Chapter 12: Five Years of Bonding

The crisp morning air of the Spine carried a faint scent of pine and damp earth as Brom tightened the straps of his cloak. The years had etched deeper lines into his face, but his eyes still sparkled with a quiet intensity. Five years had passed since his first encounter with the dragon he now called a friend. Though their initial meetings had been marked by tension and caution, their bond had grown into something stronger over time—a delicate yet undeniable friendship forged through shared conversations and moments of understanding.

Bahamut, as the dragon had named himself, had grown both physically and mentally in those years. His once-rapid growth had finally stabilized, his body now proportional to his age and his mind a match for his impressive form. The dragon's amethyst eyes, as piercing as ever, now held a wisdom that belied his youthful years. He was still fiercely independent, but there was a warmth to his demeanor when Brom was near—a subtle acknowledgment of their mutual respect.

Brom's footsteps crunched softly against the forest floor as he made his way toward the clearing where they often met. It had become an unspoken tradition over the years: Brom would leave a subtle mental nudge in the direction of Bahamut's thoughts, and the dragon would decide whether to join him. Their meetings were never forced, always on Bahamut's terms. Today, Brom felt a familiar tug in his mind—a sign that Bahamut was already waiting.

When Brom emerged from the thick canopy into the sunlit clearing, he found Bahamut reclining on a large rock, his wings half-folded and his tail lazily flicking against the ground. The dragon's scales gleamed like polished amethyst in the sunlight, and his eyes met Brom's with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

"You're late," Bahamut said, his voice rumbling in Brom's mind like distant thunder.

Brom chuckled, setting his staff against a tree. "I'm not late; you're simply early. There's a difference."

The dragon snorted, a puff of smoke curling from his nostrils. "Excuses, storyteller. But I'll allow it."

Brom settled onto a fallen log, his movements slow and deliberate. "I'm glad to see you, Bahamut. How have you been?"

"Content," Bahamut replied, his voice softer now. He stretched his neck, the muscles rippling beneath his scales. "The Spine provides well, and the solitude suits me. Though," he added with a sly glance, "your visits are a welcome interruption."

Brom smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "And here I thought you only tolerated me for the stories."

"The stories are… adequate," Bahamut said, his mental tone teasing. "But I suppose your company has its merits as well."

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence, the kind that comes only with familiarity. Brom leaned back, his gaze drifting to the sky as he listened to the gentle rustling of the trees. Over the years, he had come to cherish these moments with Bahamut. The dragon's presence was a balm to his often solitary existence, a reminder that even the most independent souls could find connection.

Eragon's Growth

The past five years had also seen changes in Carvahall. Eragon, nearly twelve now, was growing into a curious and determined young man. Brom had watched from a distance as the boy explored the forests, helped his uncle Garrow on the farm, and spent his days alongside his cousin Roran. There was a spark in Eragon—a sense of wonder and adventure that reminded Brom of himself as a boy.

Despite his resolve to stay away, Brom couldn't help but feel a pang of longing whenever he saw Eragon. He wanted to guide him, to teach him, but the weight of his past kept him at bay. Eragon was safer not knowing the truth about his lineage, Brom told himself. The fewer ties the boy had to Brom's dangerous history, the better.

Even so, Brom made sure to keep a watchful eye on the boy. He often asked Horst and other villagers about Eragon's well-being, always under the guise of friendly curiosity. The villagers thought little of it, unaware of the deeper connection between the old storyteller and the boy they discussed.

A Revelation and a Memory

Back in the clearing, Brom and Bahamut continued their conversation. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the forest. Bahamut stretched his wings lazily, his amethyst eyes studying Brom with quiet intensity.

"Brom," Bahamut said, his voice filling Brom's mind, "why do you not approach him?"

Brom blinked, confused. "Approach who?"

The dragon's gaze didn't waver. "Eragon. Your son."

Brom froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he could only stare at Bahamut, his mind racing. "How… how do you know that?" he finally managed to ask, his voice barely above a whisper.

Bahamut tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Your thoughts betray you, Brom. You may guard your words, but your mind speaks plainly. I've seen the way you watch the boy, the way your emotions shift when his name is mentioned. It wasn't difficult to piece together."

Brom let out a long breath, his shoulders slumping. "He doesn't know. He can't know. It's safer this way."

"Perhaps," Bahamut replied. "But does it not weigh on you?"

"Every day," Brom admitted. "But my enemies are too many, and my past too dangerous. If he knew, if anyone knew…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Bahamut regarded him silently for a moment before speaking again. "Your past," he said, his voice tinged with curiosity. "It still haunts you, doesn't it?"

Brom nodded, a shadow crossing his face. "I was a Rider, long ago. I had a dragon—Saphira. She was…" He paused, his voice thick with emotion. "She was beautiful, Bahamut. Her scales shone like sapphires, and her heart was brave and kind. She was everything a dragon should be."

Bahamut's gaze grew distant as he absorbed Brom's words. The description of Saphira awakened something within him—a feeling he couldn't quite name. Her sapphire beauty, her courage… the very thought of her stirred emotions he hadn't anticipated. He shifted uncomfortably, his tail curling around him.

"She sounds remarkable," Bahamut said at last, his tone careful. "What happened to her?"

"She was taken from me," Brom replied, his voice barely audible. "By Galbatorix."

A heavy silence fell between them. Brom's grief hung in the air, and Bahamut felt it keenly. He wished to offer comfort, but he was grappling with his own thoughts. Saphira's image lingered in his mind, vivid and alive, and he was unsettled by the pull he felt toward it.

Though he had never revealed it to Brom, Bahamut had once been human. His transformation into a dragon had altered his very being, yet there were moments when echoes of his former self resurfaced. This was one of those moments—a flicker of human attraction, unexpected and disorienting. He pushed it aside, unwilling to examine it too closely.

"You honor her memory," Bahamut said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. "And I think she would be proud of you."

Brom managed a faint smile. "Thank you, Bahamut. That means more than you know."

A Bond Deepened

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the clearing in hues of gold and crimson, Brom stood and stretched. "I should be heading back. The villagers will wonder if I've wandered off and gotten lost."

Bahamut rose to his feet, his massive form casting a long shadow across the clearing. "Until next time, storyteller."

Brom smiled, his heart lighter than it had been in days. "Until next time, Bahamut."

The dragon watched as Brom disappeared into the forest, his amethyst eyes reflecting the fading light. Though he would never admit it aloud, Bahamut knew that Brom had become more than a friend. The storyteller was a beacon of connection in a world that often felt cold and distant.

And so, as night fell over the Spine, the dragon and the storyteller continued their separate journeys, their bond a testament to the power of trust and understanding—each carrying secrets they dared not share.