CHAPTER TWO

The storyteller

I followed Brom as he hobbled with deliberate slowness toward his house, his cane clicking against the uneven dirt road. He didn't speak, and neither did I, the silence between us heavy with unspoken questions. His house sat at the edge of Carvahall, a weathered structure slightly removed from the bustle of the village. It was modest, cloaked in an air of quiet isolation. As we entered, he shut the door firmly behind us, muttering something in the ancient language under his breath. I recognized it as a protective spell, though I didn't yet understand its nuances.

Brom turned to face me, his piercing eyes boring into mine. "So," he began, his voice sharp and demanding, "who are you? How do you know my name? And how, by every god that exists, do you know how to speak the ancient language?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but he held up a calloused hand to silence me. "No. Before you answer, swear in the ancient language that you will tell me the truth."

I froze, his demand catching me off guard. He stared at me, his expression unwavering, clearly accustomed to getting his way. "Well?" he prompted, his tone impatient. "Speak."

"I… I can't," I admitted. "My knowledge of the ancient language is limited. What I said to you earlier is nearly the full extent of what I know."

His eyebrows shot up; skepticism etched across his face. "Limited, you say? And yet you've managed to utter phrases most couldn't dream of. How convenient." His tone was mocking, but I could see the gears turning in his mind. He paused, then narrowed his eyes. "Fine. Repeat after me."

He recited an oath in the ancient language, slow and deliberate, ensuring I could follow. The words burned on my tongue as I repeated them, binding me to honesty. The weight of the oath settled over me, an invisible force pressing down on my chest.

"Now," Brom said, his voice quiet but firm, "talk."

And so, I did. The truth spilled from my lips, unbidden and raw. I told him everything—the abusive home I'd come from, the storm that swept me into this world, and even revealed my desperate attempt to forge a new life here, one unburdened by the pain of my old one. For some reason, his oath did not force me to reveal the reason for my inexplicable knowledge of his name and the ancient language.

Brom listened in silence, his expression unreadable. When I finished, the room felt unnaturally still. He stroked his beard, his eyes distant as he processed my words. Minutes passed, but I didn't dare interrupt his thoughts.

Finally, he spoke. "I believe you," he said, his voice softer now, though his sharp edge remained. "Your story is… unusual, to say the least. But your sincerity is unmistakable. Now, tell me—what are your intentions in this world?"

I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "I intend to live my life, to learn everything I can and grow stronger. And if anyone threatens my peace or the people I care about, I won't hesitate to fight them."

His lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "A bold declaration," he said. "Ambitious, even. But words mean little without action. Since you know the ancient language, am I right to assume you also know how to use magic?"

"I do," I replied.

"Then show me," he said, stepping back and gesturing toward the open space in the room. His eyes gleamed with curiosity and challenge, his cane forgotten as he stood tall, exuding the quiet strength of a man who had seen more battles than he cared to count.

I nodded, taking a steadying breath. This was my moment to prove myself to him—and perhaps, to myself.

Brom tilted his head slightly, his sharp gaze boring into mine. "Do you know any words of power, or will you need me to guide you?"

I straightened my posture, meeting his eyes with steady determination. "I'm good," I replied. "I know a few."

"Show me," he said, stepping back and folding his arms, clearly eager to judge what I could do.

I turned toward the fireplace, my heart pounding with both excitement and trepidation. Slowly, I raised my hand, palm outstretched toward the unlit hearth. I drew a deep breath to focus and spoke the word that had burned itself into my memory: "Brisingr."

A torrent of flame erupted from my palm—red and blue, wild and untamed. The fire roared to life with terrifying intensity, its heat licking at the air and bathing the room in a harsh, flickering glow. It was far more powerful than I had intended, more akin to an explosion than a simple conjuration. Panic surged through me as I clenched my jaw and cut off the magic in my mind, forcing the flames to vanish as abruptly as they had appeared.

The room fell silent, save for the faint crackling of lingering heat. I exhaled shakily, my palm trembling slightly. Brom whistled low, his expression a mix of awe and calculation.

"Your magic is strong," he said, his voice tinged with both admiration and caution. "Stronger than I expected. And you… you don't even look tired."

I glanced down at myself, realizing he was right. My body felt completely unaffected by the exertion, as though casting such an overwhelming spell had cost me nearly nothing. "That's… surprising," I admitted, still processing what had just happened.

Brom nodded thoughtfully, stroking his beard. "Interesting indeed. This unknown deity—or force, whatever it may be—that brought you here must have imbued you with extraordinary gifts. What else can you do?"

I hesitated, then decided to tell him about my enhanced speed and strength. "I've noticed I'm much faster and stronger than I was before," I said. "Faster than a human. Definitely stronger too."

Brom leaned against his cane, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. "That tracks," he said. "What you just displayed was the magical prowess equal to that of a fully grown elf, if not greater. Enhanced speed and strength often go hand-in-hand with such power."

His words hung in the air, filling me with equal parts excitement and apprehension. The realization of my potential stirred something within me—a quiet, simmering ambition. If I trained, if I truly honed my magic and skills, I could become more powerful than anything this world had ever seen. The thought wasn't arrogant; it was a simple, intoxicating truth.

Plans began forming in my mind, one after the other. I would need resources, connections, and money. Living with Horst and Elain had given me a sense of security I hadn't felt in years, and I was determined to repay their kindness. I would make them rich—filthy rich. My knowledge from Earth, combined with my magic, could revolutionize their lives. Memories of countless hours spent on the internet and in libraries flooded back to me. There were so many things I could recreate here: tools, techniques, ideas that would be groundbreaking in this world. I grinned inwardly, imagining the possibilities. If Tony Stark could build an advanced suit of armor in a cave with scraps, I could certainly do something similar here, with magic and ingenuity.

Brom's voice broke through my thoughts. "Do you know what's happening in Alagaësia? The current state of things?"

I shook my head, feigning ignorance. "Not much," I said. "Only bits and pieces."

For the next hour, Brom took me through the history of the continent, his voice a steady, authoritative cadence. He began with the arrival of the various races, recounting the dragon wars, the rise and fall of the Dragon Riders, and the devastating conflicts that shaped the land. He spoke of Galbatorix's betrayal and rise to power, the oppression of the Empire, and the ongoing struggle of the Varden.

I listened intently, nodding at the appropriate moments and asking a few pointed questions to sell the illusion that this was all new to me. Internally, though, I couldn't help but marvel at hearing the familiar tales from his perspective. Brom's delivery was captivating, laced with the weight of someone who had lived through much of what he described.

When he finished, he leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes fixed on me once more. "There's much you need to learn," he said. "But you've got potential. More than most. If you're serious about becoming stronger, you'll need discipline, training, and knowledge. Are you prepared for that?"

I met his gaze, my voice steady as I replied, "I am."

I leaned back against the chair, my arms crossed as I stared at Brom. "So, the king is a psychopathic killer who orchestrated the extinction of an entire race," I said, my tone even but laced with sharp disapproval.

Brom shook his head grimly, his expression darkening. "And he's fighting the Varden and the elves, who wish to dethrone him and make him pay for his countless crimes," I continued, watching his reaction closely.

He nodded, his jaw tightening. I pressed on, my voice quieter but deliberate. "And where do you fit in?"

Brom's eyes flicked up to meet mine, and his face hardened into a practiced mask of indifference. "I'm just an old storyteller," he said flatly.

I smirked, unconvinced. "Oh, really?"

Without warning, I shot my hand out and grabbed his wrist, my strength catching him off guard. Brom tensed, but I didn't give him a chance to resist. With precision, I reached for the cloth and a small bottle of alcohol on the nearby table. In one swift motion, I cleaned his palm, rubbing away the dirt and grime. Brom struggled briefly, but my grip was unyielding. Before he could even think of attacking me, I finished my task and held up his now-clean hand, exposing the mark etched into his flesh.

I tilted my head and raised an eyebrow. "Isn't this the sign of the Riders you mentioned during your history lesson earlier,Elda?" I asked, my voice dripping with challenge. "Care to reiterate your story about being just an old storyteller?"

Brom's eyes widened, his composure slipping for the first time. "How did you know?" he demanded, his voice low and sharp.

I chuckled softly, releasing his hand. "Lucky guess," I said lightly, though the gleam in my eyes told him otherwise. He didn't look convinced, his gaze narrowing as if trying to pierce through my facade.

He let out a long sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. Reaching for his pipe, he lit it with a trembling hand and took a deep drag, the smoke curling around his face. "Fine," he muttered, his voice heavy with resignation. "I was a Rider… once. A long time ago."

I leaned forward, genuinely intrigued now. This part I hadn't fully known—Brom's personal story, the details that had been skimmed over in the books. I said nothing, letting him continue at his own pace.

"My dragon, Saphira," he began, his voice tight with suppressed pain, "was killed by one of the Forsworn. Morzan." He paused, his eyes distant, lost in a memory that clearly haunted him. "But I got my revenge. Years later, I killed Morzan… and his dragon." He told his story, from the beginning, when he was an apprentice under his teacher, together with Morzan, to the time he had killed him, and faked his death.

The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, and I found myself leaning back, processing the raw emotion in his tone. Brom, the man who seemed so gruff and distant, carried scars deeper than I could have imagined.

"That's… a lot," I finally said, my voice softer now, laced with genuine respect.

Brom nodded, not meeting my eyes as he took another puff of his pipe.

After a moment of silence, I leaned forward again, my tone practical. "If the King were to find out about you—about who you really are—he'd send men after you. And not just any men; he'd send the best he has. You know that."

Brom's eyes flicked up to meet mine, cautious but curious. "What's your point?" he asked, his voice guarded.

I smiled faintly. "My point is, you'd do better with someone at your side. Someone strong enough to deal with most of the threats that come your way."

He arched an eyebrow, skepticism clear in his expression. "You?" he asked, his tone flat.

I nodded confidently. Brom studied me for a long moment, his piercing gaze searching for any sign of hesitation or insincerity. Finally, he exhaled and leaned back, stroking his beard thoughtfully. "It does make sense," he admitted grudgingly. "With your potential, you could become a serious thorn in the King's side."

A small spark of triumph lit within me, but I kept my expression composed. Brom continued to stroke his beard, his pipe clutched loosely in his other hand as he thought.

"So," I said, breaking the silence, "you'll train me? In magic and sword fighting?"

Brom raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Who said I'm a sword fighter?" he asked, his tone carrying a hint of amusement.

I shrugged, my grin widening. "I assumed you were, given that you were a Rider."

He grumbled under his breath but didn't deny it. Finally, he let out a reluctant sigh. "Yes," he said, his tone resigned. "I'll train you. Be here every day after your chores are done. There's a lot I'll teach you—not just fighting, but the cultures of this land, the politics, the races, and many other things."

I couldn't help myself—I fist-pumped the air in celebration, a wide grin spreading across my face. Brom raised an eyebrow, giving me a look that was half-amused, half-exasperated. "You're an odd one," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Thanks," I replied cheerfully, unbothered by the comment.

After a bit more discussion about logistics, I stood and bid him farewell. "I'll see you tomorrow," I said, my excitement barely contained.

As I left the house, the cool night air hit my face, and I couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. Things were finally starting to fall into place.

The days blurred together in a steady rhythm as I adjusted to my new life in Carvahall. Mornings were spent at the forge, where the heat of the fire and the clang of metal became a familiar backdrop. I worked alongside Horst and his sons, Albriech and Baldor, tackling orders that ranged from horseshoes to farming tools. Despite my growing skill, it was clear I was still leagues away from the mastery Horst and his boys displayed. Yet, I didn't mind—it felt good to work, to belong, to contribute.

Afternoons were dedicated to Brom's rigorous lessons. On the first day, he sat me down and barraged me with questions, trying to gauge what I already knew. When he was done, he decided to start from scratch, teaching me the ancient language. Every word was precise, every phrase laden with power. He drilled me on pronunciation, on writing, and on the subtleties of the language. The lessons didn't stop there; Brom also immersed me in elven culture, their customs, and their beliefs. He taught me the nuances of greeting other elves, depending on their station, and shared stories that painted vivid pictures of a world I had yet to see.

"You're learning quickly," Brom said one day, stroking his beard as he observed me write out an intricate elven phrase. "Almost unnaturally so. You absorb knowledge like a sponge."

I took the compliment with a small smile, though inwardly I wondered if the same mysterious force that had brought me to Alagaësia was responsible for my rapid progress.

One night, as I sat down to dinner with Horst's family, Elain turned to me with a kind, curious smile. "How have you been doing lately?" she asked, her voice gentle.

I set down my fork and considered the question. "I'm doing fine," I said honestly. "I think I'm starting to like Carvahall. It's… starting to feel like home."

Elain's smile deepened. "That's good to hear."

But Horst leaned forward, his brow furrowing. "Lad," he began carefully, "what really happened to you? When you first arrived here, you acted like a wounded animal, skittish and closed off."

Elain shot him a sharp look, her concern evident in the way her lips pressed into a thin line. "Horst," she warned softly, worry flickering in her eyes.

"I'm just asking," he said, holding up his hands in defense. "No harm in knowing the truth."

Baldor and Albriech exchanged glances, their curiosity evident, though they remained silent.

Had he asked me that in my first week here, I might have withdrawn, my walls slamming back into place. But now, after weeks of hard work, warmth, and kindness, I felt ready to share a part of myself I had buried deep, but I would not tell them the actual story. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

"I don't remember everything," I began, my voice measured, bending the truth. "Just fragments. Memories of my parents… well, my mother and her new husband."

Horst tilted his head slightly, listening intently, while Elain's expression softened further, her hand twitching as though she wanted to reach out but restrained herself.

"My father was a soldier," I continued. "He died in the war when I was young. My mother remarried when I was five. The man she chose…" My voice faltered, but I pressed on. "He hated me. I don't know why. Maybe I reminded him of my father. But he took his frustrations out on me."

Elain gasped softly, her hand flying to her mouth, but I wasn't done. "The worst part was my mother. She didn't protect me. She protected him. Every time he hit me, every time he screamed at me, she made excuses. Said I was the problem."

I forced myself to look up at them, at the horror etched into Elain's face, at the simmering anger in Horst's eyes. "I tried to get help. I went to my relatives, but my mother told them I was lying, that I was the problem. They stopped listening to me. I was alone. Completely alone."

Elain's tears began to fall, silent and steady, her face pale with shock.

"I tried everything to make him like me," I said, my voice shaking now. "To be the perfect son. The model child. But it only made things worse. The beatings got worse. The words cut deeper. Until… I couldn't take it anymore. So, I ran away."

The room was silent, the weight of my words hanging heavily in the air. "I don't remember how I got to the Spine," I admitted. "But I'm glad I'm away from that place."

When I finished, Baldor and Albriech stared at their plates, their expressions somber. Horst leaned back in his chair; his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "No child should have to go through that," he said quietly, his voice trembling with restrained anger.

Elain wiped her tears, her voice trembling as she spoke. "For a mother to do that to her own son… it's unspeakable." She stood abruptly and came to my side, wrapping her arms around me in a fierce hug. "For what it's worth," she whispered, "we're glad you ended up here."

I blinked back tears of my own. "I hope I haven't been a burden," I said softly.

Horst let out a low chuckle, breaking the tension. "A burden? Hell, lad, you've been a great help these past weeks. It's been good having another pair of hands around."

"And your company," Elain added warmly. Baldor and Albriech both nodded in agreement.

Horst leaned forward, his eyes meeting mine. "You know lad, if you want to stay, for as long as you want, feel free. We already consider you part of the family. That room? It's yours."

My breath hitched, the disbelief, hopefulness, and gratitude washing over me in waves. "Really?" I asked, my voice breaking.

Horst nodded firmly, and Elain smiled. "Yes. Really."

I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. They fell freely as Elain pulled me into another hug, her hand rubbing comforting circles on my back. "It's okay now," she whispered. "You're safe. Everything's going to be fine."

I sobbed into her shoulder, overwhelmed by their kindness. These people, who had known me for such a short time, had opened their hearts and their home to me in a way my own mother never had. It was more than I had ever dared to hope for.