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Title? (Eragon SI, Chapter 3)
🕑 Added 2023-09-01 15:29:32 +0000 UTCDespite Cedric’s pleadings, Garrow had a talk with Fitch about the ‘incident’. The sickly old man was understandably upset, extracting a promise from his grandson that the boy wouldn’t wander about on his own, at least not until he was older and more sensible.
It was really inconvenient, but with no choice, Cedric could only agree. From then on, his opportunities to experiment alone dwindled. However, he didn’t exactly resent this change. One would think he’d realized the folly of his ways, that it wasn’t worth risking one’s life for power.
That wasn’t what happened.
As it turned out, his near-death experience had indeed worked. Not only was Cedric now capable of wordless magic, his capabilities were much enhanced. Something in his mind, or perhaps his soul, had changed. It reminded him of those cultivation novels from his past life—maybe his meridians were unsealed, or his gates opened. Who knew?
Regardless, it turned out to be true, that the journey of a thousand miles started with a single step. And the first step, well… it was always the hardest one.
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When one was young, every year was an age unto itself. Cedric vaguely remembered that feeling—schooldays that never ended, and summers holidays lasting forever. Unfortunately, despite being a kid again, it seemed he didn’t regain that strange ability to dilate time. The years went by much too quickly, while his magical abilities developed too slowly.
Twelve years old now, he was capable of moving things with his mind, conjuring flame from thin air, generating electricity, manipulating the growth of plants and insects… whatever he could think of, he could accomplish—to an extent.
Unfortunately, Cedric’s magic lacked power. Conjuring a gust of wind or condensing moisture in the air into water was practically useless in combat. Three feet of steel would be shoved through him before he could so much as singe his opponent’s sleeves. He felt like a stage-magician, good for little else other than wowing peasants with his tricks.
It didn’t take him long to realize his approach wouldn’t work—magic wasn’t to be wielded like a hammer, smashing one’s problems. Instead, he needed to be clever with it, use it supportively. His first instinct was to see if he could somehow improve his own body.
Of course, he wasn’t stupid enough to just… do it. Instead, he started experimenting on plants and animals, seeing what could be changed, and to what extent. Results were mixed. While adjusting qualities wasn’t too hard, side-effects abounded.
A rat’s muscle-density and bone strength could be increased, but over a short period of time, tumorous growths might emerge, or it might develop arthritis. Trees could have their bark thickened, or their fruit enlarged, but then they’d mysteriously start wilting a few days later.
Cedric wasn’t too disappointed. He’d expected such outcomes, after all—an organism’s systems existed in a fine balance, and were all dependent on each other. It was like making adjustments to a house of cards, or a jenga tower; acting haphazardly would just cause the whole thing to collapse.
He already knew it was possible to succeed. Hadn’t Eragon’s physical capabilities been enhanced by the elves? If they could do it, Cedric knew he could as well. However, he needed… some subjects to experiment on. But little sparrows and wild berry bushes weren’t going to cut it. Whatever results they delivered him wouldn’t be applicable to humans.
For better or worse, he wasn’t yet in a situation where procuring the necessary… materials was possible. However, patience wasn’t exactly a strong suit of his, so he started making some very minor and rudimentary alterations to himself.
Knowing very well what recklessness could cost him, Cedric’s tinkering was limited to things like helping his adult teeth grow out properly, getting rid of allergies and acne and fixing his near-sightedness (that one was rather difficult). It was pretty boring, not likely to much improve his chances of survival against a Ra’zac, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
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Before he knew it, Cedric was thirteen years old. He thought of himself as a rather calm and collected person, yet couldn’t help but worry constantly now that it’d come to this. Two years younger than the chosen one himself, making Eragon fifteen this year, Cedric knew his peaceful village life wouldn’t last much longer.
For a time, he considered interfering, stopping Eragon from entering the The Spine. That way, the dragon egg would never be found, and Carvahall wouldn’t be destroyed. In the end, he decided against it. Far better for fate to take its normal course than one he’d no knowledge of.
In any case, there was no guarantee his meddling would make things better, not worse. He prepared as best he could, pushing himself daily, depleting his body’s reserves with magic or physical activity. Now that he’d started puberty, gaining strength was far easier than as a child.
His physical conditioning was a bit… erratic. Mostly, it involved stressing his body in different ways, like holding his breath underwater, prolonged cold exposure, feasting and fasting, exercise and, of course, getting plenty of sleep. It wouldn’t turn him into Hercules, but it was doing something, at least. Cedric noticed the difference when using magic—the drain on his body was lessening.
He'd also started practicing telepathy, knowing how vital the skill was. Arguably, it was even more important than being a powerful magician. If one could get into their opponent’s head and start tampering with their thoughts, the battle was basically over before it even begun.
Cedric started his training by touching the minds of animals. In the beginning, he could do little more than conveying some thoughts and feelings, more providing ‘suggestions’ than giving ‘commands’.
At this point, he’d been training telepathy since before learning spontaneous casting, as he decided to call it. Never mind communicating, he could directly break into any lesser creature’s mind, dominating their bodies. However, it wasn’t something he did very often, having and extreme dislike for the sensation of their foreign minds pressing against his.
As far as humans went, manipulating their thoughts wasn’t that much more difficult. The only difference was their self-awareness—if he was too intrusive or obvious, people would notice something was wrong. However, his proficiency gave him no confidence; there was a world of a difference between meddling with the mind of a normal human, and being able to affect a trained wizard. Never mind dragons and elves, who’s minds were practically unassailable, and Ra’zac, who were straight up immune to any mental shenanigans.
Cedric’s only chance against the latter was making use of one of their two weaknesses—water and sunlight. Yet, neither was a foolproof counter, since water didn’t actually damage them; they just couldn’t swim. Sunlight did, but only to the extent of blinding them, or giving a really bad sunburn.
Killing them would require physical force or magic. However, they were stronger than a fully grown human male, and protected by Galbatorix’s wards. No matter how Cedric thought about it, taking the monsters on was a bad idea, at least for the current him.
On the edge of town, he sighed quietly to himself, watching the familiar back of a brown haired, brown eyed boy. At the age of fifteen years and seven months, Eragon departed on his hunt into the mountained Spine—perhaps for the last time. Cedric knew when he returned, everything would be different, and the red-haired transmigrator didn’t exactly know what to do about that.
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Fitch coughed wetly, seated in his rocking chair before the fire. A blanket draped over his legs and a bowl of soup was in his hands. The old man’s steely-gray hair hung down his face in messy strands, his expression hardly pleased.
“I hate soup.”
Cedric stood behind him, handsome and well built, his own red curls almost golden in the light of the fire. His appearance was a bit unusual, compared to the rest of the village, who were overwhelmingly brown-haired and brown-eyed. That said, he wasn’t always so… striking. Instead, it was the consequence of countless small magical changes, stacked on top of each other.
He shook his head, his lips drawn into a helpless smile.
“There’s no helping it. You can barely breathe, a crumb of bread is liable to choke you dead.”
Fitch narrowed his eyes over his shoulder, his old face pinched in displeasure.
“…forget it, I don’t have an appetite right now.”
He lifted the bowl, holding it toward Cedric.
“Eat it, boy. You’re growing like a sprout after the rain. Better to nourish a young sapling than a dying old tree.”
His dark eyes were steady, betraying no emotion regarding his worsening health.
Cedric looked at the soup, but didn’t take it.
“You’re what, sixty, gramps? There’s at least forty more years left in you.”
Fitch’s eyebrows twitched, his mouth almost breaking into a smile. However, he restrained himself, coughing once into his fist before setting the soup on a small table.
“A smooth talker, aren’t you? You definitely didn’t get it from that bastard…”
His mouth opened and closed, realizing he’d broached a forbidden topic. Rather than being concerned over Cedric’s feelings, Firch himself had no desire to recall his worthless son.
“…you’re already, what, thirteen this year? When I was your age, I was already serving in the King’s army.”
His gaze turned far way, staring into the fire. Cedric didn’t know what he was thinking, but realizing Galbatorix had already sat on the throne for a hundred years, he was even more resolved not to act rashly. A boy-wizard, no matter how talented, would be no match for a hundred-and-fifty year old dragon rider.
There was a period of strange silence, Fitch seemingly uninterested in continuing the conversation, while Cedric was lost in his own thoughts. Eventually, he returned to the present, clearing his throat.
“Gramps, I know you’d rather not talk about it, but I can’t help being a little curious. Why did my parents leave? There has to be a story there, right?”
Cedric stood there cautiously, watching Fitch tear his gaze from the fire, fixing him with a dark glare. Truthfully, he didn’t really care much about his mother and father, but there was one thing he did care about—his ancestry.
Magic was an inherited talent, not a skill just anyone could train. And with the dwindling of gifted individuals in recent history, there was a decent chance of his family’s past not being so simple.
The old man grumbled, pursing his lips like he didn’t really want to answer. Inscrutable thoughts flashed behind his eyes, but eventually he relented.
“Fine. If you’re old enough to die for your country, you’re old enough to hear a few… uncomfortable things.”
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