Hi readers! This chapter is actually from the book. Very informative, maybe not so interesting. And for those that actually care, I'm losing my wifi next week, so updates will be very slow, but I'll do my best. I do not own Eragon or any of its characters. Only my OCs. Hope you enjoy!
Armelle was standing in Brom's home, her father refusing to let her go to the Spine, as the top layers of skin on her inner thighs weren't completely healed, and the flesh was still tender. There was a knock on the door, and she moved forward to answer it. She faltered when she heard Brom outside the door. "What do you want, boy?"
"To get information," a younger male voice replied. Eragon. "Roran is getting a chisel fixed and I had free time, so I came to see if you could answer a few questions."
The old man grunted, and Armelle scampered quietly away from the door. "You might as well come in; we'll be talking awhile. Your questions never seem to end."
The door opened and Eragon squinted to adjust his vision to the darkness of the house.
"Now for a light," Brom said, cursing as something fell to the floor. "Ah," he said a moment later. "Here we go."
Brom sat in his high-backed carved chair, and Armelle leaned against the wall by the entrance to another room. Chairs were scattered around the room, holding piles of scrolls. Ink pots and pens were placed in strategic areas over a writing desk.
"Make room for yourself," Brom said to Eragon. "But by the lost kings, be careful. This stuff is valuable."
Eragon stepped over scrolls and pages of parchment covered in strangely angled runes. He gingerly lifted stiff scrolls off of a chair and placed them on the floor, causing a cloud of dust to erupt.
Armelle watched him stifle a sneeze and covered her mouth to silence her small chuckle.
Brom bent over and lit the fireplace with his candle. "Good! Nothing like sitting by a fire for conversation." He threw back his hood to reveal silver hair. He hung a kettle over the fire and settled into his high-backed chair. "Now, what do you want?" He addressed roughly, but his voice wasn't unkind.
"Well," Eragon said, and through the bond they had created she could feel his struggle to approach the subject. "I keep hearing about the Dragon Riders and their supposed accomplishments. Most everyone seems to want them to return, but I've never heard tell of how they got started, where the dragons came from, or what made Riders special—aside from the dragons."
"A vast subject to tell you about," Brom grumbled. He looked at Eragon with alert eyes. "If I told you the whole story, we would still be sitting here when winter comes again. It will have to be reduced to a manageable length. But before we start properly, I need my pipe."
Armelle watched from the corner with glowing silver eyes, almost amber from the lit hearth. Brom glanced at her while tamping the cardus weed into his pipe. She knew Eragon liked Brom. Though he was irritable at times, he always made time for Eragon, and always told Armelle stories when she asked for them.
Brom used a tinderbox to light it. He puffed the pipe a few times before speaking again. "There… Now we won't have to stop, except for the tea. Now, about the Riders, or Shur'tugal as they are called by the elves. Where do they start? They spanned countless years, and, at the height of their power, held sway over twice the Empire's lands. Numerous stories have been told about them, most nonsense. If you believed everything said, you would expect them to have the power of a lesser god. Scholars have devoted entire lives to separating these fictions from fact, but it's doubtful any of them will succeed. However, it isn't an impossible task if we confine ourselves to the three areas you specified: how the Riders began, why they were so highly regarded, and where dragons came from. I shall start with the last item."
Eragon settled into his chair and listened to Brom's voice, which had taken on an almost hypnotic tone. Armelle shifted to a more comfortable standing position to listen herself.
"Dragons have no beginning," Brom explained, "unless it lies with the creation of Alagaësia itself. And if they have an end, it will be when this world perishes, for they suffer as the land does. They, the dwarves, and a few others are the true inhabitants of this land. They lived here before all others, strong and proud in their elemental glory. Their world was unchanging until the first elves sailed over the sea on their silver ships."
"Where did the elves come from?" Eragon interrupted. "And why are they called the fair folk? Do they really exist?"
Armelle laughed quietly as Brom scowled. "Do you want your original questions answered or not? They won't be if you want to explore every obscure piece of knowledge."
"Sorry," Eragon replied, attempting to look contrite.
"No you're not," Brom commented, amusement lacing itself through his tone. He shifted his gaze to the fireplace and watched the flames lick the bottom of the kettle before glancing at Armelle. May I tell him of your heritage? He thought to her, which startled her.
She nodded. I trust him. She thought in reply.
"You should know elves are not legends, boy," Brom said, his gruff voice kind. "Armelle is half-elf herself."
Eragon's jaw dropped, and he started to splutter more questions.
Brom held up a hand, halting them. "Ask her later. If you want your original questions answered, listen now. But if you must know, elves are called the fair folk because they are more graceful than any of the other races. They come from what they call Alalëa, though none but they know what, or even where, it is."
"Now," he glared from under his bushy eyebrows to silence Eragon from any more interruptions. "The elves were a proud race then, and strong in magic. At first they regarded dragons as mere animals. From that belief rose a deadly mistake. A brash elven youth hunted down a dragon, as he would a stag, and killed it. Outraged, the dragons ambushed and slaughtered the elf. Unfortunately, their bloodletting did not stop there. The dragons massed together and attacked the entire elven nation. Dismayed by the terrible misunderstanding, the elves tried to find a way to end the hostilities, but couldn't find a way to communicate with the dragons.
"Thus, to greatly abbreviate a complicated series of occurrences, there was a very long and very bloody war, which both sides later regretted. At the beginning the elves fought only to defend themselves, for they were reluctant to escalate the fighting, but the dragon's ferocity eventually forced them to attack for their own survival. This lasted five years and would have continued much longer if an elf called Eragon hadn't found a dragon egg."
Eragon blinked in surprise.
"Ah," Brom said, slightly amused. "I see you didn't know of your namesake."
"No." Eragon replied as the teakettle whistled. Armelle sensed his confusion from the bond the two Riders had created over the months that she had been in Carvahall.
"Then you should find this all the more interesting," Brom said. He unhooked the teakettle from its place above the fire, pouring the boiling water into two cups before glancing toward the half-elf and speaking out loud, "Would you like some tea, Armelle?"
She stepped out of the shadowed doorway, her hair tucked behind one pointed ear, and nodded. She moved scrolls from another chair and sat beside Eragon as Brom poured boiling water into another cup. He handed one to Eragon, and another to Armelle while warning, "These leaves don't need to steep long, so drink it quickly before it gets too strong."
Armelle tried to sip, but the heat made her tongue burn. She glanced at Eragon, smiling slightly when she saw his had done the same.
"No one knows why the egg was abandoned," Brom continued with his tale. "Some say the parents were killed in an elven attack. Others believe the dragons purposefully left it there. Either way, Eragon saw the value of raising a friendly dragon. He cared for it secretly and, in the custom of the ancient language, named him Bid'Daum. When Bid'Daum had grown to a good size, they traveled together among the dragons and convinced them to live in peace with the elves. Treaties were formed between the two races. To ensure that war would never break out again, they decided it was necessary to establish the Riders.
"At first the Riders were intended merely as a means of communication between the elves and dragons. However, as time passed, their worth was recognized and they were given ever more authority. Eventually they took the island Vroengard for their home and built a city on it—Doru Araeba. Before Galbatorix overthrew them, the Riders held more power than all the kings in Alagaësia. Now I believe I have answered two of your questions."
"Yes," Eragon said, his voice distant. It was a strangely incredible coincidence that he was named after the first Rider, being the second of the new generation. "What does Eragon mean?"
"I don't know," Brom replied. "It's very old. I doubt anyone remembers except the elves, and fortune would have to smile greatly before you talked with one—" he glanced at Armelle "—a full one. It is a good name to have, though; you should be proud of it. Not everyone has one so honorable."
Eragon looked thoughtful for a moment, wiping the thoughts of his namesake from his mind before frowning again. "I don't understand. Where were we when the Riders were created?"
"We?" Brom asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You know, all of us," he glanced at Armelle sheepishly and she knew what he meant. Half of her. He waved his hand in the air in a vague gesture. "Humans in general."
Brom laughed. "We are no more native to this land than the elves. It took our ancestors another three centuries to arrive and join the Riders."
"That can't be," Eragon protested with a frown. "We've always lived in Palancar Valley."
"That might be true for a few generations, but beyond that, no." Brom said gently. "It isn't even true for you, Eragon. Though you consider yourself part of Garrow's family, and rightly so, your sire was not from here. Ask around and you'll find many people who haven't been here that long. This valley is old and hasn't always belonged to us."
Eragon scowled and drank his tea as Armelle sipped at hers. This place was his home, Armelle knew that as well as Brom did, regardless of who his father was. "What happened to the dwarves after the Riders were destroyed?" He asked a moment later.
"No one really knows. They fought with the Riders through the first few battles, but when it became clear Galbatorix was going to win, they sealed all known entrances to their tunnels and disappeared underground." Brom explained. "As far as I know, one hasn't been seen since."
"And the dragons?" Eragon asked. "What of them? Surely they weren't all killed."
Brom's tone became sorrowful. "That is the greatest mystery in Alagaësia nowadays: How many dragons survived Galbatorix's murderous slaughter? He spared only those who agreed to serve him, but only the twisted dragons of the Forsworn would assist his madness. If any dragons aside from Shruikan are still alive, they have hidden themselves so they will never be found by the Empire."
Eragon and Armelle glanced at each other, wondering the same thing. Where did our dragons come from?
"Were the Urgals here when the elves came to Alagaësia?" He asked.
"No, they followed the elves across the sea, like ticks seeking blood. They were one of the reasons the Riders became valued for their battle prowess and ability to keep the peace…. Much can be learned from this history. It's a pity the king makes it such a delicate subject." Brom reflected.
"Yes," Eragon replied. "I heard your story the last time I was in town."
"As did I," Armelle said, looking at Brom. Her father was helping Horst with a few things while Brom was doing things around his home, and he had never told her histories like this. She was intrigued.
"Story!" Brom thundered, his eyes flashing dangerously in the flickering light of the room. Eragon and Armelle both cowered slightly. "If it is a story, then the rumors of my death are true and you are speaking with a ghost! Respect the past; you never know how it may affect you."
After Brom's expression sobered, Eragon asked, "How big were the dragons?"
Smoke swirled over Brom's head like a thundercloud, giving an ominous look. "Larger than a house," he replied. "Even the small ones had wings that spanned over a hundred feet; they never stopped growing. Some of the ancient ones, before the Empire killed them, could have passed for large hills."
Armelle's silver eyes widened in the faint light of the fire. How will I hide Argenta? And she knew Eragon was wondering the same about his dragon.
She sensed his internal rage as he asked his next question in a calm voice. "When did they mature?"
"Well," Brom scratched his chin, glancing to Armelle, who sat with large silver eyes that were shimmering with intrigue in the firelight. "They couldn't breathe fire until they were around five to six months old, which was about when they could mate. The older a dragon was, the longer it could breathe fire. Some of them could keep at it for minutes." He blew a smoke ring to the ceiling.
"I heard their scales shone like gems," Eragon commented.
Brom leaned forward, and his voice sounded in a growl. "You heard right. It was said a group of them looked like a living rainbow, constantly shifting and shimmering. But who told you that?"
Eragon froze for a moment before lying, "A trader."
"What was his name?" Brom asked with a frown. His wild eyebrows met in a thick white v-shape, and the wrinkles deepened on his forehead. Only Armelle, with her keen eyes, noticed his pipe smolder out.
Eragon pretended to think, and Armelle felt his heartbeat pick up through their Rider connection. "I don't know. He was talking in Morn's, but I never found out who he was."
"I wish you had," Brom muttered.
"He also said a Rider could hear his dragon's thoughts." Eragon added quickly, and Armelle could feel his hope toward the fictitious trader hiding him from Brom's suspicions.
The old man narrowed his eyes, taking out the tinderbox slowly and striking the flint. Smoke rose from the pipe as he took a long pull, exhaling slowly. "He was wrong. It isn't in any of the stories and I know them all. Did he say anything else?"
Eragon glanced at Armelle before looking back to Brom. "No." The old man was too interested in this made up trader to continue with false comments. Casually, Eragon asked, "Did dragons live very long?"
Brom's response came slowly. His chin sank into his chest, his fingers tapping his pipe as light reflected off his ring, which held a strange symbol, a symbol Armelle recognized as an elven one. "Sorry," Brom said, "my mind was elsewhere. Yes, a dragon will live for quite a long time, forever, in fact, as long as it isn't killed and its Rider doesn't die."
"How does anyone know that?" Eragon objected with a frown. "If dragons die when their Riders do, they could only live to be sixty or seventy. You said during your… narration that Riders lived for hundreds of years, but that's impossible."
Armelle looked at him with sad silver eyes. He was thinking about outliving his family and friends.
A quiet smile graced Brom's lips in his sly reply. "What is possible is subjective. Some would say you cannot travel through the Spine and live, yet you do. It's a matter of perspective. You must be very wise to know so much at such a young age." Eragon flushed, though Armelle thought reassurances to him, and the old man chuckled. "Don't be angry; you can't be expected to know such things. You forget that dragons are magical—they affected everything around them in strange ways. The Riders were closest to them and experienced this the most. The most common side effect was an extended life. Our king has lived long enough to make that apparent, but most people attribute it to his own magical abilities. There were also other, less noticeable changes. All the Riders were stronger of body, keener of mind, and truer of sight than normal men. Along with this, a human Rider would slowly acquire pointed ears—" Armelle unconsciously touched her own ears, though they weren't as prominent as a full elf's, it was still easy to tell. "—though they were never as prominent as an elf's."
Eragon was touching his rounded ears as she was touching her pointed ones, wondering what else his dragon would change about him. "Were dragons very smart?"
"Didn't you pay attention to what I told you earlier?!" Brom demanded. "How could elves form agreements and peace treaties with dumb brutes? They were as intelligent as you or I."
You have met Argenta, Armelle thought to Eragon. You have spoken with her. You should have known that.
"But they were animals," Eragon persisted aloud, replying in thought with an apology.
Brom snorted. "They were no more animals than we are. For some reason people praise everything the Riders did, yet ignore the dragons, assuming that they were nothing more than exotic means to get from one town to another. They weren't. The Riders' great deeds were only possible because of the dragons. How many men would draw their swords if they knew a giant fire-breathing lizard—one with more natural cunning and wisdom than even a king could hope for—would soon be there to stop the violence? Hmm?" He blew another smoke ring and watched it rise and fade away.
"Did you ever see one?" Eragon asked.
"Nay," Brom replied. "It was long before my time."
Armelle raised a blonde eyebrow at him, disbelieving. If he and her father had fought together as she had been told, he was lying to Eragon, but she wouldn't reveal him, since he didn't reveal her lineage without her permission.
"I've been trying to recall the name of a certain dragon, but it keeps eluding me," Eragon said, and Armelle knew that's how he was searching for a name. "I think I heard it when the traders were in Carvahall, but I'm not sure. Could you help me?"
Brom shrugged and began spouting off names. "There was Jura, Hírador, and Fundor—who fought the giant sea snake. Galzra, Briam, Ohen the Strong, Gretiem, Beroan, Roslarb…." He added many others, whispering the last one so quietly Eragon barely caught it, but Armelle heard his whisper clearly with her elf ears. "…and Saphira." Brom quietly emptied his pipe. "Was it any of those?"
"I'm afraid not," Eragon replied. Brom had explained many things, and as open as Eragon's mind seemed to new information, it would be much to process. It was growing late as it was. "Well, Roran's probably finished with Horst. I should get back, though I'd rather not."
Brom seemed surprised, raising an eyebrow at the boy. "What, is that it? I expected to be answering your questions until he came looking for you. No queries about dragon battle tactics or requests for descriptions of breathtaking aerial combat? Are we done?"
"For now," Eragon said with a laugh. "I learned what I wanted and more." He stood and Brom followed, Armelle turning in her chair to watch them.
"Very well, then." The old man ushered Eragon to the door. "Goodbye. Take care. And don't forget, if you remember who that trader was, tell me."
"I will. Thank you." Eragon said as he stepped into the bright outdoors, which lit the doorway with blinding heavenly light.
Brom turned back around and looked at the sixteen year old girl. "Does he know about Argenta?"
She shook her head, lying.
"Good." Brom said, his tone gruff.
She was looking at him with a gaze of glimmering silver eyes, the gleam projecting a look of mischief. "What?"
"I want to know about dragon battle tactics and breathtaking aerial maneuvers." She replied in a quiet, almost sheepish tone.
Brom chuckled. "Very well, then." He sat back down in his elegant wood chair and began another tale. And her love for his histories began.