Disclaimer: I do not own The Elder Scrolls or The Inheritance Cycle.


Wake up, Eragon. He stirred and groaned.

I need your help. Something is wrong! Eragon tried to ignore the voice and return to sleep.

Arise!

Go away, he grumbled.

Eragon! A bellow rang in the cave. He bolted upright, fumbling for his bow. Saphira and Daemon were crouched over Brom, who had rolled off the ledge and was thrashing on the cave floor. His face was contorted in a grimace; his fists were clenched.

"Get over here!" Daemon shouted at Eragon, who was quick to rush over. "Hold him still before he hursts himself!"

With Murtagh's help, they carefully returned him to the ledge. Eragon touched him on the forehead. The skin was so hot that the heat could be felt an inch away.

"Quick get me a water and cloth!" Eragon said. A hand suddenly gripped Eragon's forearm and Brom's eyes snapped open.

"You!" he gasped. "Bring me the wineskin!"

"Brom?" exclaimed Eragon, pleased to hear him talk. "You shouldn't drink wine; it'll only make you worse."

"Bring it, boy—just bring it..." sighed Brom. His hand slipped off Eragon's shoulder.

"I can't find it!" Daemon said after rummaging through the saddlebags.

"Here, take mine," said Murtagh, holding out a leather skin.

Eragon grabbed it and returned to Brom. "I have the wine," he said, kneeling. Daemon knelt on Brom's other side, Saphira behind him. Murtagh retreated to the cave's mouth so they could have privacy.

Brom's next words were faint and indistinct. "Good..." He moved his arm weakly. "Now... wash my right hand with it."

"What—" Eragon started to ask.

"No questions! I haven't time." Mystified, Eragon unstoppered the wineskin and poured the liquid onto Brom's palm. He rubbed it into the old man's skin, spreading it around the fingers and over the back of the hand. "More," croaked Brom. Eragon splashed wine onto his hand again. He scrubbed vigorously as a brown dye floated off Brom's palm, then stopped, his mouth agape with amazement while Daemon's eyes widened.

There on Brom's palm was the gedwëy ignasia.

"You're a Rider?" Eragon asked in shock.

A painful smile flickered on Brom's face. "Once upon a time that was true... but no more. When I was young . . . younger than you are now, I was chosen... chosen by the Riders to join their ranks. While they trained me, I became friends with another apprentice... Morzan, before he was a Forsworn." Eragon gasped—that had been over a hundred years ago. "But then he betrayed us to Galbatorix... and in the fighting at Dorú Areaba—Vroengard's city—my young dragon was killed. Her name... was Saphira."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Daemon asked, a hand on Brom's shoulder.

Brom laughed. "Because... there was no need to." He stopped. His breathing was labored; his hands were clenched. "I am old, my friends... so old. Though my dragon was killed, my life has been longer than most. You don't know what it is to reach my age, look back, and realize that you don't remember much of it; then to look forward and know that many years still lie ahead of you... After all this time I still grieve for my Saphira... and hate Galbatorix for what he tore from me." His feverish eyes drilled into Eragon as he said fiercely, "Don't let that happen to you. Don't! Guard Saphira with your life, for without her it's hardly worth living."

"You shouldn't talk like this. Nothing's going to happen to her," said Eragon, worried.

Brom turned his head to the side. "Perhaps I am rambling." His gaze passed blindly over Murtagh, then he focused on Eragon. Brom's voice grew stronger. "Eragon! I cannot last much longer. This... this is a grievous wound; it saps my strength. I have not the energy to fight it... Before I go, will you take my blessing?"

"Everything will be all right," said Eragon, tears in his eyes. "You don't have to do this."

"It is the way of things... I must. Will you take my blessing?" Eragon bowed his head and nodded, overcome. Brom placed a trembling hand on his brow. "Then I give it to you. May the coming years bring you great happiness...all of you." He glanced at Daemon and Saphira as well. He then motioned Eragon closer and very softly whispered seven words in the ancient language to him, followed by their meaning. "That is all I can give you, use them only in great need."

His glassy eyes turned to Daemon and gripped his shoulder, pulling him close. Daemon leaned forward as he knew whatever Brom had to say to him was for him and him alone.

"Promise me...you will be good to her...protect her...be what she needs," he breathed. Daemon froze at the implied meaning, but Brom's grip remained firm. "Cherish her...always..." Daemon let a tear fall as he closed his eyes, and whispered back, using the ancient language so that Brom knew he meant it.

"I promise."

His hand fell from the young man's shoulder as Brom blindly turned his eyes to the ceiling. "And now," he murmured, "for the greatest journey of all."

All Eragon, Daemon and Saphira could do was stay with Brom in his final moments. Nobody moved. As the long hours passed, a grey paleness crept over Brom, and his eyes slowly dimmed in color. His hands grew icy; and the air around him stilled.

"Brom?" Eragon called out his name. The old man did not speak. "Brom?" Eragon shook him this time to see if he would reply. Overwhelmed with grief, Eragon cried and trembled. Daemon, with shaking fingers, closed Brom's eyes.

"Aal rok siiv drem ko onlaas. (May he find peace in the afterlife)" Daemon said in the Dovahzul with a shuddering breath, barely keeping his composure. He gripped Eragon's shoulder tightly in support as they mourned. Saphira raised her head behind them and roared mournfully to the sky, keening her lamentation.

"We... we need to bury him." Eragon said, tears streaming down his face.

They all climbed to the top of the hill, and they lay Brom on the stone. Eragon used magic to shape a shallow grave and they placed their friend inside with his sword and staff. The rock then flowed over his motionless face and rose into a tall spire. As a final tribute, Eragon and Daemon set runes into the stone:

HERE LIES BROM
A Dragon Rider and a Good Man
He was like a Father to Us
His Name shall live on in Glory

They then bowed their heads in respect and mourned freely. Saphira rubbed her head solemnly against her two young friends and they hugged her back. They stood like living statues until the light had faded from the land.

That night, Eragon dreamed of the imprisoned woman again.

He could see something was wrong with her – her breathing was irregular and she shook, from the cold or pain he could not tell. The dim light of the cell gave almost nothing away, but he could clearly see her hand hanging over the edge of the cot. A dark liquid dribbled from the fingertips and he knew it was blood...


I figured there should be a chapter about Brom's death instead of putting in a big one.