Chapter 16: Loss and Revelation

The world blurred into an aching haze of pain and despair as Eragon stirred, his legs throbbing from the wounds inflicted by Saphira's scales. For days, they remained deep within the Spine, hidden among the dense trees and jagged cliffs, while Eragon struggled to recover. Saphira stayed close, her watchful eyes filled with guilt and unease.

"I need to go back," Eragon muttered, breaking the heavy silence. He winced as he tried to shift, the bandages around his legs stiff with dried blood.

You are not healed, Saphira protested, her voice soft but firm. You should not move.

"I don't have a choice," he said, gritting his teeth as he forced himself upright. "I have to see if Garrow is alright. He needs me."

Saphira hesitated, her wings twitching. She knew the danger but also understood Eragon's determination. Finally, she lowered her head in resignation. I will take you back, she said.

The Ruins of Home

When they reached the edge of the farm, Eragon's heart sank. Smoke still lingered in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of charred wood and ash. The house was little more than a blackened husk, its walls collapsed inward. The fields, once vibrant with life, were trampled and scorched.

Eragon slid off Saphira's back, his legs trembling under his weight. The pain was unbearable, but he pushed through it, limping toward the wreckage.

"Garrow?" he called out, his voice hoarse. "Uncle Garrow!"

A faint groan reached his ears, and his heart leapt. He scrambled over the debris, ignoring the sharp edges cutting into his palms. Beneath a collapsed beam, he found Garrow, battered and barely conscious.

"Uncle!" Eragon cried, dropping to his knees. Garrow's face was pale, his breathing shallow. His clothes were singed, and his skin was blistered in places.

"Eragon..." Garrow rasped, his voice weak.

"I'm here," Eragon said, his throat tightening. "I'm going to get you out of here."

With a surge of desperation, Eragon lifted the beam off Garrow, straining against its weight. His arms burned, and his vision blurred, but he didn't stop until Garrow was free.

A Difficult Journey

Eragon fashioned a makeshift sled from broken planks and tied it together with scraps of rope he scavenged from the ruins. With immense effort, he managed to lift Garrow onto it.

"Saphira," he said, turning to her. "I need you to carry us closer to Carvahall."

Saphira lowered her head, her eyes filled with sorrow. I will take you as far as I can, she said. Carefully, she gripped the sled in her claws, ensuring Garrow was secure.

Eragon climbed onto her back, gritting his teeth against the pain. They flew low over the forest, the cold wind biting at his face. Saphira landed near the outskirts of Carvahall, setting them down gently before stepping back.

"You need to go," Eragon said, his voice trembling. "If anyone sees you—"

I understand, Saphira said. Her gaze lingered on him for a moment before she spread her wings and took off, disappearing into the clouds.

The air was thick with the smell of smoke and ash as Eragon leaned heavily on his makeshift sled, dragging Garrow's injured body through the forest. Every muscle in his body ached, and his legs burned with pain, but he pressed on, driven by sheer willpower. Garrow's labored breathing filled his ears, a haunting reminder of how close his uncle was to death.

When he finally collapsed near Carvahall, the last thing he saw was the blurred outline of villagers rushing toward him. Darkness claimed him, but his mind clung to a singular thought: I have to protect Saphira.

The Healer's Care

Eragon awoke in Gertrude's small, dimly lit home. The sharp scent of herbs filled the air, mingling with the faint crackle of a fire. His legs throbbed, tightly bandaged, and his body felt like it had been trampled by a herd of cattle.

"You're awake," Gertrude said, her voice calm but tinged with concern. She approached with a cup of water, helping him sit up.

"Garrow..." Eragon croaked, his throat dry.

"He's alive," Gertrude reassured him. "But his injuries are severe. I'm doing everything I can but I don't think he will last the night."

Horror washed over Eragon, concern for his uncle was all that consumed his thoughts, getting up noting that his legs were much better he made his way out of the room and towards the one his dieing uncle was in.

Brom's Suspicion

Word of the attack on Garrow's farm and Eragon's return spread quickly through Carvahall. Brom sat in his small home, his mind racing as he pieced together the fragments of information. The boy's strange wounds, the destruction of the farm, and the whispers of the Ra'zac—it all pointed to one thing: a dragon had hatched.

Brom's gaze hardened. He had suspected this day would come, but he hadn't expected it to be so soon—or so perilous. If the Ra'zac were involved, Eragon and his dragon were in grave danger.

That night, Brom left Carvahall under the cover of darkness, his staff in hand. He moved swiftly through the forest, his path lit only by the pale light of the moon. His destination was clear: the Spine.

A Meeting of Minds

As Brom entered the rugged terrain of the Spine, a strange sensation washed over him—a presence, ancient and powerful, brushing against the edges of his mind.

You are troubled, old friend, a voice resonated in his thoughts.

Brom froze, his grip tightening on his staff. "Bahamut," he said aloud, his voice steady despite the unease that rippled through him. "You've been watching, haven't you?"

The dragon's response came not in words but in a wave of acknowledgment that filled Brom's mind. From a nearby rocky outcrop, Bahamut emerged, his scales shimmering in the moonlight. His amathyst eyes locked onto Brom, and though his mouth did not move, his voice echoed once more in Brom's thoughts.

Yes. I have seen what has transpired. The boy has hatched a dragon.

Brom's jaw tightened, frustration flaring within him. "You knew this would happen, and yet you said nothing. Why, Bahamut? Why didn't you warn me?"

Because it was not my place to interfere, Bahamut projected. The boy's path must unfold as it is meant to. If I had acted, I would have alerted the Ra'zac to my presence earlier than I wanted, and that could have lead to far worse consequences, rather than continuing their hunt they could have felt to alert Galbatorix of my presence and he could have sent something far worse than a Ra'zac to hunt us.

Brom scowled, his mind racing. "The Ra'zac are already hunting them. If we don't act, they'll be killed—or worse."

Bahamut's massive form shifted, his claws scraping against the stone. I know. That is why I am here.

Brom took a step closer, his voice low and urgent. "Then come with me. Help me protect them. Eragon is untrained, and his dragon is young. They need guidance, Bahamut. They need us."

For a moment, the dragon was silent, his amathyst eyes reflecting the starlight. Finally, his voice filled Brom's mind once more, tinged with determination. Very well. I will come. Together, we will ensure their survival.

Brom nodded, relief washing over him. "Then we have no time to waste. I need to prepare supplies. Meet me near the village outskirts in two days."

I will be there, Bahamut promised, his voice resolute.

As Brom turned to leave, his mind churned with thoughts of the battles ahead. He knew the road would be fraught with danger, but with Bahamut at his side, hope flickered like a faint but steady flame.