The Fevers Grip

The days following Garrow's arrival in Carvahall were a blur of tension and worry. Gertrude's home, normally filled with the comforting smells of herbs and the occasional sharp reprimand, now felt oppressive. The old healer worked tirelessly, her movements sharp and precise as she did everything she could to keep Garrow alive.

Leo stood near the door, arms crossed, watching Gertrude carefully. Garrow lay on a makeshift cot, his face pale and glistening with sweat. The deep burns across his chest and arms had begun to fester, despite Gertrude's best efforts.

"This isn't good," she muttered under her breath as she wrung out a cloth and placed it on Garrow's forehead. "The burns are bad enough, but the fever…" She trailed off, shaking her head.

Leo stepped closer, his gaze flicking between Garrow and the bowl of steaming liquid Gertrude had prepared. "Is there nothing else you can do?"

She shot him a sharp look. "I'm doing everything I can, boy. But burns like these… they take time to heal, and the fever's making it worse. If his body doesn't fight back soon, there's not much more I can do."

Leo swallowed hard, his jaw tightening. "He's strong. He'll pull through."

Gertrude didn't respond immediately. Instead, she turned back to her table, grinding more herbs into a fine powder. "Strength helps, but it's not always enough. Sometimes, the body just gives out."

The bluntness of her words hit Leo like a punch to the gut. He turned away, running a hand through his hair. Garrow couldn't die—not after everything. Eragon had already lost so much; losing his uncle would shatter him.

A soft groan from the cot drew his attention. Garrow stirred, his eyelids fluttering as he mumbled incoherently. Gertrude was at his side in an instant, pressing the damp cloth against his forehead.

"He's delirious," she muttered. "The fever's got him."

Leo stepped closer, his hands clenched at his sides. "Is there anything I can do?"

Gertrude glanced at him, her sharp eyes narrowing in thought. "I need more feverfew and willow bark. I'm running low, and I'll need it if this fever keeps climbing."

"Where can I find it?"

"There's some near the base of the Spine, by the river. But be quick about it. We don't have much time to waste."

Leo nodded, already heading for the door. "I'll be back soon."

"Be careful," Gertrude called after him. "And don't come back empty-handed!"

The trip to the river was quick but tense. Leo kept his bow slung over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the shadows for any sign of danger. The Spine loomed in the distance, its dark peaks a constant reminder of the strange events that had unfolded recently.

He found the feverfew easily enough, its small white flowers standing out against the dull winter foliage. The willow bark took a bit longer, but he eventually stripped what he needed from a tree near the water's edge.

As he made his way back to the village, his thoughts lingered on Garrow and Eragon. The image of the strangers in their dark cloaks flashed in his mind, followed by the shimmering traces of magic he'd seen at the farm. The stone—or egg, as Leo now suspected—was at the center of all this trouble.

If Eragon knew what he was truly carrying, he didn't show it. And if the strangers found out… Leo shook the thought away, quickening his pace. He needed to get the herbs to Gertrude. Garrow didn't have time to spare.

By the time Leo returned, Gertrude was mixing another concoction at her table, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. She looked up as he entered, her eyes narrowing in approval as she saw the bundle of herbs in his arms.

"Good," she said, taking them from him. "Now, let's see if we can bring that fever down."

Leo watched as she worked, grinding the feverfew into a paste and boiling the willow bark into a tea. The room was silent except for the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional groan from Garrow.

When Gertrude finally turned back to the cot, a steaming mug in hand, she knelt beside Garrow and gently lifted his head. "Come on, Garrow," she murmured. "You need to drink this."

Garrow's lips parted slightly, and she managed to get a few sips down his throat. The rest of the tea she placed on the table, leaving the damp cloth on his forehead.

Leo lingered by the door, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Will it help?"

Gertrude sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. "It'll help with the fever, but the burns…" She shook her head. "We'll have to wait and see."

Leo nodded, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He glanced at Garrow, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

"Thank you," Leo said quietly.

Gertrude snorted, turning back to her table. "Don't thank me yet, boy. Save it for when he's walking out of here on his own two feet."

Leo allowed himself a small smile before stepping outside. The cold air hit him like a slap, but he welcomed it. He needed a moment to clear his head.

As he stood there, his breath visible in the frosty air, he couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. The strangers, the stone, the magic—it was all connected. And somehow, he was caught in the middle of it.

For now, though, all he could do was wait and hope.

The morning was grim. Snow fell softly outside Gertrude's small home, muffling the sounds of the village. Inside, the air was heavy with the bitter scent of herbs and the quiet agony of waiting. Leo sat in the corner, hands clasped tightly together as he stared at Garrow's frail form on the cot.

Eragon was seated on a stool beside his uncle, his head bowed, face hidden beneath a curtain of unkempt hair. Garrow's breathing was shallow, each breath rattling in his chest like the creak of an old door. The burns had spread infection, despite Gertrude's relentless efforts. His skin was pale and clammy, and even in the warmth of the room, his body seemed cold.

Gertrude stood silently by the window, her sharp eyes betraying a rare glimmer of defeat. She'd done everything she could, and everyone in the room knew it.

The hours crawled by, each one more unbearable than the last. Leo couldn't bring himself to say anything. What could he say? He had never been good with words, and no speech would ease the pain that was about to descend on Eragon.

Finally, as the sun began to dip behind the Spine, Garrow's breathing faltered. His eyes fluttered open for the briefest moment, and his lips moved, forming silent words. Eragon leaned in, desperate to catch them, but nothing came.

A single breath, rattling and shallow. And then silence.

Eragon froze, his hand still clutching Garrow's. Leo rose to his feet, his stomach sinking. He glanced at Gertrude, whose lips pressed into a thin line. She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling a heavy breath, and shook her head.

"He's gone," she said softly, the sharpness in her voice muted for once.

"No," Eragon whispered, his voice cracking. He shook his head, gripping Garrow's hand tighter. "No, he's not. He—he just needs more time. We can—"

"Eragon," Gertrude interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. "He's gone."

Eragon's breath hitched, and he stared at her as though her words were incomprehensible. Then, slowly, the realization seemed to take hold. He looked back at Garrow's still form, his face crumpling.

"No!" he shouted, his voice raw and broken. He shot to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor. "No, this isn't fair!"

Leo stepped forward, but Eragon turned on him, his eyes blazing with grief and anger. "Don't," he snapped, his voice trembling. "Don't say anything!"

Leo stopped, his hands half-raised in a placating gesture. "Eragon—"

"I said don't!" Eragon shouted. His fists were clenched, his whole body shaking. He looked around the room as if searching for something to blame, his chest heaving with ragged breaths.

Without another word, he turned and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Leo exchanged a glance with Gertrude, who sighed heavily. "Let him be," she said. "He needs time."

"But he shouldn't be alone," Leo protested, his voice low.

Gertrude shot him a sharp look. "And what will you say to him? That it'll be all right? That everything will somehow be fine? Don't insult his grief with platitudes, boy. Let him feel it."

Leo clenched his jaw, but he didn't argue. Gertrude was right, as much as he hated to admit it.

The cold evening air bit at Leo's skin as he stepped outside. Snow had stopped falling, leaving a pristine white blanket over the village. He glanced down the street, catching a glimpse of Eragon disappearing into the woods beyond the houses.

For a moment, Leo considered following him. But something stopped him. He remembered the raw pain in Eragon's voice, the fire in his eyes. This wasn't something Leo could fix, no matter how much he wanted to.

Instead, he turned and began walking aimlessly through the village. The streets were quiet, the usual hum of life muted by the loss that hung over them. He passed Morne's tavern, its windows glowing with warm light, but the thought of going inside felt wrong.

Leo found himself at the edge of the village, staring out at the Spine. The dark peaks loomed in the distance, their shadows stretching across the snow-covered ground. Somewhere out there, Eragon was alone with his grief.

And somewhere beyond, trouble was brewing. The strangers, the stone, the magic—it was all connected, and Leo couldn't shake the feeling that Garrow's death was just the beginning.

For now, though, he would wait. Eragon would return when he was ready. And when he did, Leo would be there, ready to stand by his side for whatever came next.