favorite chair, not even stirring when the sparks leaped onto the mess he should have bothered to clean up...
There would be nothing left but ashes and charred fragments of bone indistinguishable from the deer remnants Eragon had so thoughtfully provided him. One less flushed face in the Seven Sheaves, one more name for exasperated wives to chide their drunken husbands with. And Brom the storyteller would be tragically missed... up until another weary wanderer undoubtedly filled his place with their own travels and tales.
Throwing on a nondescript cloak, Zar'roc's telltale glint invisible beneath, Brom's hand hovered hesitantly over his staff. Travelers of all ages carried one, and who kept distinguish one from the other...
There were other staffs out there, other branches that could easily be fixed for a new persona, a new life. Let the storyteller keep his.
Slipping into the darkness, the now-unrecognizable man never looked back as all trace of Brom the storyteller went up in smoke.
While no one in Carvahall could (openly) call themselves close with Brom, that didn't stop the majority from attending his funeral. By some miracle, Sloan had invented some excuse not to come. Roran was free to clasp Katrina's hand as the empty casket was lowered into the earth. He savored her soft touch, the warmth of her presence next to his.
With Garrow reminiscing with some of the other men over Brom's more boisterous tales, Roran quickly kissed Katrina's cheek, uncaring of the scandalous whispers that broke out behind him. Sensing that this would be their last, she tilted her head, catching her lips with his. She would never, could never, understand what had ground their promising start to a halt, but that didn't mean they hadn't left their marks upon the other.
After the ceremony, Katrina left when called by several friends. Roran lingered at the grave he knew would never be filled, sneaking a glance upward. He cracked a secret smile at the two shapes circling high overhead.
That night, when Carvahall toasted its best source of entertainment in over a generation, Roran had drank to Brom's memory right alongside their father. They staggered home together, drunkenly roaring an old ballad Brom had once sang at the top of their lungs. Farther down the deserted patch of dirt that led to their farm, their song broke off to shouts of protest as Eragon grabbed each of them by their tunics and carried them the rest of the way.
Three days later, with his father's snoring echoing from across the hall, Roran fought to contain his sobbing heaves as he stared down at the blank paper he so wanted to fill. Though he had only a candle's feeble light to go by, he squinted only against the tears, Saphira's bond with him having already moderately improved his eyesight.
What do you say to a father you can never see again? What can stop him from chasing you, his only son? What can you say to keep him from getting-
Roran clenched his left fist tightly. He had only one quill left, the other broken two already having been cast into the fireplace.
I can't give any ideas of where we'll going. That'll only give him ideas! Gods, I even can't promise we'll be safe, not while Galbatorix breathes. Can I even tell him the truth about Saphira and me? Will he catch on news spreads of a new dragon and Rider?
With ashes from the hearth, Roran wrote down all he could. Even with his trembling hand, his writing was far neater than it had ever been before Brom's grueling lessons. The remaining emptiness on the sheet of paper (ripped from one of Brom's books) stared mockingly back with every emotion he could not convey into mere words.
Father,
By the time you read this, we'll be long gone. Have you forgotten Saphira and Eragon can fly? I've finally gotten over my fear of heights, to answer your question from earlier. As far as the rest as Carvahall is concerned, I've just set out on the hunt I was so excited for. It won't take them long to notice my absence. Don't try to stop the search parties. They'll find nothing but an empty cave nearby. (I was the one that burned the nests. Your poor 'nephew' thankfully won't be able to make his own fire for another two months!) And the fake camp we set up. It's been a hard winter this year, who can blame the wolves for tearing into a freshly-gutted dear and a hunter in the wrong place at the wrong time?
In case you haven't figured it out yet, I won't be inheriting the farm. No one will blame a grieving father for selling it off. The crowns you'll get should get you a comfortable apartment somewhere nice. I recommend Teirm, as Kuasta's apparently fully of crazies. You and I both know anything too close Urubaen would be suicide. What I've left should be nice enough to pay for a decent 'burial.' It's the money I've made on my own, what would have gone into a nice wedding present for Katrina.
He glanced over at the small pile of gold next to the letter. Roran smiled slightly. His father didn't need to know exactly how much of it had been Brom's contribution.
Father, don't come looking for me. Saphira, Eragon, and I have to disappear, and we'll do it so well not even the King can find us! You're stubborn, but I'm your son, and I've got two dragons on my side. If you want revenge, tell at the embarrassing stories you want to anyone willing to listen. Albriech and Baldor should find them hilarious.
Please, tell Katrina I loved her. I still do, but you'll find out the reason why I can't be with you two sooner or later. If you've caught on, please don't blame Saphira. She's a part of me now, and I need her as I need you. (So does Eragon, even if he's too like you to admit it.) I'll always be your son, no matter what happens, and I'll always love you. Thank you for raising me the way you did, and giving me the wisdom to know what I'm doing now is right.
Your son,
Roran
Laying the quill down, Roran wiped furiously at his eyes, hoping the drips on the paper would have dried by the time his father woke. Slinging the last bag of supplies he had yet to smuggle out over his shoulder, he gave his childhood home a final glance, and slipped out into the darkness.
Saphira circled diligently overhead, keeping watch. Eragon was waiting for him, golden eyes bright in the gloom. Wading through the snow to get to his cousin, Roran frowned in bewilderment at the empty saddle.
"Where's Brom?"
Paying his respects.
"To who?"
Eragon shrugged. He'd said he'd tell all of us when he felt like it... and promised he'd skin any of us who tried to spy on him.
Roran pondered this as he clambered into the saddle. "Strange. Most of my family was dead by the time Brom arrived in Carvahall. Except for my mother..."
Eragon's amber eyes widened. Do you think...
Not unless he became his father two and a half years after my Rider was born, stone-head, Saphira quipped.
Then who's he visiting? the other dragon grumbled.
Can't say, Roran's bonded sing-songed. I don't feel like being skinned today.
Even with the circumstances, the young man couldn't keep from smiling fondly as he shut off his mind to their bantering.
Garrow's forefathers had been making their living off of this farm for generations. So far away from Carvahall's cemetery, many of them had their final resting places in a far smaller plot in the woods behind their cottage their descendent would call home for a while longer. Most of their graves were unmarked, or the wooden markers having long since rotted away.
Brom paused to wipe the snow from Marian's marker. Back when he had been an outsider in Carvahall she had done her best to integrate him into the community, and was the reason why he had remained so close to Roran and Garrow even when he was no longer needed as a teacher.
"You raised a good man," he told her earnestly, "a very good man."
But Brom had come here for another, one who had not even lived a fraction of the years Marian had been blessed with. Tenderly, the no-longer-bearded man stooped to clear every last bit snow from the plot. No longer concealed, it was easy to tell how fresh the wood still was, as if the marker had just been placed yesterday.
Nestled in the earth beneath him lay the sole reason Brom had been so adamant for the position in Carvahall, the sole reason for what had kept him in such a quiet village for so long. Running his fingers over the name so carefully inscribed on the wood, he smiled sadly.
"A good name still," he murmured. "Even if that daft dragon makes me want to pull my hair out sometimes. So young, but still so curious, so bright..."
Knowing he could delay no longer, Brom gave the marker a small kiss. "Until we meet again, my son." His breath hitched. "My Eragon."
You called, old man?
Brom glanced upwards, scowling fondly. A second shape had joined Saphira. Only to make sure you were collecting your 'cousin' and not eavesdropping on me instead.
Not even I'm that stone-headed.
Leaving the snow-covered wood behind, the older man frowned critically at his human pupil. "Didn't shave this morning, I see."
Roran self-consciously rubbed at his stubble. "I was thinking of growing it out. You shaved your beard off to change your appearance, so why can't I do the opposite?"
The former Rider climbed up into the saddle with experienced ease, pausing expectantly when Roran didn't push back to give him his position. Eragon raised one scaly brow. "What?" Brom's eyes widened as realization dawned. "Ah. Your 'cousin', your front seat. I see how it goes."
Things up in the saddle became awkwardly silent as the two men struggled to maintain their personal space in such a small area. Beneath them, Eragon shivered with the force of his suppressed laughter.
Don't worry, Roran, Saphira assured her Rider. I should be strong enough for you to ride soon.
Heaving against gravity with the weight of two passengers, Eragon growled with the effort. Aye. Then I'll have you all for myself, Brom.
Brom shuddered with the countless horrific possibilities. "Pardon my enthusiasm," he drawled dryly.
Flying high over Carvahall for the final time, Saphira didn't glance back at the place she had little attachment to, for she already had her three dearest companions alongside her. Eragon's adolescent heart soared with the adventure he had longed for since being a tiny hatchling.
But it was not the dragons Brom worried for. Roran stared wistfully back even as Garrow's cottage became a tiny blur. Nudging his companion firmly, the older man made him look at him.
"So, Roran, did I ever tell you of when my Saphira and I left for our first big assignment?"
"No." Roran's eyes shone with earnest interest. "Go on."
And when Carvahall finally vanished from view altogether, no one particularly seemed to notice.
1. Roran handled his last days with Garrow the best he could. And they DID have some good times before he had to leave. Nothing says father-son bonding like getting drunk and carried home prey-style by a disgusted dragon :). I hope Roran's last letter to Garrow was sincere. For his own safety, he NEEDS to remain in the dark, and it probably is best he sells off the farm and lives comfortably in a place where Galbatorix will never find him.
2. I hope both the ways Brom and Roran faked their deaths were believable. Brom lives alone in an extremely cluttered house. How easy would be for him to die in a house-fire, especially when in too much of a drunken stupor to smell the smoke? Roran? People don't normally hunt in the Spine for damn good reason, especially in winter. Hungry wolf packs will take everything they find, including hunters that do the killing for them...
3. Brom both faked his own death and put his life in Carvahall to rest. Why wouldn't he change his appearance to make himself unrecognizable, just in case, or to help leave his old persona behind? Roran's growing a beard for the same reasons, though, so plenty of hair to go around! :D
4. With no human!Eragon, Brom had no reason to come to Carvahall and Selena had no reason to die and leave Murtagh in Galbatorix's responsible care -.-' The stress Selena underwent during pregnancy must have been incredible, so there was a good chance of complications to begin with. I actually had this planned from the beginning, to tie up all those loose ends. Gotta be both rough and bittersweet for Brom, though, having two adorably obnoxious dragons named after his own dragon and his dead son :/ However, just because I found this parallel fitting, doesn't mean you guys might. I WILL change the ending of this chapter if enough people think it's crappy/corny/ect. Critical feedback (but no flames, you marshmallow-roasters!) are most welcome :).