A/N: How Brom became a dragon rider.

Chapter 1

The Son of the Fisherman

Some might say he had imbibed the salt of the sea along with his mother's milk. For hours, he would sit in silence on the shore, allowing the sea spray to dampen his face, his gaze lost in the endless blue stretching toward the horizon. As the day progressed, the shifting hues of the sea mesmerized the young boy, drawing his heart toward the deep, unseen depths.

His eyes drifted to where the blue deepened beneath the jagged cliffs, where reefs and fractured rocks jutted from the water, keeping fishing boats at bay. At times, his mind carried him beyond the towering rock formations that framed Kuasta's bay, toward the narrowing waters that led to the vast, open sea.

Then, he envisioned a great ship—one of those that occasionally docked at the city's harbor before embarking on its final voyage to Teirm. A grand vessel gliding over the dark blue, where the boundary between sky and sea dissolved into a single, endless expanse.

And the ship, he thought, was his. Yet, curiously, instead of gliding across the water, his vessel hovered somewhere between the azure sky and the wine-dark sea.

He was his father's most trusted helper—despite not being one of the eldest children. Born after a brother and two sisters, the fourth of seven siblings, he had displayed an early inclination for the arduous life of a fisherman.

He was the only small child among the throng that surged toward the docks when the boats returned with their catch, the only one who never recoiled from the mighty waves crashing against the rocky shore. Nor did he ever falter in the face of the sea's sudden tempests, even when the squall darkened the sky and the wind whipped the waves into a frenzy.

Even then, the boy would cling to the boat's ropes, pressing his small body against the hull, waiting patiently for the sea's wild spirits to settle once more.

Neither the relentless labor beneath the scorching sun troubled him, nor did he complain about the heavy unloading of the day's catch or the long hours spent mending torn nets. He was the first and the best at fraying and twisting ropes, at tarring and caulking, as his small fingers worked the material into the wooden seams of his father's old boat.

And the nets—he had already mastered the art of casting them wide, proving himself the most skilled among them. And as for swimming? He was first in everything.

"When this one grows up, he'll be a great fisherman—the finest in the world," the father murmured proudly when no one was around to hear. And then, as was custom, he spat three times in the boy's direction to ward off the evil eye.

At night, sipping his raki among sailors and fishermen in the tavern, he would nod in silence at the praise of his son's skill and eagerness. "We shall see… we shall see," he muttered, feigning weariness. "The sea's path is hard—oh, so hard… who doesn't know that?" Still, deep down, he smiled in secret at the words of admiration, all the while planning to have the boy's mother shield him from any ill fortune during the night.

There was no consistency in their attitudes; those who, in one moment, extolled him would—within the next breath—speak ill of his little one without hesitation. The father loved him dearly—more than he ever let on. He tried not to favor this child over the others, yet, in truth, he never succeeded. The sea's spirits had carved out a harsh life for him, but they had granted him the finest companion to endure it. And the fisherman had already made his decision: the boy might not be his firstborn, but one day, he would inherit the boat—his one and only possession.

That was how the fisherman had planned everything—his child's future was already set. Yet fate, a force in which the inhabitants of that isolated fishing village placed unwavering faith, had other plans for the boy.

Only weeks before his tenth birthday, the dragon riders arrived in town.

.*.

The decree was proclaimed in the marketplace, then affixed to wooden signboards along the main streets and at the town's entrances and exits. Town criers carried the news in forceful, resonant voices, ensuring it reached the most distant farms and the loneliest shacks. And the decree applied to all.

"The following day is declared a holiday. Without exception, all children residing in Kuasta and its surroundings must gather in the marketplace early in the morning."

Of course, no town crier was needed for word to spread—reaching even the most distant fishing village.

Throughout the day, all had watched as dragons soared high, tracing graceful arcs over the sea and around the town. Their brilliant scales caught the sunlight, dazzling onlookers, while their piercing cries shattered the sky.

Everywhere, people spoke of the same subject—it was the sole topic of conversation that day. Not a single mouth failed to utter, at least ten times, the words dragon, rider, and egg. The men left their work unfinished, the women set aside their household chores, and the children scurried through the streets, shouting with excitement, stirred by the unexpected summons. Everyone was preparing for the day ahead.

By dusk, garments had been washed and pressed, ready to be worn at sunrise. Hair was rinsed, necks carefully groomed, and nails trimmed. Fathers watched in silent awe as their children prepared, while mothers' hearts beat with restless anticipation. No one remembered the last time the dragon riders had come, and no one knew whether to welcome such a blessing—or fear the honor that might come with it. Yet the dragons had already bestowed their egg, and by dawn, one of their own might well be leaving forever.

"Let's see!" The fisherman roughly tousled the curly head of his eldest daughter as she adjusted her new ribbons. Men—and even women—were not in the habit of doting on their children; but on this occasion, he allowed himself a rare indulgence. "Let's see if the dragon chooses you, all decked up as you are!"

"More likely she'll be eaten," teased the eldest son, smirking at his sister. "She's gotten so sweet these days."

The little ones burst into laughter, but their mother's expression darkened.

"If you ask me, these things aren't meant for girls," she said, her tone firm. "We should be preparing her for betrothal—not dragons."

The fourteen-year-old girl blushed in silence but kept weaving the ribbon into her chestnut-blonde plaits, as if not a word had been spoken about her.

The fisherman stepped onto the threshold of his cottage, gazing at the sea as it darkened steadily before him. With a soft sigh, he rested his hand against the door frame. Only now did he realize—his children were growing up. One by one, they would begin to leave him. The girls first. His wife had only just hinted at as much.

He tried to picture it—tomorrow, the dragon choosing one of his own children—but the thought refused to take shape. Come now! Out of so many, would it truly pick one of his? Still, if it were to take one of the girls—no matter what his wife might say—he wouldn't complain. One less dowry to prepare, one less expense to bear. Or perhaps even his eldest…

"A strong boy, no doubt," he thought. "And for a family, it is a great honor." But then again—to have your own blood taken from you like that?

The fisherman shrugged, brushing aside the unwelcome thoughts. His heart's desires had always been simpler, more rooted in the everyday. Now, with the wind stilled, the sea lay calm, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. He would have loved to take his worthy little one out tonight, to venture into the open bay and cast their nets. By morning, they'd return with a catch—what a catch! The boat would be overflowing.

But his wife, already in a heavy mood, would grumble if he let the boy get dirty. She wouldn't approve of a late-night outing, either. All the children had to rise at dawn to present themselves in town.

The fisherman stepped into his cottage, closing the door behind him. The catch could wait. And then, morning came.

.*.*.

The following day, a long wooden table was set at the heart of the town's marketplace. At its center, the dragon's egg rested in full view. Beside it stood the dragon rider, entrusted with its safekeeping, and just behind him, his magnificent dragon. The others, who had accompanied him thus far, had evidently departed under cover of night.

The adult residents of Kuasta crowded together, each vying for the best view while urging the hesitant children to step closer. Most had already gathered around the table, their voices hushed, their gazes fixed on the egg.

When the fisherman's family arrived in town, a long line of boys and girls had already formed, their wide eyes locked on the motionless dragon egg, its surface gleaming beneath the sunlight. One by one, the children stepped forward, circling the table slowly. If the unhatched dragon stirred at their presence, they were to remain close and lay a hand upon the shell. The task seemed simple enough—were it not for the awe the dragon rider commanded and the quiet dread the dragon itself inspired.

It wasn't simply that the beast—so it seemed to their eyes—was enormous and impossibly muscular. Nor that it surveyed them all with eyes as vast and luminous as twin beacons. No, it was that it truly looked ablaze, its brilliant color flickering like living fire. Even those who had seen dragons soaring over their skies, even those who had journeyed to distant lands and encountered many more, had never witnessed such a sight in their lifetime—let alone their children.

Golden scales cloaked the hunter's body, and with every subtle movement, it appeared as though flames ignited from within. Small clouds of smoke curled from its nostrils as it snorted, its golden eyes blinking—assessing, assured, and wholly self-satisfied.

Its rider was not even human. The tips of his pointed ears peeked from beneath long silver hair, cascading loosely over his shoulders. Clad in white, his gold-embroidered vest and matching belt shimmered under the light. At his waist hung a long golden-bronze sword, its hilt adorned with a yellow diamond. Taller than most elves and bearing an unmistakable air of royalty, he observed the children with his gray, slanted eyes—patient, knowing, waiting.

The morning hours in Kuasta's marketplace crawled by under the relentless sun. By nearly noon, only half the children had been examined. Most had stepped forward, lingering before the egg, yet it remained indifferent to them. On rare occasions, it had tilted ever so slightly toward one, and once, it had let out a shriek. But despite the gasps of the crowd, despite the brushes of small hands, despite the rider's steady encouragement, nothing happened. Each time, the young hopeful stepped away, shoulders slumped, disappointment settling in their wake.

As the line of children dwindled, the young son of the fisherman glimpsed the dragon egg more clearly, drawing nearer with each step. Its shell was a deep, oceanic blue, like the waters where the sea plunges into darkness, traced with silver-gold veins that shimmered—like sunlight dancing upon a tranquil tide. How beautiful it was! To the child, it seemed an untold treasure, even more mesmerizing than the golden dragon, ablaze beneath the unrelenting sun.

Just as the sun's golden light melts into the ocean's depths—its brilliance fading beneath the endless blue—the egg, too, seemed to shift, its deeper hues prevailing the longer one gazed upon it. Its sleek surface glowed, darker in some places, lighter in others, shifting between the midnight blue of unfathomable depths and the pale aquamarine of a sunlit shore. And did it not resemble a ship, like the one from his dreams? Poised to carry him away, between sky and sea, toward a fate yet unknown?

The fisherman's children had finally reached the table. As the eldest brother stepped forward, the egg jolted—then rolled toward him. The crowd, restless and growing weary—some idly chewing on their midday snack of bread and dried fish—let out a collective gasp. And then, silence. Every gaze locked onto the egg, anticipation thick in the air.

The eldest boy stood frozen, as if spellbound, watching the egg wobble from side to side as sharp, shrill sounds escaped from within. The proud dragon rider stepped forward, his gaze steady, urging the boy to reach out and lay his hand upon the shell.

"It seems the little dragon has seen something in you—something it likes," he said with a knowing smile.

The young boy first brushed his fingertips over the shell, hesitant, before pressing his full palm against its deep blue surface. And then—the egg grew still. No trembling, no shifting, no sound. As if in recognition. As if waiting. The crowd held its breath. Had the chosen one finally been found?

But then, with a sudden shift, the egg rolled in the opposite direction. The dragon rider beckoned the boy to approach once more, urging him to lay his hand upon it again. This time, however, the egg bounced—just slightly—before rolling even farther away. A hush fell over the crowd. Disappointment flickered across the boy's face as he hesitated, but there was no denying the truth. He had no choice but to step aside, joining the growing number of children who had been tested—only to return to the crowd as mere spectators.

The egg responded much the same to the fisherman's daughters. With one, it lay motionless for a long while as she cradled it in her arms, her touch gentle, almost reverent. The crowd erupted into cheers, a wave of hope swelling through them. And yet—nothing. No movement, no sign. Just stillness.

By the time his fourth child stepped forward, the fisherman's patience had worn thin. The unborn dragon had toyed with his family for far too long, as if mocking his son and daughters—teasing them with the promise of hatching, only to withhold it at the last moment. Neither the boy's strength nor the girls' gentleness had moved the creature beyond a few sharp shrieks and foolish wobbles atop the table.

And now, as his beloved youngest stepped forward, the egg jolted—then bounced once more, sending a ripple through the crowd. Murmurs swelled, excitement sparked, and in an instant, the marketplace erupted into an uproar.

"It seems likely..." the fisherman murmured, his legs unsteady as anger gave way to fear. They couldn't take this child from him—they just couldn't! But then, he forced himself to breathe, to reason. The same had happened with his eldest son—stronger in the arms than many grown men—yet in the end, the dragon had turned away.

And so, the fisherman ignored the villagers' insistent nudges, as well as his wife's panicked, incoherent prayers. She clutched their older children close, as though she had lost them once before and only now found them safe again. But the fisherman did not falter. He steadied himself.

The boy stood spellbound as the egg rolled toward him, its shrill cries piercing the hushed air. His heart swelled, a flood of emotions rising within him. And up close—it was even more beautiful than the deep blue of the sea he so adored.

For a fleeting moment, he thought the shimmering veins had melted into undulating waves, rising and falling in perfect harmony, carried by a fair wind.

"You are a ship, after all—meant to carry me on a journey." A wide smile bloomed on the boy's lips. "And I will be there to guide you, wherever the winds may take us."

The surface's pulses deepened as the boy reached out, his fingertips grazing the egg. The hardened shell seemed to soften—melt—almost liquefy beneath his touch. And then, the desperate shrieks from within grew louder. A heartbeat in the dark. A rhythm building. Strange, rhythmic thumps followed.

Soon, shards of deep blue scattered outward, and from the remnants of what had once been the dragon's egg, a tiny sapphire-colored head emerged—blinking, breathing, alive. And at that very moment, a triumphant roar split the air. A golden plume of fire shot skyward from the great golden dragon, its exultation undeniable.

The dragon rider stepped forward, resting his palm gently atop the boy's chestnut hair. "What is your name, child?" His lips curved into a knowing smile, his gaze brimming with warmth.

"Brom… sir," the boy murmured.

"Brom, young one—come. Embrace your dragon."

The dragon rider gently led the boy forward, toward the trembling sapphire-hued creature. Wet and unsteady, it lay atop the table, its tiny frame shifting among the shattered fragments of its shell.

.*.*.*.

At the hour of deepest twilight, as the sun surrendered to its vast embrace, a vivid glow streaked across the distant clouds illuminating the sea like a whispered farewell.

The fisherman cursed as, for the third time, the thread tangled in his torn nets. He had no patience for such meticulous work tonight. With a grunt, he tossed aside his reed needle. The light had long since faded, his vision no longer as sharp as it once was. By now, he should have given up—returned to his hut, to his family.

Yet his beloved son remained inside, bidding farewell to his mother and siblings, and the fisherman's heart could not bear such a bitter parting. What could he do? The dragon had claimed his child—his most capable, his most cherished. That strange creature had chosen for itself the very one he had deemed his helper, his heir. The child who had been his pride. The one he had imagined as his solace in old age. The only one whose presence eased the strain of the day, whose hands lightened the burden of labor.

All his children were good—he had never uttered a complaint. But not like this one.

And now, the man felt hollow. Drained. Aged beyond his years.

"Father!"

The fisherman turned sharply, his breath catching as he faced his son. The boy stood on the pebbles, waiting, cradling the dragon in one arm—not that he had let go of it even once throughout the day. The creature rested its long, broad head against the child's shoulder, nibbling at the collar of his shirt with sharp teeth, leaving tiny holes scattered across the fabric. Slung across the boy's other shoulder hung the satchel his mother had packed for him, holding the few belongings he owned.

So, the moment had finally come.

The fisherman tightened his grip on his needle, pretending to focus on the painstaking work of mending. "You'd best break him of that bad habit of chewing," he grumbled. "Or soon enough, you'll be without clothes."

"Father… I'm leaving," the boy said hesitantly.

That afternoon, soon after his first touch of the sapphire dragon—and after the tremor of their initial connection had settled—he had asked permission to return home, to bid farewell to his parents and siblings. And permission had been granted—so long as he returned by nightfall to the dragon rider and his great golden dragon.

The truth was, they had never once left him. From the moment he departed the city, they had shadowed his journey to the fishing village, gliding low above him, unseen yet always near. And later, they had settled—quietly, deliberately—atop a hill just beyond the village, waiting.

The fisherman kept up the pretense of mending his nets, working in silence. But then—the needle snapped between his fingers, its sharp point piercing his skin. He cursed under his breath, tossing it aside in frustration. When he finally turned, the boy was there, waiting. Patient. Quiet.

The dragon fixed its blue eyes on him and unleashed a piercing cry, tearing through the evening's stillness like a blade. The fisherman stiffened, his glare cold, unyielding. If only he could grab a heavy stone, crush its skull—bury it deep beneath the earth. That wretched creature had stolen his child…

The dragon shrieked again, its cry unrelenting—until the boy pressed his burned hand beneath its jaw, scratching gently. At the center of his right palm, the wound ran deep, but the edges had already begun to heal, a strange, silvery crust forming in its wake.

"Hush, quiet!" the boy ordered. The creature stilled, then purred in contentment, returning to nibbling at his shirt.

"Farewell, then," the fisherman said, his voice clipped, tight. "Be good. Be obedient."

The boy lingered a moment longer, waiting—hoping—for something more. But his father only rummaged through his things, pretending to search for another needle.

"I'm thinking of you, Father," he finally said. "Who will help you with your work at sea?"

The old man shook his head, motioning for him to go.

"Go on… don't worry. There are hands to help."

He kept struggling to thread the needle, the growing darkness swallowing the sea, making his work near impossible. And only when he heard the slow drag of his son's worn shoes over the pebbles—as the boy made his way back to the hut, where his mother and siblings waited—did the fisherman finally turn.

Three times he spat in his son's direction—to ward off the evil eye.

And then, with the back of his hand, the old fisherman wiped away a lone, salty tear that had slipped quietly from the corner of his eye.

"Don't cry, I love you all. I will come back to see you soon," the boy promised, his voice warm but resolute. One by one, he embraced his mother, his siblings, his friends, holding onto the moment before it slipped away.

Then, with the dragon still clinging to his shoulder, he turned and walked toward the hill beyond the village's edge—toward those who awaited him.

Brom never returned to Kuasta. Not while his family still lived.

.*.*.*.*.

"Our names are Oromis and Glaedr," said the dragon rider. "From now on, you will address us as Ebrithil. We will lead you to the island of Vroengard, to Doru Araeba, where we will be your teachers. You will show us the proper respect, and we will demand your full attention. Wisdom, diligence, absolute obedience—these are the foundations of your training. Dedicate yourselves wholly, and there will be no reason for things to go awry."

The rider of the golden dragon fastened the child's legs in the saddle before mounting behind him, his cloak unfurling to shelter them both—the boy and his dragon—beneath its folds.

And with a mighty leap, Glaedr sprang skyward, wings spreading, catching the wind as they ascended into the depths of the night.

"Are we flying straight to Vroengard, Ebrithil?" the boy asked, his voice tentative. Traveling at night felt unnatural to him. He had pictured a slower departure—spending the night in Kuasta, beginning their long journey with the first light of dawn.

Within the satchel at the dragon rider's side, another precious cargo lay nestled in warmth—a crimson egg, pulsing with the hues of fire and blood.

"No, Brom Finiarel. We will first make a stop in Teirm. You see, this time, the dragons have honored us with two of their eggs. If fortune favors us, by this time tomorrow, we will not leave alone—we will have another pair beside us."

Α/Ν: According to the information we get from The Inheritance Cycle, Brom's family practiced the profession of an illuminator.

According to my dictionary, an illuminator is someone who decorates manuscripts with paintings around the margins. We owe them the beauty of ancient codices and Renaissance books.

However, in a city near the sea—isolated as it is described—my imagination immediately placed Brom in a family of poor fishermen.

Thus, anyone who does not agree with my change can imagine that Brom's family were indeed illuminators, but that his father, for some reason, drifted away from his kin and turned to fishing instead.

Another thing: The fisherman father's character, I believe, is quite similar to Brom's own as Eragon's father. Both love their son deeply but either cannot—or do not wish to—show it.