A/N: Hey everyone, I'm back with a new chapter! Thank you so much for all the reviews so far. I hope you all like this one! :D
When they finally embarked upon their return to the island, it was deep in the heart of winter. Along their way out of Du Weldenvarden, Brom was able to pick up bits and pieces of information concerning the outside world. According to a swordsmith in Osilon, Morzan was holed up in Ilirea—or Uru'baen, as it was referred to now—for nigh on six months, slaughtering the nobles who defied him and grooming the ones who did not. It was apparently a regular occasion to see any number of the Forsworn patrolling the land, burning small farms and villages without cause or recourse, and moving like it was nothing. The people lived in abject terror of one day seeing a dragon's shadow fall across their homes. Brom did not recognize the world that surrounded him now, although it had only been a short time since the Riders' Fall.
As they carefully traversed the northern sector of Alagaësia, it was difficult not to notice the barren fields and charred remains of the villages that used to be there. All along the North Sea and the Anora River, they found mounds of snow grouped together in odd shapes. After brushing away the layers of snow, Brom found blackened beams that once supported homes and businesses. And on more than one occasion, it was not only the charred remains of buildings they found, but of their inhabitants as well.
Their traveling was slow, as Oromis's affliction made them stop frequently to allow him rest. Glaedr did not join them on this surveying trip, naturally, but it would have been far easier if he had. Many years had passed since the last time Brom found himself needing to walk for so long and so far. Saphira had always been there, and he found himself, not for the first time, flitting tears from his eyes at the thought of her.
The wound was still fresh, as if it was only dealt yesterday, though it had been a year and a half now. Part of him felt it was foolish to still mourn for her, but then he realized... He would mourn her the rest of his life. A piece of his soul died right alongside her, and there was nothing in this world that could fill the void she'd left behind.
Brom tried not to speak of her with Oromis and Vrael. He knew they already thought him to be brash and foolhardy; there was no need for them to think him weak on top of all that. While he was certain they would understand his devastation, he was not altogether comfortable discussing it with the two of them. After all, both of their dragons were still alive, in one capacity or another. Could they truly empathize with the emptiness Brom felt inside himself?
The two ancient elves were currently sitting in stoic silence next to the small fire he'd built, warming themselves and steeping in their own thoughts. It set him on edge, the way they could remain silent and staring into the flames for hours on end. Brom wanted fervently to keep moving, not to stop until they'd reached Narda, their final destination before finding a boat to sail to Vroengard. But he was not the leader of this expedition, and Vrael valued caution above all else in this regard.
It took months of campaigning and daily beseeching for Brom to even convince him that now was the time to return. The reports that reached them from outside the forest told that the Forsworn were busy trying to subdue the Southern region, focusing all of their attention on a few holdouts. With winter coming on, they'd be returning to Ilirea to hunker down for the freezing months, more than likely. And the three of them could reasonably move about bundled in their cloaks and scarves to conceal their faces. Eventually, it had taken Oromis's agreement for Vrael to finally yield. He was still the Elder Rider, but in these turbulent times, the old elf had become slightly more democratic.
Brom was glad for it now, as he sat dug into the snow with his knees up to his chin, shivering against the brittle wind blowing down from the north. They were approaching Ceunon, and would reach it within the week; he was anxious to see if the place still stood, or if it had been reduced to little more than ashes like the other villages they'd seen.
Many years ago, when he'd still been green in his training, he and Saphira visited the city, along with Morzan and his dragon. They'd been treated kindly by the people there, and he had enjoyed fishing upon the sea, swooping over the waves as Saphira and Morzan's dragon sank their paws into the water and brought back mountains of fish.
As he bathed in the memory, that strange tingling feeling that accompanied every thought of the Forsworn entered his mind. It was becoming familiar to him now, not being able to remember the dragons' names. He thought of them often, and dreamed of killing them by his own hand. Morzan once felt like a brother, though Brom realized now the sentiment had never been returned. But there were others that he was close with, counting them as true friends. Looking back now, it was easy for Brom to see where the lies were spun and the treachery lurked. One of them—a human woman by the name of Vallah—had even been his bedfellow at one time.
Oddly enough, that betrayal didn't sting as deeply as Morzan's did. He and Oromis had spoken at length about him over the last year and a half, and his former teacher admitted that he'd been worried about Brom and the way Morzan treated him. How he never saw it for himself, Brom couldn't quite say. A part of him always looked up to Morzan, and yearned for his approval. Morzan was strong and handsome and so sure of himself, where Brom was anything but those things. He'd aspired to be like Morzan, in many ways. It all seemed so clear now, looking back on his youth. What a fool he'd been—
"Where is your mind this evening, Brom?" Vrael's somber voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present. As Brom looked around, he saw that the sun was sinking on the horizon, staining the cloudy sky pink and orange. When he'd taken a seat by the fire, it had been afternoon still.
"The evening seems to have snuck up on me," he mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck. "In truth, I've been dwelling in the past."
Vrael hummed softly as he continued to gaze into the orange flames, which reflected in his storm-colored eyes like a glittering jewel. "A dangerous place to dwell," he said. "You must take care not to become mired down, or you will lose sight of the present."
Brom slid his gaze over to the Elder Rider, watching him closely. His shoulders seemed to sag more than they had recently, and there were lines beginning to form on his face. The elf looked almost haggard, where he never had before. Brom could not help thinking Vrael himself spent too much time dwelling in the past as of late.
Oromis shifted atop the blanket Brom laid down for him. It was a paltry barrier against the freezing ground, but he thought it better than nothing. "Though we cannot lose ourselves to the past, we must strive to learn from it," he offered, framing it as a piece of sound advice. Though it was one Brom knew well already; he'd been kicking himself every day for the mistakes he'd made.
"Well, isn't that what we're trying to do now? Going back to the island and finding new Riders?" The questions came out harsher than Brom intended, but that seemed to be happening more nowadays. It frightened him sometimes, to recognize the bitterness in his own heart, yet he found himself struggling to subdue it.
Oromis's gray eyes were on him in an instant, sharp and reprimanding. Brom had to restrain himself from biting his own tongue; he'd forgotten they weren't supposed to speak aloud of what lay in wait for them on Vroengard, lest there be any prying ears hiding nearby. He offered his old teacher a look of apology and bowed his head, staring at the snow beneath his feet. It was turning brown under his boots, and slushy from the heat of his body. They could not stay here much longer.
Brom rose quickly and brushed the snow from his breeches, looking around at the seashore and the tree line behind their small encampment. The two elves did not partake of meat, but he felt his belly protesting at the infrequency of his meals, and the lack of protein. Stooping down to gather up his bow and quiver, Brom looked over at the elves.
"I'm going to find some game," he explained gruffly, ignoring their admonishing looks.
As he turned toward the trees, Brom could not help feeling like he was being carefully appraised. It didn't really matter, so much as it made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. The two elves were odd creatures, foreign in their beliefs and culture, and Brom had always had a distant sort of relationship with each of them, albeit in different ways.
Oromis was his teacher; there was a time in his life when he'd referred to him as "Master", and now to see him so diminished... It was disconcerting, and a difficult pill for him to swallow. As for Vrael, he was the Elder Rider, and a figure Brom had always held a sort of fearful respect for. Now they were all each other had, and he ended up just feeling awkward more often than not. Especially now that they found themselves traveling through the wilderness together. It certainly shed light on things he'd never considered.
Brom trekked through the snow-covered underbrush swiftly and silently, opting to use his bow and conserve the energy he would undoubtedly need when they resumed their journey later that night. A few paces past the tree line, he spotted rabbit tracks in the snow, leading toward a group of large boulders surrounded by low hedges.
Spreading out his mind, he sensed the energy coming out of the warren, estimating there to be at least twenty rabbits within. He crossed to a short ash tree and plucked one of the thinner branches from the slim trunk. Splitting the twig, he was able to make a sort of rope that would serve for his trap. Within twenty minutes, the trap was laid. All he had to do then was wait for one of the creatures to venture out.
A little ways off from the warren was a copse of closely grouped evergreens, and he settled himself down with a vantage of his trap. His bow lay across his lap, poised so he could easily use it if the rabbit happened to go past the trap or escape from it. As he sat there in the ring of trees, he listened to the sounds of the forest, alert for anything that might seem amiss. But the only thing he heard were the few leaves remaining on the trees falling to the ground, and the soft patter of snow piling ever higher.
It was peaceful, in a way; he could almost forget all that had happened to him, and all that he would face in the future. But just as suddenly as his life pivoted that day in Doru Araeba, the trap sprung and his dinner was caught, shattering the illusion that formed around him. Brom decided to kill the creature there, instead of back at the camp; no reason to rile the elves up if he didn't have to. He took his meal back to their encampment and let it cook over the fire, eating in quick silence and then keeping to himself until they were ready to continue on.
The months wore on as they labored ever southward, keeping off the roads and away from the towns they sensed were populated. Yazuac and Daret still stood, and as they skirted around the last reaches of the Ninor River, Brom felt Gil'ead in the distance, teeming with a large grouping of energy. Brom wanted desperately to go into one of the towns, if only to gather a little useful information. The only news he got was from other travelers on the road, where he masqueraded as a cobbler seeking work, traveling with his aging father and uncle... who were conveniently mute. This ruse gained him a few odd looks, but never any outright questions, for which he was thankful.
Winter was rapidly giving way to spring, and as best he could tell, the Forsworn were creeping further to the west, setting their sites on the Spine. But of Morzan, there was never any word. He had not been spotted since the Capture of Ilirea; only his dragon—a monstrous red beast with long fangs and a short temper—had been seen, burning entire villages in one fell swoop. But Brom always kept his ears open and his vengeful desires close to the vest.
By the time they reached Woadark Lake, which ushered them toward Teirm, spring was in full bloom all across Alagaësia. Brom was disappointed with their pace, though he never let it show. It was unfair of him to begrudge Oromis, he knew that, but his anxiousness to return to Vroengard seemed to overwhelm him the closer they got.
The more they traveled, however, the worse Oromis's fits became, and lived in a constant state of pain. Vrael did what he could to lessen the effects of the seizures, but even he was not back to his full strength. They certainly were a raggedy bunch.
Another month of traveling along the coast brought them to Narda, and Brom thought he might cry when he saw the town's haze and the short, protective wall up ahead. Altogether, it took them six months to reach Narda from Ellesméra, and Brom thought he'd lost at least two stone. The journey was arduous, and there'd been little in the way of food, but it was all worth it to feel this relief. Though their journey was not yet over, they were about a thousand miles closer than a few months ago.
Brom's beard had grown long and scraggly during their travels, which he was immensely grateful for now. The people of Narda did not give him a passing glance as he walked the dusty streets. In fact, they seemed not to give one another more than a furtive nod or hurried wave as they went about their business. Brom supposed it was the overarching terror he'd run into in every town they'd happened upon thus far, but it felt eerie all the same. He remembered Narda as it once was, a bustling port city full of light and laughter. Now the faces of her people were gray and drawn, bleak under some crushing oppression.
It did not take Brom long to see that oppression in the flesh, hovering in the sky above the governor's castle where it sat upon a rocky crag, overlooking the city and the sea beyond. Dusty, rose-colored scales sparkled brilliantly as the sea reflected against them, sending shimmering, white ripples over the dragon's underbelly. While he could not recall the name of the dragon herself, Brom would know the man sitting upon her shoulders until his dying day.
Halvir Torricsson was a great bear of a man, hailing from Therinsford in the northern reaches of the Spine. His hair was a brown so dark it was almost black, and he favored a close-cropped beard and mustache. Coarse, dark hair covered his arms and barrel-like chest, and the man stood at least a head taller than everyone around him. Brom knew him well throughout their training as young men; he was a regular sparring partner, and Brom's first choice for revelry at the tavern when the occasion called for it. Though Halvir's temper was mighty when roused, he'd always seemed a tender, protective sort of man. Of all the Riders Brom had ever known, Halvir was the last he would suspect of becoming a Forsworn.
Brom could not say what changed in him—or if the ingredients necessary for his betrayal were there all along—but he felt sadness stronger than anything else as he watched him now. His dragon flapped her wings lazily, swinging her great head from side to side as she surveyed the city. Brom noticed it now, how the people of Narda stole quick glances at her as they hurried on their way. Though her scales were a soft pink color, her talons and eyes were black as pitch, giving her a lifeless appearance. He might not have been able to remember her name, but Brom certainly remembered that Halvir was the more amiable of the two.
You would do well to keep moving, Oromis's voice suddenly rang in his head. If Halvir spots you, he will most assuredly recognize you.
Brom sent him back a general feeling of agreement and then tucked his head into his chest, walking slowly and taking care to hug close to the buildings. The aching of nostalgia filled his chest, and he tried to banish it. Right now, the only thing he needed to concern himself with was finding a boat they could purchase to ferry them across the sea.
As inconspicuously as he could manage, Brom made his way toward the docks. He navigated the city streets off a vague memory of the last time he'd been here, but he did have to ask for directions at one point when he found himself in the city square. A blank-faced shopkeeper steered him in the right direction without a word, and so he hurried on his way, keeping his head down. When he finally came to the docks, Brom was disheartened to see it mostly deserted. A sleek, crabbing vessel was docked at the pier closest to him, but all the other piers were empty.
Brom walked down the pier, cringing at every heavy fall of his boots. Whatever hopes he had of remaining unseen, they were long gone now. A big-bellied fisherman suddenly appeared at the railing of the boat, scanning the pier until his rheumy eyes found him and narrowed on the approaching stranger.
"Oy!" he shouted gruffly. "Who goes there!"
Brom took a deep breath to try and slow the racing of his heart, but it did little to help. He raised a hand in what he hoped was a friendly manner and pushed back the hood of his cloak. "Someone who means ye no harm!" he called back, forcing his voice to adopt the native accent he'd abandoned so long ago. With any luck, this fisherman would believe him to be a traveler from Kuasta and think on it no more. "I'm lookin' fer a boat ta sneak up ta tha Crags. Can ye help me?"
"What're ya goin' to the Crags for?" the man asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. The Crags were a group of rocky islands at the very tip of Alagaësia, known for the bitter cold and deadly waves of the frigid sea. Luckily for Brom, he and Saphira had frequented the place to divulge in one of her favorite snacks. It was a convenient excuse.
He laughed, as if to say he knew the idea sounded crazy. No one ever willingly went to the Crags, not if they didn't have a death wish. "Seal oil, if ye can believe it," he explained, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Tha stuff's worth its weight in gold down south." That part was true enough
"South?" the man questioned incredulously. "You must be stupider than ya look, friend. Haven't ya heard?" Brom shook his head emphatically, trying not to seem overjoyed at this prospect of news. "Those damned Riders, them's that killed all the rest, they been capturin' cities up and down the coast. A trader from Teirm came by not more than a week ago, said they already got Kuasta, Belatona, and Feinster. Dras-Leona's not far behind, accordin' to him. Once Ilirea fell, the rest of 'em was easy."
"Aye... I noticed yer friendly visitor," Brom replied with a jab of his thumb over his shoulder.
The fisherman slid his gaze up into the sky, and a dark look passed over his face as he spat at the deck of his ship. "Scaly demons with wings, more like," he said caustically. "The Dragon Riders was always the peacekeepers of this land... we never thought they'd be the ones bringin' destruction."
A sharp pang ran through Brom's chest as he clamped his mouth into a thin line. He knew all too well the destruction just a few Riders wrought upon their own people. Having been hidden away in Ellesméra, he couldn't imagine what these people had suffered, utterly defenseless against the Forsworn. The defeat was plain to see on their faces, and the way they walked the streets, fearful that each step might be their last.
"I'm aimin' for Aroughs and Eoam," he continued, trying to ingratiate himself with the fisherman. "Any news there?"
The man shook his head and wiped his greasy hands on his trousers. "Not that I've heard," he replied, looking back over his shoulder. He released a heavy breath and looked back at Brom with a friendly-enough smile. "Well, if yar damned fool enough to sail up there before Summer sets in... who'm I to stop ya. There's an old fishing yawl in the boathouse, over yonder—" he waved his hand to Brom's left "—yar welcome to 'er for a hundred crowns."
Brom bristled at the price, but made no argument; they were certainly in no position to bargain, and he could feel Oromis and Vrael urging him to hurry up and make the deal. So, with only a moment's reluctance, Brom agreed and counted out the necessary coins to give the fisherman. The man thanked him, wishing him good fortune before returning to whatever duties required his attention. Brom quickly replaced his hood before trekking the pier to the boathouse to find the small vessel.
It was certainly large enough to hold the three of them comfortably, but Brom could not be certain if there was enough room for the supplies they would need as well. She was a two-masted rig, with a smaller mizzenmast on the aft, so far back that the mizzen boom hung out over the stern. All in all, Brom thought she was a fine looking ship, and one he could captain easily enough. From Narda, he estimated the sea journey would take them about a week. They would land on the shores of the Bay of Anurin—the easternmost bay on the island—and make their way to the capital from there.
But until night fell, they would remain in Narda, waiting for the opportune moment. Brom could only pray to the gods of his youth that Halvir and his dragon would not spot them. For if they did, the fate of the Riders was certainly doomed.
That's all for now, let me know what you guys think!
(Quick note: due to the severe lack of information we have on the Forsworn from canon material, there's gonna be a lot I'm having to make up. If you don't like something I do, feel free to let me know and I'll be happy to discuss my decision making process with you. :D)
