(A/N: I posted about this on Tumblr a while ago but had to hold off on writing it due to my class load. It's rough, and could probably use a few more scroll throughs and rewriting sections, but I'm just happy to have something to post right now.
This occurs about two days after Eragon is released from the Varden hospital post-Farthen Dur. Everyone is just kind of recovering. Brom fills his role as everyone's dad. The usual.)
The sound of a dragon sleeping was surprisingly quiet.
Brom knelt down beside Eragon's cot, easing his knees to the floor in the darkness. Behind him, the tip of her tail laid protectively over her sleeping Rider's shins, Saphira's eyelids flickered with her dreams. The steady sound of her breathing was soothing, a natural lullaby that only Riders knew.
Gently, carefully, the older Rider reached out a hand and stroked his son's hair back from his forehead. When the boy didn't stir, Brom continued, feeling a familiar ache well up in his chest.
The day had been hard. Not even out of Tronjhiem's hospital 48 hours, feeling refreshed and eager to help however he could, Eragon had been suddenly struck down not once, but twice by seizures. The pain that Brom had seen on the boy's face had been extreme to say the least, and once again he found himself unable to help his son. Stuck, like all those times before, on the outside looking in as others cared for his boy.
This time, though. This time would be different. He was here now, and even if Eragon was unaware, Brom would always be his father. He would always look out for him. He promised Selena he would, and damn it, he would keep that promise.
He ran thumb over the boy's brow. Eragon was too old to be tucked in and given a forehead kiss goodnight. Brom hadn't been there for that time of his life, but tonight...this would have to do. For all the time he had missed.
Brom remained beside his son's bed until his knees began to ache and stiffness crept into his joints. With one last check to ensure Eragon was still sleeping soundly and one more soft ruffle of his dark hair, the elder Rider pushed himself up.
Walking through the deep tingles of his numb feet, Brom gave Saphira's snout a tired pat goodnight. He squeezed past her to slip through the warehouse's door into the Elven embassy's common room.
Despite his best efforts, the door's latch let out a faint click as it slid closed. He winced, immediately knowing that the common room's occupant would hear the noise and–
"Wus'wrng?"
Brom sighed, but could not stop the somewhat helpless grin that tilted his lips as he turned to the couch.
Arya was sat bolt upright, blanket fallen to the floor from where she had thrown it off. She blinked blearily, awake but not fully conscious, and sniffed the air as Brom approached in an instinctive attempt to confirm his identity.
The elf was not exactly recovered from her recent stunt with the Star Sapphire and her attempt to heal Eragon directly afterwards. Even though she insisted on carrying out her duties as bodyguard to Eragon and Saphira in the days following the boy's awakening, on more than one occasion Brom found himself throwing an arm around her shoulders. The move was always passed off as a gesture of support and friendship in the hectic days after the battle, but in reality it was Brom realizing at the last second that the woman had literally passed out on her feet and needed something to lean on physically.
Vilks, the doctor that usually treated Arya in Glenwing's absence, had simply said that her body was just now getting a moment to process the trauma and exertion of the past few months. She needed sleep, and lots of it, to recover.
In her state, it wasn't difficult for the elf to fall asleep. It was more difficult to get her to stay that way when she was constantly worried about Eragon and Saphira.
"Everything's fine." Brom soothed, hands out in a gesture of peace. "Go back to sleep."
Arya rubbed at her eyes. "Eragon n' Saphira?" Her words were slurred, but gradually taking on clearer form. Brom knew he would have to work quickly or else she'd be up all night again, exhausted yet pacing endless loops of the embassy compound as repentance for being unable to protect her charge. At least until she found a suitably soft patch of ground and passed out.
"They're fine. I just checked on them." Brom knelt down again, this time beside the couch. "You should sleep in your room, you know. Vilks wants you sleeping in an actual bed."
The elf groggily waved him off. "Wanna be…" She yawned. "Wanna be close. 'Case they need somethin'." She gestured toward the warehouse door Brom had entered through, off balance and struggling to appear alert.
The Rider again let that helpless grin grace his bearded face. He had learned decades ago that when the elf set herself a mission it was impossible to turn her away completely. "Alright, fine. But lay back down. You need to sleep, kid." He gave her shoulder a gentle push.
Arya nodded, eyes already closed as she put her head down and curled around one of the couch pillows. Seconds later saw her breathing even out again, and with a tired, somewhat amused shake of his head Brom retrieved the fallen blanket and gently draped it over his former student. The elf squirmed slightly, curving her back more tightly against the backrest of the couch, and Brom tugged the blanket more snugly around her shoulders. Maybe there wasn't an age limit on being tucked in after all.
Padding down the hall, quite ready to return to his own bed, Brom stopped when he saw the golden light streaming from under another door not far from his. A shadow moved through the beam before disappearing, signaling a rather awake occupant.
Brom knocked softly and cracked the door. Just as he suspected, Murtagh was lounging on his still-made bed, a pile of books at his hip and one open in his hands. He looked up, startled at Brom's sudden entrance.
Murtagh opened his mouth, about to snap an honestly fair retort at the Rider for entering his room without permission, but Brom beat him to it.
"Past three. Go to sleep." Brom chided, before his eye caught on the book the young man was holding. A jolt of recognition followed by a hollow pang of loss stuttered his heart as he realized Murtagh was reading what had been his mother's favorite. "Poetry can wait."
Murtagh's face flushed red, seeming embarrassed that Brom caught him reading romantic poetry of all things. "Oi, you aren't my bloody parent!" He stuttered, snapping the book shut. "And I don't remember saying you could come in!"
Brom's lip twitched. A few years earlier and I might well have been your father. He bit his tongue though, and instead growled lowly, "First off, whelp, keep your voice down. Everyone else is trying to sleep."
Murtagh's blush deepened as he realized his mistake, but the expression of affronted teen, defiant and offended in his embarrassment, did not leave his face.
"And second, I'm damn well not your bastard of a father. Which is why I'm taking the time to do what he didn't and picking up where that Tornac fellow left off raising your sorry ass." Brom jabbed a finger at the watch on his wrist. "It's three in the fucking morning. Turn off the light. Go to sleep. Now."
The two stared each other down for a long stretch, the silence tense. Brom would never admit it, but he had begun to feel a certain protectiveness for Selena's other son. Murtagh, likewise, had been more open to the elder Rider and his gruff gestures of acceptance.
It bled through into their interactions in a myriad of ways, but most often it came out as Murtagh testing the limits of Brom's boundaries, like a child testing their independence with small rebellions as they grew.
Murtagh, Brom was learning, required special handling when these little rebellions cropped up. Unlike Arya, who responded best to a listening ear and the occasional sparring match to push lessons through with a more physical touch, or Eragon, who was best placated and taught with hours of answered questions and meandering hypotheticals, or even Saphira, the easiest of the lot through her ancestral knowledge and better understanding of emotions rather than explanations via mental links, Murtagh needed...leeway. Space. Options. The boy had spent tumultuous chunks of his life taught only by pain, shouting, and threats that they were now ingrained as immediately hostile in his mind. He needed guidance, yes, but not steel hard and sharp.
Brom sighed and leaned against the doorjamb, making a point to not fully cross the threshold into Murtagh's room. "Look, I just need you in fighting form. I've already got one exhausted elf falling asleep everywhere, I don't need to add you to the list of couch sleepers." He picked at a loose chip of paint he felt at the edge of his fingers. "...Besides Saphira, you're the only one I can really count on right now to keep Eragon safe. And you know more about seizure first aid than the rest of us. So just…" Brom ran a hand over his face, feeling drained. Was this what it was like to raise kids? How had Garrow and Mirian done something like this every night? "Go to sleep. Please. I've got enough on my plate."
Most of the angry red had drained from Murtagh's face by the time Brom had finished. The young man dropped his gaze, running his fingers over the poetry book's embossed cover. "...Fine. But don't say I never listen to you." Murtagh muttered. He started to stack the books from his bed onto the floor carefully, treating each with an unexpected reverence.
"Fine. Good night." Brom paused, then nodded to the poetry book now perched on the bedside table. "Ediar. That's a good collection. Try page ninety three, Lament of the Soldier's Shadow, in the morning."
Murtagh jerked his head up, utterly bewildered at the mention of his mother's favorite poem, but the door had already clicked closed.
Brom finally sank into his bed, feeling the heavy ache of delayed rest slowly seep from his bones. He clicked the light off and settled back, his thoughts wandering.
He wondered what Selena would think of him now. An old man doing his best to corral a fledgling dragon, his son by blood, and….
Brom suddenly sat up in the dark, amused and confused all at once.
When the hell did he end up becoming a dad to all these damn kids?