Instead of Arya, I prefer her mom (Chapter 21) (Patreon)

Still jittery from adrenaline, Cedric breathed shakily, trying to calm himself. Since it was his first real fight, his reaction wasn’t surprising.

“Gods, Brom, you’re hurt!”

Suddenly, Eragon’s distressed voice sounded from ahead. He had his hand on Brom’s shoulder, scrabbling clumsily at the leather vest and shirt covering the old man’s chest. It was completely soaked through, the faded blue dyed a darker color by blood.

An exasperated growl surged up Cedric’s throat, but he shoved it back down. How was Brom injured? It didn’t make any sense! Plumbing his memories, the young mage did recall something similar from the books, but he thought of it as an act.

Wasn’t the ex-rider trying to conceal his prowess? He wasn’t so sure anymore. Not unless Brom’s acting was godlike. To Cedric’s eye, it seemed he was truly caught off guard, and that the urgal had gotten the better of him.

White-faced with panic, Eragon turned to him.

“Damn it, Cedric, we have to do something!”

Pulling himself from his own thoughts, the red-haired boy rushed forward, irritably flinging off his cloak. It was still a little big for him, and he’d nearly tripped over it in the heat of the moment.

“Let me see.”

Arriving in front of Brom, he was shocked to see just how much blood there was. What he’d thought of as a shallow slash wound seemed far worse—a deep cut, the length of a forearm-spanned from Brom’s chest to his side. It was positively weeping blood.

With frustration, Cedric realized there was little he could do—at least not without giving himself away. He’d long since recalled ‘Waíse Heill’ the command for ‘be healed’, but there was realistically no way for him to know it.

And as far as wild magic was concerned, well… it wasn’t that he couldn’t heal with it, but that it was extremely difficult. Mending his own flesh was one thing, but he’d come to realize that - without occupying the bodies of his subjects and feeling their flesh - there was a 50% chance of something going awry.

His frustration boiling over, Cedric all but seized Brom by the collar.

“For gods’ sake, heal yourself, you old coot! I can’t do it, not unless you want your ribs to grow out your body like tree branches!”

Pale-faced, sweating and huffing, Brom still seemingly still had the strength to throw Cedric off.

“Stop your henpecking! I’ll be right as rain, just need to bandage this up. Help me get this damned vest off.”

Cedric couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“This isn’t the time to be frugal with your energy! Use the fucking ring! There’s near-enough stockpiled in that thing to bring someone back from the dead!”

As soon as Cedric brought up Aren, a shadow fell across Brom’s face. His eyes, still downcast while he fumbled with his brass buttons and twine knots, contained a hint of resentment.

“Don’t try to be clever, just do what I ask!”

When Cedric continued to stand there dumbly, looking like he couldn’t understand what was happening, Eragon jumped in. With his help, Brom managed to get his vest and shirt off.

Some bandages appeared from a hide knapsack, but it was evident they wouldn’t be enough to staunch the bleeding.

“You can’t do it, can you…?”

Cedric’s voice was nary a whisper, but both Brom and Eragon heard it, clear as day. Slowly, clarity returned to the young mage’s eyes.

“…there’s something wrong with you, with your magic.”

It wasn’t a question.

Brom didn’t reply, keeping his head down while wrapping his chest. The yellowing linen was already soaked through, large crimson petals blooming on the fabric.

“Tell me the WORDS!”

A bellow suddenly exploded from Cedric’s chest. It was loud enough that Eragon almost leapt out of his boots, his eyes widening from shock.

Cedric’s empathy for Brom vanished in a moment, replaced by pure anger. Was he going to risk his own life and Eragon’s future because he was too stubborn and set in his ways to reveal two fucking words?

If that was indeed the case, then for all Cedric cared, the old bastard might as well drop dead right now!

Instead of answering, Brom turned to Eragon, his eyes calm.

“I need your help, Eragon. Are you willing?”

The young rider nodded like a marionette on strings. Whatever their quarrel, he truly cared for nothing other than Brom’s safety.

“Then listen to me. Inside your mind, let me in…”

There was a drawn-out silence as the two stared into each other’s eyes. It was clear as day, Brom’s plan—he was telepathically coaching Eragon on the healing spell.

Cedric’s knuckles were white, clenched at his sides. To him, this was an unprecedented insult; purely a slap in the face. Did Brom really not trust him with something so inconsequential? He could barely believe it.

Eventually, Eragon’s lips moved in a trance, a silent breath escaping him. It was far too quiet for anyone to overhear.

“Whatever you’re feeling right now, let it come to the surface. Good, don’t hold back-…”

Brom continued speaking gently, like coaxing a startled animal. Already, the bleeding seemed to be slowing down, until the crimson blots on his bandages no longer expanded.

When it was done, Eragon sagged, the life seemingly going out of him. Paler than he’d ever been before, he stumbled backward, one hand clutching at his forehead. Putting his back to a wooden pole, he slumped to the ground.

Cedric stared unblinkingly at the two of them. A few moments passed before he shoved his hands into his pockets, chuckling dryly.

“Then, last night, it was a complete bluff, wasn’t it? And when you drugged me, I thought it was strange, but you had no other way. You’re… weak.”

Thoughts churned behind his eyes as he considered what he knew. Brom’s powers were greatly diminished. Not only his combat skills, but his magic as well.

Was it when he lost Saphira’s namesake, his own dragon? Perhaps, but if he was this useless, he’d never have defeated Morzan-… Yes, that could certainly be it. The late Forsworn wouldn’t let his worst enemy kill him so easily, at least not without retaliating in kind.

Brom might either be suffering from an old wound, or a curse.

While Cedric thought it through, the ex-rider took a small flask from somewhere, unscrewing the top. After taking a sip, he handed it to Eragon.

“Think whatever you want. But, since it’s all over now, you can relax. As it is, I suspect you’re barely keeping your eyes open.”

Brom’s voice was rough, either from his injury, or the concoction he just consumed. However, to Cedric he made zero sense.

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

His face still clammy from sweat, Brom groaned, leaning back. From under his bushy white eyebrows, he gave Cedric a long look.

“Gods, you’re not bluffing, are you? I’ve been an old fool…”

Realizing something, Cedric’s expression changed. Could it be? Did Brom have Eragon cast the spell because he suspected his apprentice had overdrawn his powers? It was a plausible explanation, one Cedric would prefer to believe.

After scrutinizing Brom for a long few seconds, a sense of relief washed over him. It seemed to be the truth—at least, he’d already lost confidence in the old man’s acting skills.

“I suppose it would’ve been prudent of me, to at least teach you the words for ‘healing’.”

Still out of breath, Brom repeated them out loud for Cedric to hear. Undoubtedly, it was a form of apology, as well as a gesture of good faith.

“Well done, both of you. Cedric, your reactions were lighting-fast, and the spell’s power… gods, I almost pity that urgal. And Eragon—it seems disaster and fortune often go hand in hand. Indeed, the riders of old often awakened magic in times of need. I felt it was an excellent time to draw out yours.”

Cedric wanted to shake his head. Instead of playing teacher, he felt Brom should rather think of his own safety. However, he wouldn’t make it an issue—not after everything was over.

Eragon seemed to share similar sentiments, considering the side-eye he gave Brom. His complexion had regained some color; the doing of whatever was inside that flask, or so Cedric thought.

There was silence, the three of them taking a moment to regain their senses after resolving the crisis. However, it didn’t last long—soon, the beating of enormous, leathery wings could be heard; Saphira, rushing over from her hiding place.

Her arrival was quite fast, all things considered. It couldn’t have been more than two minutes since the ambush.

She descended like a falling star, her azure scales shining in the afternoon sun. All but crashing into the town square, her desperation was clear, and seemingly doubled after seeing Eragon’s slumped form.

Cedric almost found himself being crushed under her bulk, or eviscerated by her claws and tail. Only at the last moment did she swerve, buffeting him with a powerful gust of wind. Shocked and outraged, he was left to rub the grit out of his eyes while she landed next to Eragon, fussing like a mother hen.

“Watch where you’re going, you overgrown-…!”

“Boy! Stop your useless shouting and help me up. The horses ran off during the skirmish.”

The look in Brom’s eyes was dangerous, warning Cedric not to continue running his mouth. It was unsurprising, that he’d stand up for Saphira. However, the young mage didn’t find it any less annoying—surely, a goddamn one-and-a-half-thousand pound dragon could take care of itself?

Grumbling to himself, he threw Brom’s arm over his shoulder. At the same time, he expanded his mind, searching until he’d found the horses. Fortunately, it seemed they hadn’t gone too far.

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“What. Is. Your. Problem?”

When they were out of range, Brom shoved his finger into Cedric’s chest, punctuating each word with forceful poke.

The young mage let out something between a growl and a sigh, batting away the old man’s hand.

“That dragon almost killed me! How could I not be upset?”

The outrage was clear in his tone. However, Brom seemingly wasn’t buying it, looking like he wanted to whack Cedric over the head, but being too tired to do so.

“She has a name, Cedric. And despite how things might’ve seemed at the time, dragons have excellent control. You were in no danger.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know-…?”

“Don’t start with me, boy. Your attitude’s been problematic for a while now. I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours, but you better get over it. Life’s difficult enough. Adding unnecessary enemies on top of that is pure stupidity, plain and simple.”

Cedric’s eyes narrowed, practically seeming like two glowing embers in the sun’s reflective light.

“That’s rich, after what you did to me. Perhaps if you were less of a hypocrite, taking your own advice, I would be more inclined to listen-…”

Before he could finish, Brom’s big, rough hand clamped over the back of his neck, all but hauling him off the ground like a helpless puppy.

“Listen here, you little shit! After that stunt you pulled back in Carvahall, there was no way I could let you remain! You think you’re so smart, don’t you? For your bloody information, there’s more than one way to dig up the truth. Despite what you believe, you’ve already implicated yourself by just being around Eragon and Saphira. And those damned monsters aren’t called the king’s dragon hunters simply because they make people all googly-eyed with a look! It’s only a matter of time until they track us down, and when they do, the last place we want to be is out in the middle of nowhere! Far better to be surrounded by high walls, soldiers clad in twenty pounds of steel, and two-dozen magical wards…!”

The sudden outburst angered Cedric, but as Brom continued talking, his angry expression was replaced by a thoughtful one.

“…I’d rather have kept this to myself – gods know your head’s big enough as it is – but I can’t afford even the slightest risk to your safety! Aside from the dragon riders’ resurgence, there’s nothing Galbatorix fears more than mages outside his control. Even more so when they’re genius wildlings with abnormal constitutions!”

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